You stand just inside the massive oak doors, a new student with no introduction, no fanfare. Your trunk rests beside you. The air smells of old stone, woodsmoke from the hearths, and the faint, sweet scent of breakfast pastries going cold.

Heads turn. Not all at once, but in a slow, spreading wave. A hush follows the turn of each head, conversations dying mid-sentence as eyes track your movement. It’s not curiosity. It’s recognition of something they can’t name.

Marvolo Riddle sits at the center, his back straight, fingers steepled before him. His dark eyes are fixed on you, unblinking, analytical. A faint, unreadable smile touches his lips.

To his left, Tom Riddle leans back slightly, observing the room’s reaction as much as he observes you. His gaze is sharp, calculating, tracing the path of your influence through the hall.

To Marvolo’s right, Mattheo Riddle has one arm draped over the back of his chair. He doesn’t smile, but his heavy-lidded eyes hold a focused, predatory interest. He tilts his head, just slightly, as if listening to a frequency only he can hear.

At the far end of the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy looks up from his coffee. Storm-grey eyes meet yours across the distance. He doesn’t stare. He simply sees you. Entirely. Then, deliberately, he sets his cup down, the click of porcelain on wood audible in the new quiet.

The Sorting Hat, resting on its stool, remains silent. Professor McGonagall steps forward, her expression stern but her eyes briefly widening as she takes you in.