The Great Hall – Immediately After the Sorting Ceremony
The last echoes of "GRYFFINDOR!" faded, and the Sorting Hat was carried away. Lennon sat stiffly at the long wooden table, unsure what to do with her hands. Her palms were still sweating from the Sorting—though the hat had made its decision quickly, its voice still echoed somewhere in the back of her mind.
You want to matter—for your own reasons.
Now the hall burst into applause, the ceremony complete. The first-years breathed again, shoulders loosening, eyes flicking to their newly assigned tables as if to say, Now what?
That's when the golden platters before them shimmered—and food appeared. Everywhere. Roast chicken, platters of sausages, towers of potatoes, vegetables glistening with butter, dishes Lennon didn't recognize and a warm scent that hit her chest like a hug she hadn't asked for.
Ron Weasley made a sound of reverent glee.
"Blimey," he mumbled through a mouthful of roast beef. "I think I love it here."
Lennon reached for a roll, not quite sure what to say, but grateful for the distraction of a full plate.
Seamus Finnigan—seated beside Neville—jabbed a sausage with his fork and said to no one in particular, "I'm half and half, me dad's a Muggle, Mum's a witch. Bit of a nasty shock for him when he found out."
Dean Thomas laughed. "My mum's a Muggle too. She cried for three days after my Hogwarts letter came. Thought I'd been recruited by a cult."
They chuckled. Even Hermione cracked a smile, though she immediately went back to memorizing the names of the Hogwarts ghosts.
"Oh, look!" she exclaimed, pointing toward the far wall. "Ghosts!"
Lennon turned, her fork halfway to her mouth.
Dozens of silvery, transparent figures floated into the hall through the solid stone walls, gliding between the floating candles like dream-fragments. Some looked regal, others absurd, and a few seemed to have left part of themselves behind.
The Gryffindor ghost paused just above the table—Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, though he introduced himself with a dramatic bow. "Most people call me Nearly Headless Nick."
"Nearly headless?" Seamus asked, frowning.
Nick gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, well—" He yanked at his collar, and his head flopped sideways, hanging by a thread of ghostly sinew. Lavender Brown shrieked. Neville dropped his fork.
"Gruesome, that is," Ron muttered, eyes wide.
Nick snapped his head back into place and floated serenely onward.
⸻
Introductions and Impressions
Across the table, Percy Weasley was explaining the House rules with a mixture of pride and exhaustion.
"Don't go into the Forbidden Forest. Stay out of the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side unless you want to die in a very painful manner. Curfew is ten o'clock, and the prefects—like me—will enforce it."
Fred and George popped up behind him in unison.
"Don't mind Percy," Fred said.
"He was born wearing a badge," added George, grinning.
Percy huffed. "As I was saying—"
But George had already spotted Lennon. "Oi, you're the new one, yeah? McCauley?"
Lennon blinked. "Yes."
"I'm George, that's Fred. Our condolences. You've been sorted into a House with us."
"She's quiet," Fred observed, leaning forward. "Reckon she'll last a week before she's pranking Filch with us."
Lennon arched a brow. "I've lasted longer in worse places."
Fred and George looked momentarily stunned. Then George grinned. "Oh, she's fun."
"I like her," Fred said. "Don't die."
"I'll try not to," Lennon muttered, going back to her roll.
Next to them, Oliver Wood was explaining Quidditch to Harry, hands waving animatedly as he mimed the size of a Bludger. "You'll love it, mate. Absolutely mental sport. You'd make a good Seeker."
Harry looked overwhelmed. Ron looked impressed.
Lennon just listened, soaking it all in. The noise. The warmth. The chaotic harmony of it all.
It was the closest thing she'd ever felt to belonging.
⸻
Slytherin Table – Mattheo's Silence
Across the hall, Mattheo Riddle ate very little.
He sat between Theodore Nott and Lorenzo Berkshire, his eyes not on the food, nor the ghosts, but on the red-and-gold blur of Gryffindor House.
He could hear Malfoy's voice bragging nearby—loud, shrill, all talk.
He could see Blaise Zabini coolly ignoring him.
He could see Lennon McCauley smiling, just barely, like she wasn't used to smiling, like it was a new kind of spell she was testing.
"You're doing the brooding thing again," Lorenzo said, stabbing a piece of chicken.
"I'm not brooding."
"You are visibly brooding," Theodore added. "You look like you're plotting someone's demise."
Mattheo gave a slow blink. "Wouldn't be inaccurate."
They exchanged a look and kept eating.
Mattheo didn't care for the ghosts or the Weasley twins or the talk of Quidditch. He was watching the boy who'd survived a killing curse—and the girl whose mother had vanished without a trace.
Both of them knew things they didn't say out loud.
And Mattheo was listening.
⸻
Gryffindor Tower – First Night
By the time the feast ended and Dumbledore gave his whimsical warnings—including the cheerful threat about death awaiting those who strayed into the third-floor corridor—the students were guided by their prefects through the winding, shifting halls of Hogwarts.
The stairs moved mid-step. The portraits whispered. Candles floated along like sleepy fireflies.
Percy led the Gryffindors through the portrait of the Fat Lady—who demanded a password ("Caput Draconis!")—into the circular common room, warm with deep red tapestries and cushioned chairs.
Lennon stood in the center of it all, frozen.
It was everything she'd never had.
A fire. A place to sit without being told. Laughter that didn't bite.
Hermione was already planning study groups. Ron collapsed on a sofa. Harry wandered, running his hand along the spines of books like he'd never been allowed to touch them before.
Lennon went to bed last.
She lay awake in the darkened dormitory long after the others fell asleep, listening to Lavender murmur about unicorns and Hermione snore lightly.
She stared at the ceiling above her canopy.
She didn't know what kind of girl she would become here.
But for the first time, she wasn't afraid to find out.
⸻
Mattheo Riddle – Slytherin Dungeon, Midnight
Mattheo didn't sleep.
He lay on his back, staring up at the dark stone above, listening to the murmur of water behind the walls.
Somewhere nearby, a portrait whispered a lullaby from another century.
He didn't want dreams.
He didn't want memories.
He wanted control.
When he finally stood, hours later, to look out through the underwater glass of the common room wall, he didn't see fish or kelp or shadows.
He saw his reflection.
And wondered which part of his name they feared more—Mattheo or Riddle.