Mattheo's phone buzzed in his pocket as he leaned against the rough stone wall outside the Great Hall. He glanced down, already knowing who it would be. His father. A tight knot of dread formed in his stomach as he picked up the call.

"Mattheo," his father’s voice came through, sharp and cold as always. "Come home. Now."

There was no question, no explanation. There never was with Tom Riddle. Mattheo didn’t bother asking why—he already knew. The slideshow at Hogwarts had caused more damage than anyone realized, and his father would not be pleased. With a resigned sigh, Mattheo grabbed his coat and made his way to the nearest fireplace to Floo home.

The Riddle estate loomed as ominously as ever when Mattheo arrived. He stepped into the grand entrance hall, the familiar scent of wood polish and something darker, like burnt parchment, hanging in the air. But this time, the air was thick with something else—panic.

All around him, his father’s assistants were frantically shredding documents, burning papers in the fireplaces, erasing files from computers. The chaos was organized, but barely. It was clear that something had cracked wide open, and now they were all scrambling to cover it up.

Mattheo had expected this. It was the reason for his calm demeanor in Dumbledore’s office earlier. What could a headmaster possibly do against his father, the man nicknamed the Dark Lord? Hogwarts had no power here. Dumbledore’s assurances were meaningless. His father’s empire was crumbling, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

He was walking through the chaos when his father’s voice cut through the noise.

"Mattheo!" 

Mattheo turned, stepping into his father’s study. Tom Riddle stood behind his grand desk, his face twisted in a mask of fury. He looked like a man on the edge, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the back of the leather chair.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?" Tom’s voice was deadly quiet, the kind of quiet that made everyone in the room stop and pay attention. "Are you happy now? Your little stunt is going to cost us—everything. People are asking questions, Mattheo. Dangerous questions. They want to know where the hell I got that money."

Mattheo felt the familiar pit of guilt and dread settle in his stomach. He opened his mouth, trying to explain, "I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t think it would get—"

"You never think!" Tom exploded, slamming his fist onto the desk with such force that papers flew into the air. His voice was filled with the kind of rage that could level cities. "You always do this! You take what I’ve built—everything I’ve sacrificed—and you destroy it. Do you think this is a joke? Do you think this is just some game?"

Mattheo’s body tensed, his mind racing for some kind of defense, but before he could speak again, his father lashed out. His fist connected with Mattheo’s face, a sharp, brutal strike that left him reeling, his cheek throbbing with pain as he stumbled back.

"Stop it!" His mother’s voice rang out as she rushed into the room, pulling Tom back before he could hit Mattheo again. She stood between them, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and anger as she held her husband at bay. "Tom, that’s enough!"

But Tom wasn’t done. His chest heaved with rage, his eyes blazing as he pointed a trembling finger at his son. "I work my ass off to give you a life most people would kill for, and this—" He gestured wildly at the chaos surrounding them. "This is what you do with it. You’re weak, Mattheo. You’ve always been weak."

Mattheo said nothing. He couldn’t. The words stung, cutting deeper than the bruise forming on his face. Without another word, he turned and bolted from the room, the sound of his father’s angry voice chasing him down the hallway. But he didn’t stop running until he was outside, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his mind spinning with the weight of it all.

No one could protect him from this. Not Dumbledore. Not Hogwarts. Not even himself.

Meanwhile, 

Once a week, Y/N and her mother visited her father’s grave. It had been years since his passing, but the routine remained, the weight of it sitting heavily on their shoulders. Y/N carried a bunch of fake flowers in her hand, their silky petals rustling as they approached the well-kept graveyard. 

Her mother, as usual, knelt by the headstone, brushing away the faintest traces of dust, even though they visited so often there was barely anything to clean. Y/N quietly placed the flowers down in front of the stone, knowing her mother’s thoughts before she even said anything.

Her mother sighed softly, noticing the faux bouquet. “Fake ones again, sweetheart?”

Y/N shrugged, offering a wry smile. “It’s cheaper.”

Her mother gave her a look, shaking her head with a soft chuckle as she placed the flowers beside her husband’s name. “You’re using my card anyway.”

Y/N didn’t respond, her eyes glancing toward the inscription on the stone:

Barty Crouch Jr.

It was a name laden with infamy, but to Y/N, it was simply her father’s. A man who had made choices she didn’t fully understand but whom she loved in ways she could never express.

They sat in the usual quiet for a while, her mother lost in thought, fingers tracing the letters carved in the stone. Y/N, however, was more restless today, scrolling through her phone as she absently listened to the silence around them. The sudden ping of a notification caught her attention. She opened it quickly, not expecting much. 

The message hit her like a slap: "does your mother know of your late night escapades?"

Accompanying the text were several photos: one of her sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library at night, another of her sitting in a quiet corner with Professor Moody. Her heart skipped a beat. The hacker knew more than she had anticipated. Her secrets, though few, had been laid bare.

Her mother’s voice broke the silence, startling Y/N out of her thoughts. “Remus told me you’ve made a new friend at school,” she said with a sly smile, glancing over at her daughter. 

Y/N rolled her eyes, stuffing her phone back into her pocket, forcing herself to focus. “Oh, did he?”

“Yes,” her mother said, amusement clear in her voice. “He says he’s got a famous father. James Potter’s son, isn’t it?”

Y/N couldn’t help but smirk, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, Harry Potter. He’s... not what people think.”

Her mother leaned in with interest. “What’s he like, then? Is he as big-headed as people say?”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “No, not at all. He doesn’t even want to play Quidditch like his dad did. He’s... quiet, more thoughtful.”

Her mother raised her eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “Really? He sounds... interesting. And you, being so observant. You always were like your father in that way. Could spot something a mile away.”

Y/N’s smile faltered just slightly as she glanced back at the headstone, feeling the weight of those words. She had always been compared to her father—whether in her intelligence or in the quiet, calculating way she moved through the world. Her mother always said it as a compliment, but to Y/N, it was a bittersweet legacy.

As her mother continued to fuss over the headstone, Y/N’s mind wandered back to the photos the hacker had sent. The secrets she thought were buried were now exposed. And as her eyes rested on her father’s name once more, she felt a sinking feeling that perhaps, like him, she couldn’t outrun her own past.

Daphne was walking alone through the courtyard, keeping her head down and trying to avoid any unwanted attention. Astoria wasn't around—she had left earlier for another meeting with Dumbledore, and Daphne was left to fend for herself. As she passed a group of students, she spotted Pansy Parkinson out of the corner of her eye. Pansy’s eyes locked onto her like a predator zeroing in on its prey.

“Well, well, look who’s all alone,” Pansy sneered, her voice dripping with venom as she sauntered up to Daphne. “Where’s your sister? Off crying somewhere because everyone knows about her dirty little secrets?”

Daphne clenched her fists, trying to control the shaking in her hands. She kept her mouth shut and her head high, not wanting to give Pansy the satisfaction of seeing her crumble. But Pansy wasn’t done.

“What’s the matter, Greengrass? Cat got your tongue? Or are you too busy plotting some ridiculous revenge plan with Astoria?” Pansy circled her like a vulture. "Oh, I forgot, you Greengrasses are above all that. So high and mighty, but no one really cares. You’re just as pathetic as everyone else.”

Daphne’s heart pounded in her chest as the words stabbed at her, but she refused to let them show. Her phone buzzed in her hand, and in a moment of weakness, she glanced down at the screen. It was her mother. A sense of desperation welled up inside her. Maybe her mother could help. Maybe she could stop all of this.

Pansy noticed. “What, calling mummy?” she mocked, her voice lilting with false sweetness. “Going to cry to her about the big bad bullies?”

Daphne’s hand trembled as she pressed her mother’s contact, her thumb hovering over the screen. “Please, Mum… just—”

Before she could finish, Pansy snatched the phone from her hand. “Oh, come on, Greengrass,” Pansy scoffed, her smile wicked as she waved the phone in front of Daphne’s face. “We’re not even allowed these during school hours. What’re you gonna do, beg her to send the Ministry?”

Pansy threw the phone to the ground, the sickening crack of the screen shattering echoing in the courtyard. Daphne’s heart sank. She dropped to her knees, reaching for the broken device, her fingers trembling as she lifted it up. The screen was destroyed—completely useless.

Something inside Daphne snapped. She stood up, her chest heaving with a mix of anger and exhaustion. Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time, she didn’t cower under Pansy’s stare. Instead, she met it head-on.

“Are you just here because you like me?” Daphne’s voice was steady, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

Pansy froze. Her smug expression faltered for a split second, replaced by a flicker of confusion. “What—no!” she stammered, her bravado slipping.

Daphne took a step forward, her eyes never leaving Pansy’s. People around them had started to notice, the tension in the air drawing their attention.

“You thought I was drawing you because I liked you?” Daphne said, her voice soft but laced with ice. “No. Quite the opposite. I know you’re broken. I know you’re sad. That’s why you crave my attention. That’s why you bully me.”

Pansy’s face reddened with anger, her hands balling into fists at her sides. The crowd was murmuring now, watching the scene unfold. Pansy’s mask of confidence cracked, and for a moment, Daphne saw something raw in her eyes—something vulnerable.

“Shut up!” Pansy snapped, raising her hand, ready to lash out. Her face twisted in fury, but before she could strike, a gruff voice boomed across the courtyard.

“That’s enough, girls!” Professor Moody strode over, his magical eye whirling as he took in the situation. Right behind him was Professor Lupin, his normally gentle expression now stern.

The two professors moved quickly, pulling the girls apart before things escalated further. Moody’s grip on Pansy’s shoulder was firm, his eyes narrowing at her, while Lupin gently but firmly placed a hand on Daphne’s arm.

“Is there a problem here?” Lupin asked, his voice calm but serious.

Pansy glared at Daphne, her face flushed with anger and humiliation, but she didn’t say a word. She yanked her arm out of Moody’s grip, shooting one last hateful glance at Daphne before storming off.

Professor Moody's magical eye twitched, glancing between the girls as he muttered, “This isn’t the place for this kind of nonsense. Not anymore.”

Lupin, still holding Daphne’s arm lightly, gave her a sympathetic look. “Are you alright, Miss Greengrass?”

Daphne nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she believed it herself. “I’m fine,” she muttered, pulling her arm free. She didn’t look back as she walked away, her heart pounding, her body trembling from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. 

The battle had been small, but it was one of the first times she felt like she had fought back—and won.

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