The Days Before Halloween
The castle had begun to smell faintly of pumpkin and woodsmoke.
By the last week of October, the air was crisp enough to make your breath cloud, and the long, echoing corridors were warmed by flickering torches. Suits of armor were polished to a high shine, and the Great Hall glowed with hundreds of floating jack-o'-lanterns, their carved faces grinning down at the students.
Harry was restless.
Ever since McGonagall had introduced him to Oliver Wood and handed him a Nimbus 2000, Quidditch had been the only thing on his mind. When he wasn't in class, he was on the pitch with Wood, practicing dives and feints until his muscles ached. Even Lennon had to admit he looked born for it—leaning forward on the broom, hair whipped back by the wind, eyes sharp and unblinking.
"You know you're going to win, right?" Ron said one evening in the common room, sprawled across an armchair.
"That's not the point," Harry said, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth. "Wood says Slytherin plays dirty. I have to be ready."
Lennon, curled in the corner with a Charms textbook, didn't look up. "Play smarter, not dirtier. They won't know how to handle it."
Harry glanced at her. "You sound like you've thought about this before."
"Maybe," she said simply, turning a page.
⸻
Hermione and Lennon – An Odd Pair
Hermione had become Lennon's anchor in the whirl of castle life. They walked to class together, swapped notes, and occasionally argued about the right way to approach an assignment. Where Hermione was brisk and methodical, Lennon was deliberate and quietly precise, with the occasional streak of blunt practicality that Hermione alternately admired and found maddening.
"You're infuriating," Hermione told her one afternoon after Lennon pointed out three flaws in her Transfiguration essay.
"And you're welcome," Lennon replied.
Even Ron, who claimed he couldn't imagine Hermione having a friend, had stopped raising his eyebrows at their closeness.
⸻
Mattheo – The Slytherin Side of Preparation
In the dungeons, the talk before Halloween was just as charged—but with a different edge.
Mattheo had no interest in Quidditch. Lorenzo did, though, and he never missed a chance to needle the Gryffindors.
"Potter's good," Lorenzo admitted one evening, flicking a quill between his fingers. "But good doesn't win against Malfoy when Malfoy's father's bought him a broom."
"I've seen Malfoy fly," Mattheo said evenly. "Potter will win."
Theodore glanced over. "You sound almost… supportive."
Mattheo shrugged, focusing on the chessboard between them. "I just know talent when I see it."
But privately, he found his attention drawn elsewhere.
⸻
The Library
The Hogwarts library was a cathedral of quiet.
By the last week of October, Lennon had claimed a corner table as her own—deep enough between the shelves to avoid casual interruption, close enough to the Restricted Section that she could stare at the chained books and wonder.
That evening, she wasn't supposed to be there. Curfew was close, and Hermione had already gone upstairs. But Lennon had been chasing something in her mind for days—a curiosity sparked by a sentence in Hogwarts: A History.
Time-Turners. Time magic. Travel.
The book had mentioned it only in passing, but Lennon's thoughts kept circling back. If there was a way to move through time… maybe there was a way to change what had already happened.
She'd found a thick, dust-covered volume called Temporal Manipulation: Theory and Law. Its spine creaked as she opened it.
The words were dense. The warnings were constant. The Ministry considered time travel "dangerous beyond measure." History "did not like to be changed." Interference could cause "irreparable paradox."
Still, she read.
She didn't hear the footsteps until a voice said, low and amused,
"You're not looking for bedtime stories, are you?"
She looked up sharply.
Mattheo Riddle stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the title of her book. His expression didn't change, but there was something curious in his eyes.
"Why are you in the library?" Lennon asked, her tone edged. "Lose your way from the dungeons?"
He didn't answer right away. "I could ask you the same. It's late."
"I'm reading," she said flatly.
His gaze lingered on the page. "Time travel," he murmured. "Interesting choice."
She shut the book halfway. "Do you… have a problem with that?"
"No." He stepped closer, voice still low. "But I've heard people who look into time magic are either desperate or foolish."
"And which do you think I am?"
"I haven't decided."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other—measuring, weighing.
Finally, he inclined his head slightly. "Careful, McCauley. The past has sharp teeth."
Before she could reply, he turned and walked away, leaving her staring at the doorway he'd disappeared through.
⸻
Halloween Feast
The Great Hall on Halloween was a spectacle.
Hundreds of pumpkins floated overhead, glowing from within. Bats fluttered between the candles. The tables groaned under platters of roast chicken, shepherd's pie, treacle tart, and sweets Lennon had never even seen before.
Ron was halfway through a pile of pumpkin pasties when Professor Quirrell came running in, face pale, turban askew.
"TROLL!" he gasped. "In the dungeon! Thought you ought to know!"
Then he collapsed in a heap.
For a moment, the Hall was silent.
Then chaos erupted.
⸻
The Troll Incident
Prefects shouted for order as students scrambled to their feet. Lennon felt herself being swept toward the Gryffindor table's exit, Hermione beside her. Percy was herding them toward the tower when Harry skidded to a stop.
"Hermione," he said suddenly, eyes wide. "She doesn't know—she's in the girls' bathroom!"
Lennon blinked. "What?"
"She was upset after class—she's been in there all evening," Harry said quickly. "She doesn't know about the troll."
Ron swore under his breath. "We have to get her."
"You're both mad," Lennon said, but she was already turning back with them.
⸻
The bathroom smelled of damp stone and soap. Hermione was at the far end, startled by the sudden noise of them bursting in.
"What are you—?" she began, but the answer came in the form of a deafening roar.
The troll filled the doorway, massive and gray-skinned, its stench filling the air. It lumbered inside, club swinging.
"Run!" Lennon shouted, grabbing Hermione's arm. But the troll blocked the exit.
Harry and Ron acted without thinking—Harry leaping onto the troll's back, Ron fumbling for his wand.
"Do something!" Lennon yelled.
"I'm trying!" Ron bellowed, swishing his wand in panic. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
The club jerked upward into the air, then dropped—smacking the troll squarely on the head. It swayed once, twice, and collapsed with a crash that shook the tiles.
The silence afterward was deafening.
⸻
Aftermath
Professor McGonagall's arrival was immediate and furious. Snape was behind her, eyes narrowing as they swept over Harry and Ron, then flicking briefly to Lennon. Quirrell stumbled in last, looking more flustered than helpful.
After a barrage of stern words and point deductions (and unexpected point awards for "sheer, foolhardy bravery"), they were released.
In the corridor afterward, Hermione surprised everyone by speaking first.
"If you hadn't come, I'd… well… thanks. For that. All of you."
Ron looked like he'd swallowed something sour. "You're welcome."
It was the beginning of something unspoken—a shift in the air. Lennon didn't say much, but she noticed Hermione's glance toward her was warmer now, less formal.
⸻
Mattheo – Watching from the Sidelines
The story of the troll spread through the castle in hours. By the next morning, Slytherin table was buzzing with speculation.
"Potter and Weasley?" Lorenzo said incredulously. "Took down a troll?"
"That's what they're saying," Theodore replied.
Mattheo listened quietly. He didn't ask questions. But later, when he saw Lennon across the courtyard, walking with Hermione and Potter, he noticed the faint rip in her sleeve and the way she moved like she was sore.
So she'd been there.
⸻
The Library – Again
A few days later, Lennon returned to the library, time travel book tucked under her arm again. She hadn't expected to see him there.
Mattheo was already at her table, reading a thick Defense Against the Dark Arts volume. He looked up when she stopped beside him.
"This is my table," she said.
"I don't see your name on it."
She sighed, sitting anyway. "What, are you following me?"
"If I were, you'd never know." He didn't look up from his book. "Did you find what you wanted?"
She hesitated. "About time travel? Not really."
"Good," he said simply. "Means you're still alive."
For a while, they read in silence.
Then, without looking at her, he added, "You're not as invisible as you think, McCauley. People are watching."
Her fingers tightened on the page. "You, for example?"
"Maybe."
Their eyes met across the table.
It wasn't friendship. Not yet. But it was something—a thread pulled taut between them, humming with the promise of more.
⸻
That night, as Lennon climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, she found herself thinking not of trolls or Quidditch or even time travel.
She was thinking of the way Mattheo had looked at her.
Like he knew something she didn't.