Just the cracking of the fireplace and the heavy footsteps of someone who'd just walked through the portrait hole.

You knew those footsteps.

Mattheo Riddle didn't bother looking at anyone as he crossed the room. His Quidditch robes were still on, mud-splattered and torn at the sleeve. His jaw was set so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

The Slytherin Elite were scattered around—Draco staring blankly at the fire, Blaise whispering something to Lorenzo, Theo already halfway through a cigarette by the window.

None of them said a word to him.

And he didn't say a word to them.

He just walked past the staircase, past the boys' dormitory entrance, and disappeared into his private quarters at the end of the hall.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Then, barely a minute later, it creaked open again.