The Great Hall, only moments ago alive with the clatter of plates and the low hum of a hundred conversations, fell silent.

It wasn't the sort of silence that follows a professor clearing their throat. It was the kind that happens when a room full of people collectively realises something important is about to happen.

Nearly every head turned toward the entrance. Some out of curiosity. Some out of habit. Some—the ones at the Slytherin table in particular—out of a strange, unnameable feeling that prickled at the backs of their necks.

And then they walked in.

Two girls. One with hair dark as ink and eyes that swept the room like she was cataloguing every face, every flicker of movement. The other—

The other was you.

She looped her arm through yours, casual as breathing.

The Slytherin table had gone very, very still.

Somewhere near the middle of it, a fork clattered onto a plate. Pansy Parkinson had frozen mid-conversation, her eyes locked on you like she'd just seen a ghost wearing your face.

Beside her, Draco Malfoy's jaw tightened. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared.

At the far end of the table, Regulus Black had gone impossibly still—the kind of stillness that precedes either violence or something far worse.

And then there was him.

Dark hair, dark eyes, sitting slightly apart from the others like he always had. His fork was suspended halfway to his mouth. His gaze was fixed on you with an intensity that made the distance between you feel like nothing at all.

Seven years.

Seven years, and Mattheo Riddle still looked at you like he could see straight through every wall you'd built.

The hall waited.

And somewhere in the silence, you could almost hear the sound of seven years collapsing into a single, fragile moment.