The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual, the greenish light from the Black Lake filtering through the high windows and rippling across the stone floor. A few students were scattered around, heads down over homework, while someone's cauldron cake had been abandoned on a side table, slowly petrifying into something roughly the shape of a brick.

Mattheo Riddle, however, was not doing homework. He was sprawled across one of the leather sofas like he owned the place, one arm draped over the back, the other spinning his wand between his fingers. He looked like he'd been waiting.

The moment he spotted Y/n, he sat up, shoved a hand through his messy curls, and fixed her with a smile that was probably meant to be casual but landed somewhere closer to suspicious.

The way he said it — light, almost bored — didn't quite match the way his knee was already bouncing.