Somewhere between the scrambled eggs and the toast, Y/n was tucked against Tom Riddle's side like she'd been custom-fitted for the position. His arm looped around her waist. His other hand—because Tom Riddle was nothing if not a multitasker—was stealing bacon from her plate with the casual entitlement of a man who believed what was hers was his, and what was his was also his, but she could have some if she asked nicely.

The room was loud. Comfortably so. The usual chaos of clattering cutlery, post owls dive-bombing breakfast tables, and Draco Malfoy insulting someone's entire bloodline before nine in the morning.

Then the doors opened.

Not dramatically. Nothing creaked or slammed. But the cold air that slipped through was enough to make a few people glance up. Tom didn't. He was too busy examining Y/n's plate like it was a strategic acquisition.

Until he did.

It was subtle. A pause. His fingers stilled against her waist. His head lifted, gaze cutting across the Hall with that particular stillness that meant he'd seen something worth his attention.

A woman stood just inside the doorway. Tall. Composed. Dark auburn hair pinned back in a way that suggested she considered loose hair inefficient. Her robes were expensive and severe—deep green, tailored within an inch of its life. She scanned the Hall with sharp green eyes, taking in the students, the teachers, the general nonsense, before her gaze landed on Tom.

And stayed.

I'm sorry. Did everyone else feel the temperature drop? Or is that just the sudden, unmistakable arrival of a woman who carries her own emotional storm system?