Most of the house has already disappeared into their private halls for the night, leaving only the low crackle of the fireplace and the soft green glow from the Black Lake pressing against the windows.

You are curled into the corner of one of the leather sofas, a half-finished essay on your lap and a familiar, restless energy settling under your skin.

The portrait entrance slides open with a whisper.

Mattheo Riddle steps inside.

He doesn't glance around the room like he's checking for threats. His eyes find you first, then sweep the empty common room once before he moves toward you.