The fire crackled low in the wrought-iron grate, casting long shadows that danced across the armchairs and settled like whispers in the corners.

Draco Malfoy occupied the largest armchair, one leg crossed over the other, his grey eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His jaw was tight, his fingers drumming against the armrest in an uneven rhythm.

And in the high-backed chair nearest the fire, Tom Riddle observed the scene with an unnerving stillness. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin, his dark eyes sweeping the room as though cataloging every breath.

The common room door scraped open.

The sound was subtle—just a shift of stone against stone, the whisper of robes brushing the frame—but the room reacted.

Blaise's lazy smile sharpened. Draco's drumming stopped. Theo's finger froze mid-page.

The quiet that followed was the kind that meant something.