At the Slytherin table, the noise was a comfortable hum of laughter and clinking goblets. Pansy was gesturing dramatically about something that had happened on the train, her dark bob swinging as she spoke.

Across the table, Daphne was rolling her eyes at Pansy's theatrics, and Blaise was examining his nails with feigned disinterest. Draco sat at the head of the group, occasionally interjecting with a pointed remark about the Muggleborns being sorted.

At the far end of the table, separate from the group, Mattheo Riddle sat alone. A half-empty goblet of firewhisky sat in front of him, untouched for the last few minutes. His dark eyes weren't on the sorting. They were fixed on Theodore's hand against your sleeve — and the gentle, possessive way it rested there.

He lifted his goblet, took a slow sip, and looked away.