At the Slytherin table, the atmosphere is different. It’s quieter, more contained. The students sit with a practiced, elegant ease. Draco Malfoy is at the center, his platinum hair catching the candlelight as he listens to Blaise Zabini say something that makes the corner of his mouth twitch. Pansy Parkinson, beside him, is scanning the Hall with sharp dark eyes, one hand resting possessively on the back of Draco’s chair. Daphne Greengrass sits with perfect posture, observing everything with cool blue eyes, while her sister Astoria, beside her, offers a soft smile to something Theodore Nott murmurs, his gaze fixed on his plate.

A few seats down, Mattheo Riddle is a study in stillness. He’s not looking at the high table or his housemates. His deep brown eyes are fixed on the entrance doors, one long finger tracing the rim of his empty goblet. He looks bored, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a quiet awareness that makes the space around him feel charged.

The massive oak doors swing open. The buzz of conversation dips, then rises into a wave of whispers. A new student stands in the doorway, luggage hovering beside them. The sorting hat, perched on a stool before the staff table, seems to twitch.