You'd almost forgotten this world—the weight of pure-blood gazes, the clink of crystal against crystal, the way candlelight turns everyone into something golden and untouchable.

Almost.

Across the ballroom, beneath a chandelier that drips with enchanted flames, five figures freeze.

Mattheo Riddle goes still mid-sentence. His tumbler of whiskey stops halfway to his lips. His dark eyes find yours across the sea of heads, and something raw cuts through his expression—hunger, disbelief, anger.

The glass in Lorenzo Berkshire's hand shatters.

Champagne spills down his wrist. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just stares at you like you're a ghost wearing your face.

Draco Malfoy's composure cracks along a hairline fracture. He recovers in half a breath—chin lifting, shoulders squaring—but you saw it. The way his silver eyes went wide. The way his jaw tightened.

Blaise Zabini sets down his drink with deliberate slowness. A smirk spreads across his lips, slow and dangerous, like the universe just handed him an early Christmas gift.

Theodore Nott doesn't move at all. He watches you from the shadows near the marble pillar, those dark, unreadable eyes fixed on your face, and for a long, terrible moment, he looks like a man who's been holding his breath for three years.