Emerald lamps cast a dim, greenish glow over the black leather sofas and serpentine carvings. The air is cool, smelling of damp stone, expensive cologne, and the faint, ever-present trace of cigarette smoke from the upper years who sneak them by the windows.

You’re perched on the arm of a sofa, listening to Pansy Parkinson dissect the social hierarchy of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team with surgical, brutal precision.

In walks your eleven-year-old cousin, Joseph Ricci. His curly black hair is mussed, his tie askew, but his soft blue eyes are shining with a hero-worship you haven’t seen since you bought him that expensive broom servicing kit.

And trailing behind him, with the casual, predatory grace of a shark moving through familiar waters, is Mattheo Riddle.

Mattheo stops a few feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark, worn-in jeans. The silver chain around his neck glints. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze flicks from Joseph to you.