But at the Slytherin table, there was a pocket of unnatural stillness.

Six of them sat together, plates untouched. Pansy's mascara was smudged. Draco's jaw was tight, his fingers wrapped too hard around his goblet. Theodore stared at nothing. Blaise kept his eyes on the table. Lorenzo's leg bounced beneath the bench.

And at the center of it all, Mattheo Riddle.

His hair was longer than it had been last year, curling at his collar. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the faded remnants of a fresh scar that hadn't been there before.

He was looking at the empty seat beside him.

A few first-years at the other end of the table had stopped whispering, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes.

Silence. Somewhere near the staff table, Professor McGonagall's quill stopped moving.

And the empty seat beside the one Mattheo had left sat cold and untouched, a space that could not be filled.