Whispers followed you between tables anyway—heiress, mafia, dangerous. Someone near Gryffindor mentioned the man who’d threatened one of your businesses last summer. Someone else whispered that he’d disappeared.

How dramatic.

Your heels clicked against ancient stone as you reached the Slytherin table, black lace disappearing beneath your robes. Diamonds decorated your fingers. A cherry lollipop rested between your lips.

And then the doors opened again.

Mattheo Riddle walked through them.

Everything else simply—stopped. The conversations. The candles. The hundreds of students. None of it mattered.

Messy curls. Crooked tie. Sleepy brown eyes.

A tiny tear along the cuff of his jumper.

Your gaze dropped to it.

Unacceptable.

You hated seeing it on him.

Your expression softened immediately.

Or maybe, five.