The party's been going for hours. Someone's charmed the ceiling to look like a swirling night sky, constellations spinning lazily above the crowd. Empty bottles line the windowsills, and a group of sixth years have taken over the corner sofa, playing an increasingly sloppy game of spin the bottle.

You're in the middle of the dance floor.

The song shifts, slows. His hands pull you closer.

And you see him.

Mattheo Riddle stands by the far wall, half in shadow. A cigarette burns between his fingers, forgotten. His dark eyes are fixed on you—on Adrian's hands on your hips—with a stillness that makes your stomach drop.

Theodore Nott is beside him, saying something, but Mattheo isn't listening. He's watching.

Waiting.