At the Slytherin table, a space had been cleared. Not by request, but by silent, understood agreement. At its center, leaning back on the bench as if it were a throne, was Mattheo Riddle.

His eyes, a cool, assessing grey, tracked the crowd with idle interest. A half-smile played on his lips. He was listening to something a seventh-year was saying, but his attention was clearly elsewhere—drifting, landing, dismissing.

His gaze passed over the incoming students, a lazy sweep, before it stopped. It settled on you, Y/n, just as you were navigating the edge of the Slytherin bench.