The estate gates were already open when the first of the cars came winding up the long gravel drive, tires crunching over pale stone, late-afternoon sunlight spilling gold across the perfectly manicured lawns. Marlow Hall rose at the end of the drive like something out of a particularly expensive daydream — sprawling, ivy-covered, absurdly symmetrical, with tall windows that caught the light and made the whole place look as though it had been polished for visitors.

Y/n had barely stepped out of the car when the front door swung open and the first wave of familiar voices rolled out into the warm air.

Pansy pushed off the doorframe and came down the steps, sharp-eyed and smiling, the way she always did when she was about to start ferreting for information.

More voices echoed from the entrance hall. Lorenzo's laugh. Astoria's softer tone. The sound of luggage being hauled across marble. And somewhere further inside, the low, unmistakable cadence of Mattheo Riddle's voice, clipped and impatient, like the house itself had already done something to offend him.

There was a beat of silence. Pansy's smile sharpened.