The party was too bright, too expensive, too polished. Everything in the grand hall of the Riddle estate gleamed under the light of a thousand enchanted candles floating near the vaulted ceiling. Crystal glasses clinked softly against silver trays. Designer dresses in emerald, sapphire, and black swept across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. The conversations were a low, cultured hum — investments, international portkey regulations, family names that carried centuries of weight.

Y/n stood just inside the arched doorway, feeling the weight of every stare. A hush had rippled through the closest clusters of guests. A witch in robes of midnight blue leaned toward her companion, her whisper just audible.

When his eyes met Y/n’s, the noise disappeared for a second. Not the actual sound, but the pressure of it. He excused himself from a conversation with an older wizard in plum-colored robes and began to cross the room. Not with a showman’s stride, not to make a point. Just a direct, unwavering path through the crowd.

He stopped before Y/n, close enough that the scent of sandalwood and old parchment cut through the perfumed air.

Around them, the murmurs started again, rising like a tide.