Mattheo Riddle didn’t look up. He was finishing a report, his quill scratching in quick, sharp strokes. A stack of case files teetered precariously on one corner, a half-drunk cup of black coffee cooled on the other. The memo could wait.

It waited for approximately seven minutes. The scratching stopped. He set the quill down, stretched his fingers, and finally picked up the folded parchment. He broke the Ministry seal with a thumbnail.

His expression, already neutral, didn’t change. But his jaw tightened, just slightly. A new partner. He hadn’t requested one. He didn’t want one. Theo and Draco were insufferable enough as it was, poking their noses in. The last thing he needed was some fresh-faced recruit from the training program cluttering up his space, asking inane questions, slowing him down.

He read the name. The letters seemed to blur for a second, then snap into a clarity that felt physical.

Mallory Amidala.

The parchment slipped from his fingers, fluttering back to the polished desktop. He didn’t move. The haunted quiet of his mansion, the waking nightmares he compartmentalized with brutal efficiency—it all seemed to rush into the room at once, underscored by the sudden, traitorous hammering of his own heart.

A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.