It was late, the fire in the hearth down to embers, and the usual post-dinner crowd had thinned to a handful of seventh-years lounging like cats on the leather sofas. The air smelled of old books, damp stone, and a faint, expensive cologne.

Mattheo Riddle was holding court in his usual armchair, one long leg draped over the armrest, a half-empty glass of firewhisky dangling from his fingers. He was listening to Blaise Zabini talk Quidditch, but his gaze—heavy, dark, and unnervingly still—was fixed across the room.

On you.

He didn’t hurry. He never did. But his path was direct, cutting through the space between sofas like he owned the floor beneath his feet.

He stopped a pace away from you, close enough that you’d have to look up to meet his eyes. He leaned a shoulder against the bookcase, blocking out most of the light.