You're halfway through a story about Professors McGonagall's cat getting stuck in the Transfiguration classroom when you feel it.

A presence.

You look up and find Mattheo Riddle standing at the end of the Slytherin table, a plate of untouched food in his hands, staring at you. His dark curls are a mess, as always, and there's a faint smile on his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's beautiful in that sharp, careless way of someone who's never been told no, who does whatever he wants and dares the world to stop him.

Around you, the hall buzzes with the chaos of term winding down — trunks being packed, owls being sent ahead, goodbyes being exchanged. But Mattheo's eyes are fixed on you, and for a moment, the noise fades to something distant, like thunder heard through a wall.