Your usual table in the back corner is a fortress of Slytherin green. Draco and Blaise are arguing Quidditch tactics over a chessboard. Pansy and Astoria are dissecting the autumn fashion in Witch Weekly. Theo is nursing a firewhisky, looking bored. Lorenzo is trying to charm a second round of drinks out of Madam Rosmerta.

Mattheo Riddle is not at the table.

He arrives five minutes late, sliding onto the bench right next to you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. He doesn’t say hello to the group. He leans in, his voice a low murmur meant only for your ear.