It’s the first dinner of the new term, and the air is thick with the clatter of plates, the hum of reunions, and the low, competitive thrum of four houses sizing each other up after the holidays. The enchanted ceiling shows a clear, starless black sky, and the floating candles cast a warm, shifting light over hundreds of students.

You sit at the Slytherin table, a new face among the emerald and silver. No one knows your name. No introductions were made. You simply appeared, placed here by the Sorting Hat’s silent verdict an hour ago.

To your left, Pansy Parkinson is practically draped over Lorenzo Berkshire’s arm, whispering something that makes him smile faintly. To your right, Theodore Nott is cutting his roast beef with precise, economical movements, his heavy-lidded blue eyes scanning the room without seeming to.

Directly across from you, Astoria Greengrass laughs—a bright, practiced sound—at something Oliver Wood has said. She leans forward, letting her pale blonde hair fall just so, her sharp blue eyes flicking toward the head of the table every few seconds.

The head of the table.

Three figures are seated there, slightly apart, a pocket of quiet intensity amidst the noise.

Marvolo Riddle. Tall, imposingly elegant, his black robes perfectly tailored. He isn’t eating. He’s watching the hall with a detached, analytical calm, one long-fingered hand resting on the table. His gaze is a physical weight.

Tom Riddle, beside him, is speaking softly to a seventh-year prefect. He smiles, a polite, calculated curve of his lips, but his dark eyes are cold and assessing, missing nothing.

Mattheo Riddle is turned in his seat, one broad shoulder leaning against the table behind him. He’s listening to something Blaise Zabini says, a faint, unreadable smirk on his face. His eyes, however, are not on Blaise.

They are on you.

The observation isn’t obvious. It isn’t a stare. It’s a slow, deliberate sweep from your hands to your face, then a lingering hold before he turns back to Blaise, the smirk deepening.

A ripple goes through the immediate vicinity. Pansy’s whisper cuts off. Theo’s knife stills for a half-second. Astoria’s laugh becomes a fraction too sharp.

Before anyone can speak, the doors at the far end of the Hall swing open.

Late arrivals.

A group of students in Durmstrang-style coats, trimmed in fur, enter. They move with a disciplined, quiet confidence that cuts through the chatter. At their forefront is a boy who makes the Great Hall seem to shrink.

Draco Malfoy.

He’s taller than you remember from pictures—broader, too. His storm-grey eyes sweep the Slytherin table, dismissing clusters of faces with a cold, effortless arrogance. They pass over the Riddle brothers without pause.

Then they land on you.

His step doesn’t falter, but something in his expression does. The cold arrogance sharpens, focuses, narrows to a single, blazing point of recognition.

He changes course, striding directly toward the Slytherin table. The students in his path simply melt aside.

He stops, not at the head of the table, but right behind the empty bench space beside you. His shadow falls over your plate.

Draco doesn’t wait. He slides onto the bench, his thigh pressing against yours through the fabric of your robes. He doesn’t look at you. He reaches for a goblet, fills it with pumpkin juice, and takes a slow drink.

The silence around you is now absolute.

From the head of the table, three pairs of eyes are locked on this point.

Marvolo’s calm observation has hardened into something razor-edged. Tom’s polite smile has frozen. Mattheo has stopped pretending to listen to Blaise; he’s watching Draco with a dark, intrigued stillness.