The low-ceilinged, greenish room was packed, yes. The air was thick with the smell of butterbeer, firewhisky, and cheap perfume. A wireless in the corner crackled out a Celestina Warbeck ballad, nearly drowned by the dull roar of a hundred overlapping conversations.

But the legendary, electric atmosphere everyone whispered about in the corridors? The palpable, dangerous promise of what happened when certain boys led certain girls up the stone staircase to the dormitories?

It was absent. It was, frankly, boring.

He didn't ask. He just moved, cutting a path with an easy authority that made people step aside. You were up the staircase, the noise of the party fading into a distant hum, before you could protest.

He stopped before a heavy black door set into the stone wall, its handle a twist of polished gold.

Three figures were arranged around a low, dark wooden table.

Lorenzo Berkshire, lounging back in an armchair, was just lighting a cigarette with a lazy flick of his wrist. He took a long drag, the tip glowing crimson.

Draco Malfoy, sitting opposite him, reached over without looking and plucked the cigarette from Lorenzo's fingers. He brought it to his own lips, his pale grey eyes fixed on the new arrivals.

Mattheo Riddle occupied the space between them, one arm draped along the back of a sofa. A glass of amber firewhisky dangled from his fingers.