She steps through the portrait hole and the low murmur of conversation stutters, then dies.

They're all here. Pansy, frozen mid-laugh on the velvet chaise. Draco, hand paused over his goblet. Blaise, sprawled in an armchair with a lazy smirk that slips the moment he sees her. Theo and Mattheo at the chess table, pieces forgotten. Daphne and Astoria huddled near the fire.

Every pair of eyes on her. The silence stretches. It's the kind of silence that feels carved into the stone itself.

Near the windows, Mattheo Riddle watches her. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and he hasn't moved. His sleeve is rolled up just enough to show the edge of something dark inked on his forearm. A hairline fracture in the room's tension.