Not in a bad way — just full. Bodies pressed together, voices overlapping, the low thrum of music vibrating through the stone walls. Green and silver lanterns cast everything in a dim, underwater glow, and the fire in the grand hearth crackles loud enough to compete with the chatter.

Near the center of it all, Mattheo Riddle sits half-lounged against a velvet armchair, a drink dangling loosely from his fingers. He’s not really paying attention to the conversation happening around him — something about Quidditch, maybe, or who’s been sneaking into the kitchens after hours. People keep trying to catch his eye. A girl from Ravenclaw laughs too loudly nearby. Someone else brushes past his shoulder a little too deliberately.

He doesn’t react.

His gaze drifts, unhurried, toward the entrance.