Music pulsed from a bewitched gramophone in the corner, a popular wizarding wireless hit that made the glass in the lampshades tremble. Laughter rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the sharp clink of goblets.

Leaning against a pillar slick with condensation, Y/n watched the epicenter of the room.

Mattheo Riddle held court from a deep armchair, one leg draped casually over the armrest. He was telling a story, his hands painting shapes in the air, a lazy, confident smirk on his face. A semicircle of admirers—mostly other Slytherins, a few brave Ravenclaws—hung on his every word, laughing on cue.

A house-elf in a tea towel uniform scurried past, a tray of freshly filled goblets floating beside it. Mattheo reached out without looking, snagged a goblet of something dark and fizzy, and set it on the table beside his elbow. He hadn’t taken a sip yet.

Y/n’s fingers closed around a tiny, warm vial in her pocket. The liquid inside was a perfect, pearlescent pink.