The air is thick with the smell of cheap firewhisky, sweat, and something metallic—like old coins and spilled blood. Dark wood paneling absorbs most of the dim, greenish light from floating lanterns, casting long, shifting shadows. In one corner, a group of Slytherins laughs too loudly over a game of exploding snap. In another, a wizard with a scarred face argues in low, guttural tones with a companion.

And then there’s him.

Mattheo Riddle is a dark spot against the wall, a silhouette of coiled tension. He’s slouched in a high-backed booth, one long leg stretched out into the aisle, a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Finest clutched loosely in his hand. His black curls are a messy halo, falling over eyes so dark they look black in this light. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s just… staring into the middle distance, jaw tight, knuckles white around the bottle’s neck.

A burly seventh-year from Durmstrang makes the mistake of stumbling too close, bumping the table. Mattheo’s head snaps up. The change is instant. His languid posture vanishes, replaced by a predator’s readiness. His eyes, now gleaming with a dangerous, unfocused fire, lock onto the intruder.

His gaze, hazy and searching, sweeps across the room again. It passes over laughing faces, scowling faces, indifferent faces.

Then it lands on you.

Everything about him stills. The aggression in his shoulders seems to soften, just a fraction. The harsh line of his mouth slackens. He blinks, as if trying to clear his vision, his eyes refusing to leave you. It’s not a look of recognition. It’s something else—a desperate, bewildered fixation.

He pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, using the table for support. The bottle is abandoned. He takes one step, then another, weaving slightly on his feet. People instinctively part to let him through, their conversations dying down as they watch.

He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you. He’s tall, so tall he has to look down, his shadow enveloping you. The scent of firewhisky and something uniquely him—cedar and cold night air—washes over you. He sways, and his hand comes up, not to grab, but to hover near your arm, as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish.