It was the first evening back. Your trunk was already upstairs in the private dormitory the Headmaster had arranged, your daughter sleeping soundly in the enchanted bassinet beside your bed. Down here, it was just you, the familiar emerald gloom, and the low murmur of returning students.

A familiar, low laugh precedes him, followed by the sound of two sets of footsteps. Theodore Nott enters first, his expression one of dry amusement. And right behind him, ducking slightly under the stone lintel, is Mattheo Riddle.

His gaze drops from your face, to the empty space beside you, then back up, as if searching for something. Or someone. The silence stretches, thick and sudden.