A knot of Slytherins moved through the dim torchlight with the casual, predatory grace of students who owned the space. Draco Malfoy led, his pale hair almost silver under the flames, his expression one of bored disdain. To his right, Pansy Parkinson walked with a sharp, clicking step, her eyes scanning the corridor like a hawk. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott flanked them, a wall of dark robes and quiet arrogance.

And beside Draco, matching his stride, was Y/n.

And then, from the opposite direction, came a trio moving with the harried speed of people late for something. A collision was inevitable.

There was a heavy thud, a clatter of parchment and textbooks hitting the flagstones, and a startled grunt.

Ron Weasley stumbled back, his arms flailing, his face a mask of surprise and annoyance as his belongings scattered across the corridor. He'd walked straight into Y/n.

Theodore Nott simply watched, a faint, unpleasant smile on his lips.

But Mattheo Riddle, who had been walking just behind Y/n, his posture relaxed and observant, took a half-step forward. His dark eyes, always so calculating, found Y/n's. His voice was low, a private question in the public tension.