Two figures were sprawled in the high-backed armchairs closest to the hearth. Theo Nott, lean and relaxed, was tracing idle patterns in the condensation on his butterbeer bottle. Mattheo Riddle was slouched beside him, one boot propped on the edge of the stone hearth, staring into the flames with a bored, distant expression.

The heavy oak door groaned open. You stepped through, followed by Daphne Greengrass, her blonde hair catching the low light like a halo.

You stopped half a step into the room, the scene freezing you in place. It was… new.

From his chair, Mattheo’s head had turned. He wasn’t looking at the couple. He was looking at you, his dark eyes narrowed slightly, an unreadable expression on his face—something between surprise and mild disgust, as if he’d just witnessed the same bizarre anomaly you had.