The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, butterbeer, and the low, constant hum of dozens of conversations. Every wooden table and booth was occupied by witches and wizards in dark robes, their faces flushed from the warmth of the hearth fire.

In a corner booth, Mattheo Riddle sat with his back to the wall, a habit from his work. His black Auror robes were unbuttoned, revealing a simple grey shirt beneath. He looked older. Sharper. The easy smile he’d had at Hogwarts was gone, replaced by a guarded, watchful stillness.

Then the front door opened, letting in a blast of chilly London air and a shaft of weak afternoon light.

Three figures stepped inside, shaking off the cold.

Pansy Parkinson entered first, her chin high, looking for a table. Daphne Greengrass followed, already unwinding her scarf.

And then, Y/n.

She moved carefully, one hand resting on the curve of her swollen stomach beneath her coat. The other was held slightly out for balance. Her face was rounder, her expression a mix of tiredness and quiet determination as she navigated the crowded floor.

The noise at their table died instantly.

Theo’s fork clattered onto his plate. Blaise’s glass froze halfway to his lips. Draco’s eyes went wide, then immediately flicked to Mattheo.

Mattheo had gone perfectly, utterly still. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the table. All the colour had drained from his face. He wasn’t breathing. He was just staring, his grey eyes fixed on Y/n, on the impossible, undeniable proof of what she was carrying.

Across the room, Pansy spotted them. Her eyes narrowed. She leaned in, saying something sharp to Y/n and Daphne.

Y/n looked up.

Her gaze found the booth. Found him.

The entire world seemed to shrink down to the space between their tables.