It was the deep, green-lit quiet of an underwater cavern. The fire in the great hearth cast shifting, serpentine shadows across the low, vaulted ceiling and the black leather sofas. The lake water beyond the tall, narrow windows was a dark, impenetrable grey, a few lazy tendrils of weed drifting past the thick glass.

Only a handful of students were scattered about. A pair of seventh-years murmured over a chessboard in the corner. Near the fire, a girl with long, sleek blonde hair—Daphne Greengrass—was meticulously annotating a parchment, her quill moving with silent precision.

And by the window, standing perfectly still as if he were part of the furniture, was Tom Riddle.

He wasn't looking at the lake. He was looking at the entrance, his dark eyes fixed on the archway as you stepped through. His expression was unreadable: not hostile, not welcoming. Simply observing. Calculating the new variable in his equation.

The silence stretched, thick and expectant. The fire crackled. The common room door groaned shut behind you with a definitive thud.