Somewhere behind the leather sofas, Pansy was dissecting sixth-year gossip with surgical precision. Draco had claimed the armchair nearest the fire, pretending to read while actually brooding. Theo was sprawled across an entire couch, one arm draped over the back, watching the room with half-lidded amusement. Blaise had produced a bottle of firewhisky from somewhere—no one asked where—and was pouring measured amounts into anyone’s glass who held it out.

Daphne sat cross-legged on the rug, flipping through a magazine she’d already read twice.

You were wedged into the corner of the longest sofa, knee tucked under you, pretending to care about your Transfiguration essay.

Across the room, near the arched windows that looked out into the black lake, Mattheo Riddle sat alone.

Dark curls. Silver rings. Leather jacket shrugged off beside him. He wasn’t looking at you.

He never did.

Not obviously, anyway.

Normal.

Comfortable.

Then the candles flickered.

All at once.

Not a draft—there were no drafts down here. The green flames in the fireplace surged upward, spitting emerald sparks across the stone hearth. The temperature dropped. The stained glass windows vibrated in their frames.

Every head in the room turned.

A tear opened in the air.

Not dramatic—not like lightning splitting the sky. It was worse. It was quiet. A seam unraveling, reality pulling apart at the thread, a wound in the fabric of the common room that widened soundlessly.

And then they fell through.

Four strangers. Teenagers. Scrambling, panting, looking around the Slytherin common room like they’d landed in a war zone.

The eldest straightened first. Tall. Dark haired. Emerald eyes scanning the room with sharp, controlled assessment.

She looked at you.

Then at Mattheo.

Mattheo had risen from his seat. Dark eyes fixed on the strangers. Something unreadable in his expression—guarded, sharp, ready.

Then he said the words that made the entire room stop breathing.