Too warm. Too loud. Too many bodies crammed into the same space, the green-tinted lanterns casting long shadows across the stone walls. Firewhiskey bottles passed between hands like currency. Music thrummed low and heavy from an old wireless someone had charmed to play Muggle records.

You were wedged between the arm of a worn leather sofa and Pansy Parkinson, who was busy ignoring Daphne Greengrass in favor of examining her nails.

The door he kept looking at opened.

Mattheo Riddle walked in.

He looked exactly the way he always looked at these things — slightly disheveled, sleeves pushed up, dark curls falling into his eyes. His gaze swept the room lazily until it landed on you.

It stayed there.

A beat too long.