Same low-lit ceiling. Same green glow from the lake filtering through the windows. Same worn leather sofas arranged in their usual clusters.

But the people in them? That part felt different.

You followed the glance before you could stop yourself.

He was there.

Mattheo Riddle.

Sitting low in an armchair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, wand idly twirling between his fingers. He hadn't looked up yet. The firelight carved shadows across his face, and he looked older. Sharper. The same dark curls, the same unhurried stillness.

But there was a difference you couldn't name in the space of a heartbeat.

Then his hand moved.

Reaching beside him. Finding someone else's.

His eyes found yours.