The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday night.
Green flames licked at the enchanted ceiling, casting long shadows across the worn leather sofas. A few first-years huddled by the fire, but most of the upper years had cleared out for Hogsmeade weekend.
You were curled into your usual spot—the corner of the longest sofa, a Charms essay half-finished on your lap. The dungeon felt colder than it should.
Mattheo Riddle
steps through the portrait hole, his coat still dusted with snow
His eyes found you immediately. They always did.
But something was wrong.
Mattheo Riddle
doesn't smileWe need to talk.
Behind him, Theo lingered in the doorway, his face unreadable. He didn't meet your gaze.