The Great Hall was beautiful. And it felt wrong.

Christmas decorations shimmered along the stone walls—evergreen garlands, floating candles, enchanted snow drifting lazily beneath the ceiling. Students laughed, talked excitedly about going home, about warmth and family and rest.

At the Slytherin table, the boys sat in silence. The seat beside Mattheo was still empty. It had been empty for weeks. Months. 181 days to be exact.

Mattheo hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t tried. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles were pale, his shoulders rigid like if he relaxed even for a second, he might fall apart completely.

Theo stared down at the table, jaw clenched. Blaise leaned back, arms crossed, eyes distant. Draco sat stiffly, pretending indifference. Enzo kept glancing toward the doors, then quickly away, like hope itself had become dangerous. Tom Riddle observed them quietly, sharp eyes taking in the grief that hung around Mattheo like a shadow.

Then Dumbledore stood. The Great Hall slowly fell silent.

Mattheo didn’t look up. He already knew this feeling.

“As we gather this evening,” Dumbledore began, his voice low and solemn, “we do so after a term that has tested not only this school—but our hearts.” Mattheo’s chest tightened.

“This year,” Dumbledore continued, “has reminded us that even in a place filled with magic, there are moments when we are powerless. Moments when waiting becomes unbearable, and silence becomes cruel.”

Theo’s fingers curled into his sleeve. Enzo swallowed hard. Mattheo’s breathing grew shallow.

“There are times,” Dumbledore said quietly, “when hope itself begins to feel foolish. When we prepare ourselves for outcomes we never wanted to imagine.”

Mattheo stared at the table, vision blurring.."For weeks," Dumpleaore went on, "members of our community have waited for answers that did not come. Have held onto belief even as the days passed, and the nights grew longer."

Mattheo felt something inside him start to fracture.

"There are losses,' Dumbledore said gently, "that do not announce themselves loudly. They arrive slowly. In empty seats. In silence where laughter once lived."

Mattheo's hands began to tremble.

"Tonight,'" Dumbledore said, voice heavy, "| know many of you are bracing yourselves. Preparing for pain. For finality."

Mattheo closed his eyes. This is it.

He couldn't hear this again.

"But," Dumbledore said, pausing

Mattheo didn't look up. He didn't want hope anymore.

"But it is in moments like these," Dumbledore continued softly, "that we must remember something very important."

The hall was utterly still.

"That happiness can be found even in the darkest of times---if one only remembers to turn on the light."

The candles flared brighter.

Golden light flooded the Great Hall, warm and sudden, pushing back the shadows that had settled deep into every corner.

Dumbledore's gaze shifted deliberately, to the Slytherin table.

To Mattheo.

"For weeks," Dumbledore said, his voice warming, "one student refused to let the darkness win."

Mattheo's heart slammed painfully in his chest.

"He sat beside a hospital bed when others believed there was nothing more to be done. He spoke to someone who could not answer. He waited when waiting felt unbearable."

Mattheo's breath hitched.

"And when the world told him to let go," Dumbledore said, "he made a wish, not for power, not for glory, but for another soul to come home."

Mattheo's eyes burned

"And tonight," Dumbledore finished gently, "it was Mr Riddle who remembered to turn on that light."

Dumbledore smiled. And winked.

Mattheo looked up--confused, raw, heart pounding. Then the great doors creaked open.

Light spilled into the hall and Mattheo turned. And everything shattered.

You stood there.

Alive.

Wrapped in winter robes. Eyes searching-until they found him.

"Please," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle but carrying through the Great Hall, "welcome back... Y/N."