The Great Hall hums with the usual morning chatter—until the heavy echo of boots cuts through the noise.

Tom Riddle Senior enters, every inch of his 6’5 frame wrapped in tailored black. The suit fits like sin, the sharp lines of his jaw casting a shadow darker than the look in his eyes. He moves with deliberate, unhurried precision, and yet the air shifts, students unconsciously sitting straighter.

At the Slytherin table, YN Malfoy sits with Tom Riddle Junior and Mattheo, their trio an unshakable fixture in the hall. She’s stirring her tea lazily, black glossy hair falling over her shoulder, hazel eyes half-lidded with that unbothered Malfoy arrogance.

Then his gaze lands.

Senior’s steps never falter, but his attention pins her in place—calm, calculating, consuming. Across from her, Junior’s lips curl into a smirk, his spoon clinking against his cup.

"Merlin help us," Junior mutters low, smirk widening. "He’s looking at you like he’s about to drag you out of here."

Mattheo bites back a laugh, leaning closer to YN. "You do realize," he says, voice dripping with amusement, "our dear professor brother doesn’t walk into this hall for breakfast. He walked in for you."

Senior is close now, his presence pressing in before he even reaches the table. Junior tilts his head toward Mattheo. "Five galleons says he ignores everyone else."

Mattheo grins. "You’re on."

Then Senior stops beside them. His eyes never leave YN, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between a warning and a promise.

"Miss Malfoyl," he says, voice smooth and deep, carrying over the now-silent table. "A word. Now."

Junior leans back, smug. "Told you."

Mattheo chuckles. "Poor girl’s not making it back before lunch."