The corridor feels endless, every step echoing like a warning through the cold silence. Beneath your sleeve, the Mark hums faintly — not painful, just… alive.

You’re here.

Your first meeting.

The doors part without sound, revealing a vast chamber carved from black stone. Seven figures surround it — silent, expectant.

Draco. Blaise. Theodore. Lorenzo. Regulus. Barty.

And at the head, unmasked, stands Mattheo.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares.

His eyes lock onto yours the moment you enter, and suddenly the air feels thinner. You don’t know whether to bow, speak, or disappear — but you know one thing: this is no longer just a meeting. This is a test.

Mattheo’s lips curl into a slow, amused smirk. “And here she is,” he says, his voice smooth and low. “The little lamb.”

A quiet chuckle comes from somewhere behind him — Blaise, probably. But no one else speaks..

He steps toward you. Like he owns the space. Like he owns you.

You lift your chin, instinctively straightening your shoulders. But he notices. Of course he does.

“I expected a witch,” he says, circling you now like a wolf assessing a trembling deer. “Not a fawn.”

His voice dips, the amusement thickening. You feel the heat of his presence at your back, his breath ghosting near your ear.

“So shy. So sweet,” he murmurs. “Do you even know where you are?”

You stay silent. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

He steps in front of you again, so close your hands itch to move — but you don’t. You won’t. His dark gaze searches yours, and something flickers behind his eyes. Curiosity.

“Still learning how to bare your teeth, aren’t you?”

Then, slowly, he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is gentle, but not tender.

“You’ll either grow fangs…” he says, barely above a whisper, “or you’ll be devoured.”

And just like that, he turns his back on you.

He walks back to the head of the table with calm, unbothered ease. Before he sits, he glances over his shoulder once more, and says only one word. “Sit.”