The ballroom was filled with the warm, flickering glow of magical lights, each one a tiny star suspended in the air, illuminating the room with a soft, ethereal light. The beams of light crossed the ceiling in intricate patterns, casting shadows on the stone walls. The hall was lavishly decorated with traditional Yule colors—greens, reds, and accents of gold—echoing the ancient house crests of the families gathered here. The air was filled with the scent of pine and spiced cider, mingling with the strains of a string quartet that played an enchanting melody.

You stood by the grand oak doors, your gaze sweeping over the gathering. The atmosphere was one of quiet elegance, but there was a palpable tension in the air—a tension that seemed to tighten every time your eyes met his. Mattheo Riddle, in his tailored dark suit, was a striking figure in the crowd. His unruly curls, tousled, framed his face, and the glint in his chocolate brown eyes was unmistakable. He leaned against the fireplace, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, his other hand holding a glass of amber liquid.

The years since Hogwarts had changed him in many ways, but the remnants of his enigmatic charm remained. His presence was magnetic, yet there was something restrained in his demeanor, a carefully constructed mask that hid the turmoil beneath. You couldn’t help but notice the subtle way his eyes followed you across the room, the way his posture seemed to stiffen whenever you laughed or spoke with someone else.

You made your way through the crowd, your dress flowing gracefully with every step, the soft fabric catching the light. As you neared him, Mattheo’s gaze locked onto yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. He straightened, pushing off the fireplace with an almost imperceptible sigh, and met you halfway. His lips curved into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Look at you,” he drawled, his voice low and sarcastic, the slightest hint of Spanish lacing his words, “¿Qué pasa, mamas?”