The girls' dormitory is full. One bed remains — in his room. Professor Harlen doesn't negotiate. Neither does Matheo Riddle. And yet here you are, trunk dragged across the threshold of the most immaculate, coldly organized room you've ever seen, while its owner stands in the doorway like a storm that hasn't decided whether to break yet. He doesn't shout. He doesn't plead with the professor. He just looks at you — a long, measuring look — and says nothing. Which is somehow worse. The war starts quietly. A line of tape down the center of the room. Competing silences. Insults dressed up as observations. But Matheo Riddle notices everything, and you are the one thing in his world he cannot catalog, cannot predict, cannot control. He hates that. You can tell by the way he can't stop watching you.