The warm glow of the Three Broomsticks provided a sharp contrast to the cold, snowy streets of Hogsmeade. The pub was lively, with chatter filling the air, but there was a noticeable separation in the atmosphere when it came to a particular corner of the room. The Knights of Walpurgis had claimed a secluded booth at the back, their presence subtly demanding attention. While the rest of the patrons focused on their mugs of butterbeer and jovial conversation, the group sat with an air of quiet authority, as though the noise and merriment of the pub were nothing more than background noise to their more important discussion.

Tom Riddle sat at the center of the group, leaning back in his chair with a glass of firewhisky in hand. His sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail with quiet precision, as if calculating who might be of use or who might be a potential threat. The others flanked him, each member in their usual places. Abraxas Malfoy nursing a glass of wine, his fingers tracing the rim idly; Rafferty Lestrange smirking at the nearby patrons, clearly enjoying the subtle intimidation his presence exuded; Marius Avery, casually sipping his drink, his mind clearly elsewhere, calculating their next move. Cillian Mulciber and Antonio Dolohov exchange  quiet whispers.