Y/n had just wanted air. The common room had been too loud, too warm, too full of laughter that felt miles away. So up they climbed, past the portraits that had long since gone still in their frames, past the windows showing nothing but blackness and the occasional glimmer of stars.

The door to the Astronomy Tower is heavy oak, iron-banded, usually left ajar.

Tonight, it's shut.

That's not unusual. Professors lock it sometimes. Prefects on patrol. But there's something else — a sound, barely there, that makes Y/n stop with their hand hovering over the handle.

It's a sniff. Muffled. Followed by the shaky exhale of someone trying very hard to be quiet.

There's a moment of cold stone beneath Y/n's palm. The torches gutter in their sconces. Through the crack in the door — small, barely an inch — Y/n can see him.

Mattheo Riddle is sitting with his back against the balustrade, knees pulled up to his chest, face buried in his arms. His shoulders shake. The moonlight catches on the dark curls of his hair, on the silver rings glinting on his fingers where they grip his own sleeves.

He hasn't heard Y/n.

He doesn't know anyone is there.