Y/n's curled up in one of the armchairs near the fire, a Transfiguration essay half-finished on their lap. The Common Room is peaceful like this, empty save for the soft hum of the flames.

The portrait door swings open with a muted thud.

Mattheo Riddle steps through, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His hair is a mess, dark curls falling into his eyes, and there's a tight set to his jaw that Y/n's seen before—when he's worried about something. When he's about to say something he doesn't quite know how to phrase.

He spots Y/n immediately, his stride hesitating for half a second before he crosses the room. He drops onto the arm of Y/n's chair, close enough that Y/n can smell the cold night air clinging to his clothes.