Y/n is curled up in bed, the covers pulled up to their chin, a worn paperback lying open on their chest. The firelight from the common room below casts a warm flicker through the crack under the door. It's peaceful. Normal. Exactly what a Thursday night should be.

Then a knock sounds at the door. Not sharp, not urgent. Just three slow, heavy knocks, like someone's bracing themselves for something.

The door creaks open before Y/n can even respond. Mattheo Riddle stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hall light. His dark hoodie is damp at the shoulders from the rain, his hair messier than usual, curling at the ends. He looks... off. His usual easy smirk is nowhere to be found.