A heavy, wet thud against your door made your quill jump, splattering ink across your notes.

Then came the breathing. Ragged. Gasping. The sound of someone drowning on air, right on the other side of the wood.

You stood, wand sliding into your palm from your sleeve. The common room was empty an hour ago. Everyone else was either asleep or off-campus, taking advantage of the weekend. You moved to the door, listening. The breathing hitched, followed by a soft, weak knock. Not a demand. A plea.

You turned the handle and opened the door a crack.

Mattheo Riddle was slumped against the doorframe. His face was a mask of blood, dark and wet in the low light. His nose was clearly broken, twisted to the side. A deep, angry cut split his cheek from temple to jawline. He was trembling violently, each shiver seeming to cost him, his knuckles white where they gripped the stone wall for balance. His eyes, usually so dark and observant, were glazed with pain, finding yours with effort.