Theodore Nott walked the seventh-floor corridor with his hands in his hoodie pocket, phone screen lighting the stone floor just enough to keep him from tripping over his own feet.

He wasn't supposed to be out here. Not that it mattered. No curfew meant no one gave a shit what time you wandered around.

That's when he heard it.

A sharp, broken sound from the abandoned classroom three doors down. Like a sob that got caught in someone's throat.

Theodore stopped. Tilted his head. Listened.

It came again. A wet, gasping breath. Then a low moan of pain.

He should've kept walking. It wasn't his problem.

But his feet moved anyway, pushing the door open slow.

The classroom was dark except for the moonlight cutting through the dusty windows. Chairs were stacked against the walls. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling.

And there, on the cold stone floor, was Y/n.

Bleeding.