Before Y/n can take more than a few steps toward the carriage, a figure detaches from the shadow of the doorway. Mattheo Riddle. He’s tall, his school robes open over a simple black shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing intricate, dark tattoos that curl around his forearms. His brunette hair is slightly tousled by the wind.

He doesn’t pause for a reply. His hands find Y/n’s waist, pulling them gently into a warm, firm hug. The world seems to narrow for a moment—the chatter of the girls, the rustle of the thestrals, the distant birdsong—all fading into a soft background hum. He smells of ozone, like the air after a storm, and something warmer beneath it, like cinnamon and clove.

He pulls back just enough to look down, his hazel eyes searching. In his hands is a folded bundle of soft, black fabric.

He presses the jumper into Y/n’s hands. It’s well-worn, soft as a shadow, and smells unmistakably of him.