Y/n is not here for secrets.

They're here for a message.

The letter in their hand is crumpled at the edges, the parchment thick and expensive-looking, the kind that comes from the Ministry or from people who think they're above it. The seal is broken — a serpent embossed in black wax, now cracked clean down the middle. The handwriting inside is elegant, looping, almost lazy.

You've been watching the wrong shadows. Come to the Astronomy Tower. Midnight. Don't be late.

No signature. No name. But the curl of that 'y' — that particular slant — Y/n has seen it before, scrawled across the margins of stolen notes, etched into the cover of a journal that was never meant to be read.

Mattheo Riddle.

The wind howls through the archway, rattling the cages of the sleeping owls. One of them — a great horned owl with amber eyes — blinks at Y/n, as if it knows something they don't.

Below, the grounds stretch out in darkness, the Forbidden Forest a black smudge on the horizon. The clock tower chimes. Eleven forty-five.

Fifteen minutes.

The Astronomy Tower looms at the far end of the castle, its shadow long and crooked in the moonlight. A figure could be standing at its peak right now, watching. Waiting. The thought settles in Y/n's chest like a stone.

The owl hoots again, low and insistent.

It's waiting for Y/n to decide.