You’re sitting on the edge of a narrow cot, a piece of parchment held between your fingers. The names on it are familiar, a litany you’ve memorised until the letters feel branded behind your eyes. Outside, Knockturn Alley breathes its usual night-time chorus—muffled footsteps, a distant shout, the creak of a sign swinging in the cold.

The wards you’d layered over the door and window hum against your magic, a subtle vibration in the air. You feel them more than hear them. A constant, low-grade prickle against your skin. Your safety net.

The parchment glows briefly as you seal it with a nonverbal charm, the ink shimmering before settling, hidden to any eyes but yours.

The wards flicker.

Not a failure. A deliberate, soft pulse—like a knock. Once. Then again.

The door, which you’d locked and bolted, swings inward without a sound.

Mattheo Riddle fills the doorway. He’s not wearing robes, just dark trousers and a simple black jumper, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks almost casual, if you ignore the intensity in his grey eyes. He steps inside, closes the door behind him with a soft click, and leans back against it.