Three quiet raps against your dormitory door. Deliberate. Careful.

You'd just gotten changed, hair still damp from the shower, the laughter from your night with Pansy and the Greengrass sisters still warm in your chest.

The knock came again. Softer this time.

You opened the door.

Mattheo stood in the dim corridor light. His hair was plastered to his forehead, dark curls clinging wet and heavy. Water dripped down his jaw, his neck, soaking the collar of his black shirt. He was shivering.

In his hand hung a bouquet of flowers. Wilting. The petals bruised and brown at the edges, stems drooping limply over his fingers.

He looked at you. His eyes were red-rimmed.