You'd only just gotten back. Your friends are still laughing somewhere behind you, shoes kicked off, someone's music playing low from a cracked-open door down the hall. The common room had been loud all night.

The portrait hole doesn't move for just anyone, but you know that knock. You've known it for years.

You open the door.

Mattheo is standing in the corridor. Soaked through. His hair is plastered flat against his forehead, dripping onto the stone floor in fat, dark drops. He's holding flowers—once-white roses that have gone gray and limp, petals bruised and curling at the edges.