The compartment was already packed when you'd slid the door open. Pansy had her feet up on the seat, Daphne was braiding Astoria's hair, Blaise was reading, Theodore was dozing with his head against the window, and Mattheo was attempting to levitate a chocolate frog without much success.

Your brother sat by the window, pale hair catching the afternoon light, nose buried in a Quidditch magazine.

Through the window, the countryside blurred—green hills, a distant village, a flash of a lake.

You knew that look.

He was listening. Thinking about someone.