Steam billowed against the September grey as students swarmed the platform, trunks levitating, owls hooting, mothers fussing over crooked ties one last time. Kings Cross was alive with the chaos of a new term.

And there, leaning against the brick pillar between platforms nine and ten, a figure in a perfectly tailored black suit watched the crowd with an patience that felt almost predatory.

You caught his eye for a moment, just a flicker—

And then he smiled.