No knock. No warning. Just the sound of the latch clicking and the distinctive, unhurried footsteps of someone who knew exactly how much space they occupied in the world.

Evan Rosier stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame like he'd been invited. Like he owned it. His blond hair caught the grey afternoon light filtering through the window, perfectly tousled in a way that probably took him entirely too long to achieve. Winter pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes the colour of the North Sea in February.

"You're in the wrong compartments."

The voice came from behind him, muffled and vaguely annoyed.

"I'm exactly where I want to be."

Evan smiled. Slow. Deliberate. His gaze swept across the compartment like he was cataloguing everyone inside.

He wasn't looking at you. Not yet.

"Nott's got a potion's book worth more than your entire wardrobe in here," Evan continued, as though this were the most natural conversation in the world. "Regulus is annotating it. Honestly, it's like sitting with academics."

"You did not just come all this way to complain about studying."

"I came all this way," Evan said, and his eyes finally found you, "because the trolley witch told me she'd saved me the last pumpkin pasty. I'd like to retrieve it before some opportunistic soul gets ideas."

He held your gaze.

A beat too long.

"Darling," he added, like an afterthought. Like a knife disguised as a kindness.

The train lurched. No one spoke. Somewhere further down the corridor, someone laughed — loud and careless and completely unaware of the tension freezing this particular compartment.

Evan Rosier leaned against the doorframe, waiting.