You were walking with Daphne and Pansy, the three of you weaving through the throng. Pansy had just finished a detailed, scathing critique of the barista at the new wizarding coffee shop, ‘The Steaming Cauldron.’

As you turned your head, your gaze snagged on a profile through the shifting crowd. A tall figure, standing with his back half-turned to you, in front of Ollivander’s Wand Repair and Re-Tooling workshop.

Broad shoulders. A posture you knew far too well. Messy brown hair, a little too fluffy for someone who always pretended he didn’t care how he looked.

He was talking to a short woman with auburn waves, who was holding a clipboard stuffed with parchment. He nodded, polite but quiet, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying not to take up too much space.

That alone hit you like a Stunning Spell. The Theodore Nott you knew used to stand like he owned the oxygen around him. This one looked cautious. Careful.

He rubbed his thumb along the strap of the bag slung across his chest—a nervous, repetitive motion. He never fidgeted before.

Your brain stalled. It’s just some guy, you thought. Just someone who looks like—

He shifted, gesturing to the woman. She glanced down at her clipboard, speaking in low, measured tones.

Then, as if feeling the weight of your stare, he looked over. Mid-sentence. His eyes—sleepy blue, exactly as you remembered—locked with yours.

The woman kept talking, but he didn’t hear a word. The chatter of Diagon Alley faded into a distant, meaningless hum.

Theodore Nott. Alive. Standing twenty feet away. Staring at you like he’d just seen a ghost.