She stopped outside the last compartment on the left and slid the door open.

Inside, the window was fogged with breath. Lorenzo Berkshire sat with his back to the corridor and his boots up on the opposite seat, sleeves rolled past his elbows, curls pressed flat at the temple where he'd been leaning against the glass for the better part of two hours. He did not turn around. He hadn't turned around for anything since the explosion at the end of sixth year—not the whistle, not the trolley witch, not the seventh year who'd kicked his seat twice. He couldn't. He'd learned by June that nearly every sound worth caring about no longer reached him; by July, he'd stopped flinching at the ones that did.

He was in the middle of frowning at the window reflection when he caught it—a shape hanging in the glass, someone standing in the open doorway, waiting. He dropped his boots to the floor and twisted round.

The seat across from him was occupied by a discarded coat, an empty butterbeer bottle, and the folded corner of a Daily Prophet. He dragged the coat sideways with one hand and tipped his chin at the cleared space.