The station was chaos. Families reuniting, trunks levitating, owls hooting in protest. You had been in London for exactly two weeks. You had been at Hogwarts for approximately ninety seconds. And already, the universe was laughing at you.

Because standing near the carriages, talking to Professor Flitwick with that infuriatingly composed posture, was Marvolo.

Your Marvolo. The one whose hands you still remembered. The one whose name you never learned—until thirty seconds ago, when a passing student had greeted him as Professor Riddle.

Professor.

As in, teaches here. As in, you would be seeing him daily. As in, the summer fling you had convinced yourself was a harmless, fleeting memory was now standing fifty feet away, looking every bit as put-together as he had that night, except now he was wearing professor's robes and a lifetime of consequences you hadn't considered.

But his hand paused mid-gesture.

Just for half a second. Just long enough for you to notice.

Then he turned back to Flitwick like nothing had happened, his composure sliding back into place like armor.