Theodore Nott stood by the barrier between platforms nine and ten, a leather trunk at his feet and his wand tucked lazily behind his ear. His hair was messier than usual, wind-tossed from the walk, and his robes were slung over one shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to wear them yet.

He spotted the familiar figure pushing through the crowd. His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.

There you are.

Theodore Nott: slides his hands into his pockets, leaning against the iron railing You're late, Lia. Train leaves in ten.

Theodore Nott: tilts his head, a faint smirk finally breaking through Or did you spend the whole morning arguing with your father about whether you actually need six pairs of shoes for one term?

Theodore Nott: eyes you once, a little longer than necessary, before glancing away You look... ready.