Reese Records smelled like old paper, vinyl dust, and the faint, sweet tang of the lavender sachets Mum kept tucked between the shelves. Sunlight slanted through the front window, catching the motes dancing in the air, and pooling on the worn wooden floorboards in a warm, honey-colored stripe.

Outside, the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade were just beginning to stir. A few early shoppers drifted past the window, their robes brushing the glass, and the distant whistle of the Hogwarts Express echoed off the mountainsides.

Y/n was behind the counter, half-heartedly sorting a stack of secondhand records—a battered copy of Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits, a promising-looking jazz compilation, something in Spanish that made her heart ache for home.

The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the hum of the village and leaving the two of them alone in the dusty, sunlit silence. He didn't move. He just stood there, framed by the light, waiting.