You stood near the barrier, trunk at your feet, watching the scene unfold with a strange sense of detachment. Everything looked exactly as it always did. The same platform. The same train. The same faces rushing past. Yet somehow, nothing felt the same at all.

A group of second-years bumped past you, laughing loudly as they scrambled to find a compartment. A mother nearby was fussing over her son's robes, adjusting his tie with frantic precision. The smell of coal and polished wood mixed with the autumn air.

Your parents had said their goodbyes at the barrier. Your mother had hugged you tightly—too tightly, perhaps—and whispered something about writing home. Your father had clasped your shoulder, met your eyes, and said nothing at all. He didn't need to. The weight of their revelation still pressed against your ribs like a stone.

Theodore Nott.

You searched the crowd without meaning to. A flash of brown hair near the front of the train caught your attention, and your stomach tightened before you realised it wasn't him. Just some first-year saying goodbye to his sister.

What did you actually know about Theodore Nott? The answer, when you forced yourself to think about it honestly, was embarrassingly little.

He was quiet. That was the first thing anyone noticed about him. While Draco Malfoy commanded attention and Blaise Zabini charmed entire rooms, Theodore Nott seemed to exist in the spaces between conversations. He was always there, always watching, but never the centre of anything.

He was tall. Dark hair, blue eyes, though you couldn't remember ever being close enough to confirm the colour properly. Pale skin. An accent that surfaced when he spoke more than a few words at a time—Italian, someone had mentioned once, though you'd never heard him speak it.

He was intelligent. Everyone knew that. He sat near the top of nearly every class without seeming to try, though he rarely raised his hand. Professors called on him when they wanted a correct answer, and he always delivered it in that quiet, unhurried voice.

Beyond that? Nothing. A handful of observations collected over six years of existing in the same castle. Strangers knew more about each other than you knew about the boy you were apparently meant to marry.

The train whistle blew, sharp and urgent, jolting you from your thoughts. Students began boarding in earnest, trunks disappearing through doors, laughter echoing from open windows.

Somewhere on this train, Theodore Nott was finding his seat. Unaware of your gaze. Unaware that your entire summer had been consumed by the news of your connection.

Or perhaps he was aware. Perhaps he was thinking the exact same thing.