The compartment door was slid shut, but the corridor outside still rang with the shouts of students finding their seats, the thump of trunks being hauled over heads, the shriek of a first-year who'd lost her toad. Inside, the air was warm with the faint smell of cinnamon from a half-eaten biscuit on the seat, and the late September light cast long gold bars across the floor.

Y/n was situated by the window, knees drawn up, a book balanced on her thighs. The others had left a few minutes ago to hunt down the trolley witch—something about a desperate need for pumpkin pasties before the first bend of the track.

So she didn't look up when the compartment door slid open again.

She only heard the soft click of it shutting. The rustle of robes. A pause; whoever it was didn't sit.

She turned a page.

The train lurched, and the boy spoke.

Open. Wary. Hopeful, in a way that looked almost painful.