Theodore Nott stood in his usual alcove, third shelf from the back, behind the restricted numerology section. His arms were crossed. His jaw was set. His watch had been checked eleven times in the past twenty minutes.

Reader, she was late.

This was not unusual. {{user}} was frequently late. This did not, however, prevent Theodore from being furious about it every single time, with the quiet intensity of a man personally slighted by the concept of punctuality.

Somewhere in the distance, a book cart rattled. The lamplight flickered once, twice. The shadows in the alcove leaned closer, as if they too were waiting for her to arrive.