I noticed him before he noticed me.

Jamie Creel stood near the Malfoys, untouched by the noise of the World Cup, like he wasn’t really there at all. The crowd roared around us, banners flying, magic crackling in the air—but he was still. Controlled. Wrong.

Ron caught my sleeve when I stepped forward. “Maybe don’t,” he muttered, glancing past Jamie.

That’s when I saw them.

His parents stood just behind him, close enough to feel intentional. It was the first time I’d ever seen them. They didn’t need words. One glance from them was enough—cold, assessing, openly disapproving. Like I was something inconvenient their son had picked up and forgotten to drop.

I ignored Ron anyway. “Jamie.”

He turned slowly. For a second, he hesitated. Just long enough for me to know he’d seen me, heard me, and didn’t know what to do with either.

“Hey,” he said.

Polite. Distant. Nothing like the boy I’d met years ago in Snape’s dungeon, hovering beside my cauldron, correcting my potions with soft, awkward enthusiasm. Harry and Ron had always sworn he had a crush on me—said he was always hovering, always helping. I’d never noticed. Or maybe I hadn’t wanted to.

“You didn’t answer my letters,” I said. “I was worried.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked, briefly, to his parents.

“I’ve been busy,” he replied, cutting the conversation short before it could breathe. Before it could become familiar.

That was the strangest part. Jamie had always been kind. Awkward. Funny in that quiet way that snuck up on you. This version of him felt rehearsed, like he’d learned how to be someone else over the summer.

“Enjoy the match,” he added, already stepping back.

The crowd erupted as a team scored, cheers swallowing anything else I might’ve said. Jamie didn’t look back.

Harry’s expression was grim. Ron shook his head like he’d seen this coming. Hermione didn’t say a word.

They’d always believed one day Jamie Creel would become his family’s legacy.

Watching him disappear into the noise, all I could think was this: if that was true… would there still be room for the boy I knew?

And worse—would I be able to accept what he was becoming?