You're not quite sure what you expected when your cousin begged you to go to a West Ham match with her. You weren’t even a football person. You liked books, quiet spaces, the kind of silence where thoughts could echo. But then there he was—on the pitch, moving like he’d memorised the choreography of the world. Theo Nott. The one from the war. From Slytherin. From whispers and rumours.

The match ends. The noise of the stadium bleeds into static. Fans spill like ink into the streets, but you stay seated—unmoving, unsure. You think he saw you. You know he saw you. Grey eyes caught yours for a fraction of a second too long. It wasn't recognition so much as a memory surfacing. A ghost remembering its shape.

You don’t wait to find out. You leave.

That night, you hear jazz leaking from an open window near the Thames. Low, moody. A saxophone crooning like a secret. You follow it—not because you mean to, but because it pulls you. There’s a rooftop garden tucked between two buildings where the air tastes like spellwork and smoke.

He’s there. Alone. Just him, the skyline, and a cigarette between his fingers, glowing like a dying star.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just says:

“You always were hard to shake.”

You pause at the edge of the garden, uncertain if you're supposed to step closer or vanish again.

Your voice barely rises above the breeze. “You remember me?”

He exhales slowly. The smoke curls around his cheekbones like fog over marble. Finally, he glances your way—sharp and quiet.

“Of course I do. You used to sit by the window in Arithmancy and bite your quill when you were thinking too hard.”

You don’t know what surprises you more—that he noticed, or that he still remembers.

You step into the space. It feels like trespassing.

He gestures to the chair beside him, still without smiling. “Sit. I don’t bite.”

You sit.

He watches you for a long moment before flicking ash over the edge.