The Hogwarts Express hums beneath your feet, rhythmic and steady as it cuts through the countryside. Rain taps lightly against the windows, fog curling outside like the whisper of magic already waiting for you at the castle.

It’s quiet.

Most of the train cars are filled with students—laughing, yelling, trading chocolate frogs—but this one? This compartment is reserved. Meant for staff.

And there are only two of you.

You sit across from him—Professor Bastian Rowle. Tall. Still. Dressed in dark robes with a coat folded neatly beside him. His metal arm, etched with faint runes, rests across one knee as he reads something in silence. A book on curse theory. Of course.

He hasn’t spoken much. Just a nod when you entered. Polite. Distant. Controlled.

But he has looked at you—twice now, maybe three times. The second time, he held your gaze for just a second too long before returning to his page.

The tension isn’t uncomfortable. But it’s charged. You can feel it in the space between you, in the way the train rocks gently and neither of you leans into it.

Then—

“Is this your first year too?” he asks, eyes still on his book. His voice is quiet, low, almost reluctant—like he hadn’t meant to speak aloud at all.

You nod, smiling faintly. “Yes. This will be my first year teaching at Hogwarts.”

He finally looks up.

“I’ll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he replies. His gaze lingers now, more direct. “Let’s hope we both last longer than a year.”

There’s a shadow of something behind the comment. History. Pain. You sense it—but you don’t press.

“You don’t seem like the superstitious type,” you murmur, teasing.

He arches a brow. The barest twitch of amusement touches his mouth. “I’m not. I’m just… realistic.”

The silence settles again.

But it’s different now.

And you both know the train won’t be quiet for long.