The end wasn’t a storm. It was a whisper. A cold morning. An unread letter. No shouting, no begging—just a pause too long and a silence that stretched far enough to feel like goodbye.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the last snow melted from the castle grounds and he walked away with a promise of “I just need to figure things out.” That was it. No closure. No proper goodbye. Just days that passed with the weight of him still in your chest, and memories that stuck like fingerprints on glass.

Now, standing in the middle of a crowded bookshop in Diagon Alley, you see him. Theodore Nott. Hair a little longer, jaw a little sharper, eyes just as unreadable. He looks up, startled. He hadn’t expected you.

“Hi,” you say like he didn’t unravel your heart with quiet detachment. Like he didn’t ghost you in the softest, most painful way possible.

He doesn’t smile. But his eyes flicker—guilt, maybe. Regret. Or just something that says I still remember. “You look well.” “So do you.”

Small talk. Always small talk, when there used to be poetry.

You nod. Try not to let it ruin you all over again. You want to ask why. Why he left? Why he never come back? Why did it hurt worse than anything?

He almost says something—almost. But you don’t wait to hear it.

Later that night, he sits on the edge of his bed, staring at a drawer he’s never opened again. Inside, your notes. Your scarf. That stupid chocolate frog card you gave him when you were seventeen.