The station was a cacophony of steam and shouting, a frantic collection of families deciding where the summer had gone. Draconia stood near the edge of the crowd, her chin lifted to avoid the spray of soot from the engines. Her trunk sat heavy on the trolley, a polished weight that anchored her to the concrete. She watched a group of red-haired people moving through the throngs, their clothes looking worn and their movements too loud for a place of such transit. They moved in a cluster, a singular unit of chaos that made her want to adjust the silk of her robes.
Lucius stood beside her, his presence a tall, dark pillar of composure amidst the shifting sea of people. He did not touch her, but his shadow fell long across her shoulder. He looked as though he were presiding over a court rather than a railway station. His eyes scanned the platform with a discerning, cold precision, noting the quality of the trunks and the lineage of the families passing by. Draconia kept her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look at the mess of the red-haired group again. It would be beneath her to acknowledge people who clearly belonged to a different social tier.
"Keep your head up, Draconia," Lucius said, his voice cutting through the whistle of the steam. "The way you carry yourself is the only thing people will remember of you today."
"I know, Father," she replied, her voice smooth and practiced.
The air felt damp and cold against her skin, though she did not let her expression flicker. She watched a boy with a heavy trolley struggle with a large trunk, his face flushed from the effort. He was not a Malfoy, and he certainly did not possess the poise her father demanded. The boy's movement was clumsy, a stark contrast to the disciplined stillness she was expected to maintain. She felt the familiar pressure of expectation, a tight band around her ribs that tightened whenever she felt the eyes of the crowd upon her.
A group of people moved past them, their chatter high and bright. They were a large family, all with the same shock of bright hair and the same weathered looks. They seemed to take up more space than they deserved, their laughter ringing out over the din of the locomotive. Draconia felt a flicker of irritation at their lack of decorum. They were loud, and their presence felt like a smudge on the polished surface of the morning. She turned her gaze toward the engine, watching the way the steam billowed around the iron wheels.
"They are quite boisterous, aren't they?" she murmured, though she did not look at her father.
"Some people possess very little sense of ceremony," Lucius replied, his tone dry and dismissive.
The crowd surged forward as the signal changed, a wave of movement that forced her to step closer to him. A boy with a trolley was weaving through the throng, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He bumped against a passerby, nearly losing his balance, and Draconia felt a surge of pity that she quickly suppressed. He looked as though he were fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume of the station. His glasses were slightly crooked, and his hair was a messy, dark tangle that defied any semblance of order.
He stopped a few feet from her, bracing himself against the handle of his trolley to catch his breath. He looked up, and for a moment, the chaos of the platform seemed to recede into a blur of grey and white. The boy was staring in her direction, his gaze wide and unblinking. He did not look away when she caught him, nor did he seem to realise that he was staring at a girl who was supposed to be invisible to someone of his station. He simply stood there, a silent observer in the middle of the frantic morning.
"Are you quite alright?" Draconia asked, the question slipping out before she could decide if it was too kind.
The boy blinked, his mouth opening slightly as if he had forgotten how to speak. He looked as though he had been caught in the middle of a thought. He did not answer her immediately, and the silence between them felt heavy, though it lasted only a second. He looked down at his boots, then back up at her, his expression unreadable.
"Yes," the boy said, his voice a bit raspy. "Fine. Just... a bit of a rush."
"It is always a rush," she said, her tone returning to its usual cool composure.
She watched him adjust his grip on the trolley, her eyes tracing the way his fingers gripped the metal. He was a boy of unremarkable features, yet there was a stillness in his eyes that felt out of place in the frantic station. He looked like someone who had spent a lot of time watching, rather than participating. Draconia felt a sudden, sharp urge to look away, but she found she could not move her gaze. She waited for him to move, to continue his clumsy journey through the crowd, but he remained stationary.
Lucius cleared his throat, a sound that signalled the end of the-moment. "The train is departing, Draconia. We should not linger."
"Of course," she said, turning to follow him toward the carriage entrance.
As she walked, she felt the weight of her trunk behind her, the rhythm of her steps steady and sure. She did not look back, but she could feel the space where the boy had been standing. It felt as though a small hole had been left in the crowd, a vacuum of attention that she had inadvertently filled. The steam from the engine swirled around her ankles, damp and cold, as she climbed the steps into the warmth of the train.
The interior of the carriage was a contrast to the platform, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of luggage. She found her compartment and sat down, her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap. The velvet of the seat was soft, and she felt the tension in her shoulders begin to loosen slightly as the train began to move. She looked out the window, watching the platform slide away, the faces of the departing families blurring into a single, indistised mass of colour.
She thought of the boy with the crooked glasses and the heavy trolley. He had looked at her as if she were a specimen under a glass, a curious thing to be studied rather than a person to be known. It was a look she had seen many times before, but usually, it was a look of awe or of envy. This felt different; it was a look of intense, focused scrutiny that made her skin feel uncomfortamente warm.
"Are you daydreaming, Draconia?" her mother asked, her voice a soft lilt as she entered the compartment.
"Not at all," Draconia lied, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. "Just observing."
"It is a busy year," Narcissa said, sitting across from her and adjusting her own robes.
Draconia nodded, her eyes returning to the window. The scenery was beginning to change, the grey stone of the station giving way to the green of the countryside. She wondered if he was sitting in a compartment somewhere, perhaps watching the world go by with that same intense, unblered stare. She caught him looking at her and filed it as jealousy.