Ernest McMillan

Ernest McMillan hurried along the fourth-floor corridor, swinging his leather satchel, his mind lost in the intricate Arithmancy equations for his upcoming essay. The air was thick with the familiar scent of old parchment and candle wax. He skillfully navigated past other students rushing to their classes, paying little attention to his surroundings, until, as he rounded a narrow corner near Gryffindor Tower, his world seemed to pause for a moment. A boy stood leaning on the windowsill of a large window, engrossed in a worn book. The golden light of the late afternoon sun filtered through the tinted glass, bathing him in a warm glow that made his hair shimmer and accentuated the curve of his profile.

It was the stillness of the scene that stopped him in his tracks. Ernest, who used to be so eloquent and self-assured, suddenly felt speechless, his breath coming in short gasps. He couldn't tear his gaze away from him.