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Dmitri Grigori Kamenev was, by no means, a man of cowardice. But the very instance he had seen her face reflected through the window display glass, he had turned right back around and hovered inside the very shop that Anastasia had seemed so fixated on. Derr`mo, he cursed. Long, bony fingers weaved over his lips, wiping his mouth of the foul, toxic words that pooled stagnant there. But the only question that lingered now was why? Why did he suddenly feel so trapped?

Well, the rhetoric and logical side of him was quick to retort. If she hadn’t beaten you to first string then—well if you hadn’t been staring at her hair! He internally groaned and released a low blowing sigh through clenched teeth. His jaw was already working, churning; Dmitri had the nasty habit of grinding his teeth until his temples flexed and his jowl scraped whenever he was nervous. Those damned blonde curls, he almost laughed at himself, at this pathetic mess of himself that he’d made. She reminded him of Hayden, but he hadn’t seen her since second year and he could only assume the worst. She’d left him to Beauxbatons—just left him—she didn’t even say goodbye. The very thought bristled his scales, worming deep into the core. He shouldn’t have been so surprised, though, everyone had warned him.

Oh, they all had. His brother Alek was the first to find out of his little crush on Hayden. ‘She’ll play you Dimi, and anyhow, you won’t be in England for long,’ he would say. It’s what he’d always say. But dammit, he’s still here!

Still here…And still inside this shop, no less.

He was no further than he was five minutes ago when he’d turn tail and seemingly caught interest in the most ridiculous toy broom ever. It had to have been for a child! It was petite, nearly half his size, and painted pastel pink from wood to bristles. ”Augh,” he exclaimed in disgust and meandered down the aisle, closer to the door, but not quite there yet. And all this time, Anastasia was there, just sitting there.

With brilliant blonde hair and the same name as his mother (oh wouldn’t she be so proud) he studied her through the window, just biding his time. Anastasia seemed distant…And different. But he couldn’t put a finger on how or why. Even when she caught herself slipping and that roundabout smile was plastered on her face again, he didn’t seem to believe it. Maybe he was only delusional…?

Dammit, he sharpened his posture, held his head just a little higher. I am a Kamenev, and I yield to no one. A sharp puff of breath exhaled through flared nostrils and his feet spurned into action. Swift strides had led him outside into the bright sunshine, sidelong Anastasia as she lingered without purpose. But there was no reason to be anything than cordial, he reminded himself. They were teammates, housemates; it would do no good to quarrel even if he wanted to try and pull her strings, make her dance. No, no, that’s Rurik’s game, it’s never been mine. He’d always been plain faced with a tactless tongue. Nothing ever interesting rattled in his cool blue eyes.

”Privyet, hello,” Dmitri had to translate himself. His thoughts were always Russian, and ofttimes, he’d forget he was still in Britain. Though, after the past five years of living away from the Motherland, his English had improved somewhat. ”Getting ready for the next year quidditch?” He nodded sharply toward the broom repair kit tucked under his arm. ”Me too.” Except…He had hoped to avoid running into anyone he knew. He could still remember his failed attempt at buying a wand from Olivanders; it was his first encounter with the Walsh twins and that Lovette girl. He didn’t like them.

He didn’t like a lot of people.

He just wasn’t sure if she would be one of them yet.