For three years, you were inseparable. The Slytherin prince and his Ravenclaw shadow. He complained about it constantly—called you pathetic, a nuisance, a tag-along. But he never told you to leave. Not once.

Then you’d moved to Brussels. You’d written. He hadn’t.

Three years. No letters. No owls. Nothing.

Now, the Hogwarts Express was rattling its way north, and you were sitting in a compartment alone, watching the familiar green hills roll past. The robes were stiff against your skin. Your wand was warm in your pocket. Everything smelled like old leather and soot and home.

Home.

The train lurched. Wheels screeched. The whistle blew long and low, and then the chatter from the corridor grew suddenly louder as the compartment door slid open.