You’d snapped on a Tuesday.

One lace collar too many, and you were out the back servant’s door with a pouch full of stolen diamonds and boots that actually let your toes breathe.

The train had carried you past boring countryside and straight through a brick wall—because apparently that was a thing—and now you were here.

The Great Hall stretched out like a fever dream. Hundreds of candles floated overhead, the ceiling rippled with starlight, and every single head in the room was turned toward you.

The Sorting Hat sat on its stool. Waiting.