I step off the train, my trunk bumping against my knee, and the castle looms ahead—those thousand-year-old towers catching the last gasp of daylight.

But I'm not looking at the castle.

I'm looking at the Quidditch pitch, barely visible beyond the treeline.

Tryouts are tonight. First day back, and I'm already throwing myself into the deep end.

My stomach knots as I file into a carriage with a few other fifth-years, their chatter about summer flings and O.W.L. preparation washing over me like white noise.

I can still hear my mother's voice from the platform this morning.

"Quidditch? Y/n, you've never even flown competitively. Are you sure—"

I'm sure.

The carriage jerks forward, and my fingers find the edge of my robes, twisting the fabric until it's taut.