The compartment smelled of old leather and the faint, sugary residue of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. Outside, sheep dotted the emerald hills like cotton balls scattered by a careless hand.

You sat wedged between your brother and the window, his shoulder pressed against yours as he read a tattered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, flipping pages with the particular quietness that had always been his way.

Your trunk was crammed overhead, wand tucked securely in your robes, and something hummed beneath your skin—that familiar thrum of anticipation, of returning.