But now, as the train from London groaned into a misty, rain-slicked station, the only clicking you heard was the rusted wheels grinding to a halt.

Hogsmeade Station. A sign creaked in the wind, the letters faded and ancient. A single lamp cast a pool of warm light onto the platform, where a giant of a man with a wild beard was already calling out over the steam.

A boy with slicked-back blonde hair and a bored expression brushed past you, his trunk knocking against yours. He didn't apologize. He just cast a sharp, silver-eyed glance your way, a flicker of recognition—or was it disdain?—before he turned and followed the crowd.