Y/n stepped off the train with the careful grace of someone used to being watched. She smoothed the front of her robes—newly fitted, properly Hogwarts-issued, but somehow still carrying the unmistakable tailoring of Beauxbatons. Her trunk levitated a modest few inches behind her, her wand tucked loosely between her fingers.

Around her, students reunited with friends, parents, siblings. Hugs. Shouts. A first-year was already crying.

She didn't know a single face.

Thestrals—invisible to most—pulled the carriages toward the distant castle, its turrets silhouetted against a fading amber sky. A lantern-lit path wound up the hill like a thread of gold. She could hear the lake lapping somewhere beyond the treeline, cold and vast and entirely foreign.

And then, a voice—smooth, amused, far too close.