A whistle blew, sharp and final. Steam billowed, obscuring the sign for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. You hefted your trunk and joined the stream of students flooding toward the nearest open door.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled of leather and sweets. Prefects shouted directions. First-years huddled in clumps, looking lost. You walked down the corridor, peering through glass doors into compartments already filling with familiar faces—a bushy-haired girl deep in a book, a redhead unwrapping a Chocolate Frog, a boy with round glasses and a lightning-bolt scar laughing at something the redhead said.

You kept walking. Near the back, you found a compartment with only one occupant. A boy with pale blond hair, slicked back neatly, sat by the window. He was staring out at the platform, his expression bored, almost disdainful. He wore expensive-looking black robes, perfectly tailored.