Outside the rain-streaked window, the Scottish highlands blur past in shades of green and gray. September first. Another year.

I smooth down the front of my robes, the fine fabric whispering against my fingers. The tag inside reads Madam Malkin's — a lie stitched into every seam, paid for with Galleons I'd saved for months, scraped together from summer jobs that barely covered the cost.

My trunk sits above me, packed with secondhand textbooks carefully aged to look worn-in, a wand that's genuinely mine, and enough confidence to fool anyone who asks.

The compartment door slides open.

A girl with sharp features and perfectly styled dark hair stands there, her Slytherin robes already immaculate despite the journey barely beginning. Behind her, a boy with pale blonde hair and a bored expression looms, flanked by two others.