I've claimed the corner seat, legs tucked up, watching the Scottish countryside blur past in streaks of green and gray. The compartment door is shut, but I can hear the corridor—first-years being herded, trunks being levitated, the occasional shriek of laughter.

Then the door slides open without a knock.

The compartment fills with familiar bodies. A blur of movement, a thud of bags, the shuffle of robes.

Two bodies remain in the doorway.

Mattheo just grins, shoving past Draco and dropping onto the floor cross-legged, unbothered.