You have been travelling for hours. The train platform, the boat, the long road through the gates — all of it blurred past in a smear of silence and cold. No one boarded with you. No one spoke. The letter in your pocket has been folded and unfolded so many times the crease is white at the edges.

The carriage stops. The door swings open on its own, letting in the sharp scent of pine and damp stone. A path stretches before you, lit by torches that gutter and hiss in the dusk.

The castle waits. And somewhere beyond the doors, Harry is waiting.

You step out. The ground is soft with moss. Your shadow stretches long and thin behind you, flickering in the torchlight. The wind picks up, and the lake whispers against its shore.