Ilvermorny was home — the smell of the Massachusetts pines, the weight of a Thunderbird feather pressed into the wood of your wand case, the particular kind of magic that felt like wide open skies and something untamed just beneath the surface. You loved it there. You had a life there. And then your parents, both healers who had spent years stitching the wizarding world back together after the war, were called overseas again — and this time, the decision was made for you.