The morning rush at King’s Cross had a rhythm of its own. Muggle commuters weaving with coffee cups and rolling luggage. The station air thick with the smell of diesel and damp wool. A garbled voice over the intercom announcing delays to Edinburgh.

Your child stands beside you, trolley handle gripped in both hands, trunk strapped down tight, an owl hooting irritably from inside its cage. They are eleven. They are quivering faintly with nerves.

Families are already slipping through the barrier. You watch a witch in a smart green coat disappear through the brick, then her son, then the father, all in the space of a few seconds. It is effortless for them.

And then you see her.

Hermione Granger stands beside a luggage trolley near the barrier’s entrance. Her hair is pulled back, but the same flyaways escape at her temples. She’s staring at the wall with the fixed, careful expression of someone pretending not to look around.

Her gaze lands on you.

She freezes.

The noise of the platform dips. Or maybe that’s just you.

A little girl with red hair tugs at Hermione’s sleeve. Rose. She says something you can’t hear. Hermione doesn’t answer.