The compartment smelled of dust, old upholstery, and the faint sweetness of pumpkin pasties that had already been half-eaten. Outside the window the platform still bustled with last-minute embraces and trunks being levitated aboard, but inside the narrow wooden box the world had narrowed to three people and the low, steady thrum of the train preparing to move.
Harriet sat with her back to the window, legs drawn up on the seat, watching Hermione reorganise a stack of books for the third time. Ron was already halfway through a packet of every-flavour beans, eyeing each one with deep suspicion before committing. The earlier chaos of King's Cross — the frantic search for the platform, the near-miss with the barrier, the relief of actually making it — had settled into something almost comfortable.
Almost.
Dobby's warning still sat in the back of her mind like a stone. The house-elf had been desperate, eyes bulging, voice cracking as he begged her not to return to Hogwarts. She had ignored him. She always ignored the things that tried to keep her safe. Still, the memory left a thin thread of unease running under her ribs.
Hermione closed Magical Me with a decisive snap and held it up as though it were evidence in a trial.
"I still can't believe we're actually going to be taught by him. Gilderoy Lockhart. The man who's dealt with more dark creatures than half the Aurors in the country combined. It's extraordinary."
Ron made a noise that managed to be both agreement and gagging at the same time.
"Extraordinarily full of himself, more like. Did you see the way he smiled at the camera yesterday? Looked like he was trying to hypnotise it."
Harriet tipped her head back against the seat. The free set of Lockhart's books still sat in her trunk, untouched except for the brief, disgusted glance she had given them the night before. Something about the man's perfect teeth and perfect hair and perfect stories had rubbed her the wrong way from the moment he had draped an arm across her shoulders in Flourish and Blotts. The distrust sat deeper than simple dislike. It felt older, as though some quiet voice in the back of her mind had already decided the man was a fraud and was simply waiting for the rest of her to catch up.
"Buying all seven was still stupid," she said. "We could have shared. Or waited to see if the library had them."
Ron pointed a bean at her. "You didn't have to buy them. He gave you a set for free."
"I would have burned those books if they weren't required," Harriet answered flatly. "Front page of the Prophet or not."
A dry voice spoke from the open doorway.
"They'd make better kindling than reading material. I'll give you that."
All three of them turned.
Lucian stood in the entrance to the compartment as though he had simply materialised there. Same dark Muggle clothes as the day before — black shirt, jeans, boots that had never seen a polish charm. The jagged black scar across his face looked even more severe in the pale light coming through the train windows. He carried no trunk, only a worn leather satchel slung over one shoulder. Behind him the corridor was already filling with students, but he seemed entirely unconcerned by the traffic.
He smiled, small and crooked.
"Mind if I join you?"
Ron opened his mouth, already halfway into an excuse about private conversation, but Hermione cut across him with the particular brightness she used when she had decided someone was interesting enough to investigate.
"Of course. There's plenty of room."
Lucian stepped inside, slid the door shut behind him, and dropped into the seat beside Harriet with the easy sprawl of someone who had never been taught to take up less space. He was close enough that she caught the faint scent of something clean and sharp, like cold air and steel. Across from them, Ron and Hermione watched with very different expressions — Hermione curious, Ron already suspicious.
The silence stretched.
Lucian noticed it, of course. The corner of his mouth lifted.
"I'll tell you about mine if you show me yours."
Harriet's brain short-circuited for a full second. Heat flooded her face. Ron went scarlet so fast she thought he might actually combust. Hermione made a small, strangled sound and stared at Lucian as though he had just suggested they all remove their clothes.
Lucian's chuckle was quiet and entirely unrepentant. He raised one hand and tapped the black scar that cut down the left side of his face.
"The scar," he clarified, eyes bright with amusement. "The thing everyone always wants to know about. What did you think I meant?"
Ron muttered something that sounded like "bloody Americans" and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. Hermione let out a breath that was half relief and half residual embarrassment. Harriet, still flushed, found herself fighting the urge to laugh. The teasing had been so unexpected, so completely without malice, that it disarmed her more effectively than politeness would have.
She reached up, pushed her fringe aside, and turned her head so the lightning bolt was fully visible.
Lucian leaned in slightly, studying it with open interest rather than the usual mix of awe and pity she was used to.
"Pretty cool," he said at last. "Clean lines. Looks like it meant business."
Harriet felt an unexpected flicker of pleasure at the matter-of-fact tone.
"Thanks. Yours is… a lot more dramatic."
"Occupational hazard." Lucian sat back. The humour remained in his voice, but something behind it closed like a door. "Accidental magic. Happened when I was younger. That's the short version."
Hermione, never one to let a short version remain short, immediately leaned forward.
"Accidental magic strong enough to leave a scar like that? What on earth were you doing? Were you raised in a magical household or did you find out late, like me? You're American, aren't you? Did you go to Ilvermorny?"
The questions landed one after another in a tidy, relentless stack. Lucian fielded them with the same calm vagueness he had shown in the bookshop.
"Not Ilvermorny. Different school. Magical household since birth. Long story. You'd probably understand better after the Sorting."
Ron frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Harriet cut in before the conversation could turn into an interrogation.
"What house do you think you'll be in?"
Lucian shrugged and glanced out the window at the rolling green countryside that had begun to blur past.
"Any of them. Doesn't much matter to me."
Ron's expression turned sceptical. "Even Slytherin? You know, the house full of slimy pureblood gits who think they're better than everyone?"
Lucian looked at him directly, face unreadable.
"I don't see why not."
The flatness of the answer left Ron without a ready reply. Hermione filled the gap with determined optimism.
"Whatever house you end up in, I'm sure you'll have a brilliant year. Hogwarts is… well, it's Hogwarts."
Lucian's snort was soft but unmistakable.
"Wasn't exactly my idea to come."
Ron stared. "Why wouldn't you want to learn magic at Hogwarts? It's the best school there is."
"I already know magic." Lucian's tone stayed light, but his gaze had drifted somewhere far beyond the compartment. "And Hogwarts comes with more politics than I feel like dealing with. I've got a friend at Durmstrang. Thought about going there instead. Probably wishful thinking."
Harriet watched the way his expression shifted — the brief drop into something quieter, heavier.
"So why Hogwarts then?"
For a moment Lucian didn't answer. His fingers tapped once against his knee, a small, restless movement.
"I made a promise," he said finally. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of something that had already cost him. Then, as if the admission had been more than he intended, he stood in one smooth motion. The earlier playfulness returned like a mask sliding back into place.
"I'm going to walk the train. Meet a few more people before we get sorted into our respective corners." He nodded to Hermione, then to Harriet. "Thanks for the seat."
"Neville Longbottom's a friend of ours," Hermione offered. "He's probably in one of the compartments further up. You'd like him."
"I'll keep an eye out." Lucian raised one hand in a loose wave and stepped into the corridor. The door slid shut behind him.
Silence settled again, thicker this time.
Ron was the first to break it.
"Bye, then," he said to the closed door, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
Hermione's elbow found his ribs with impressive accuracy.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"Why are you being so rude to him?"
"Because he's obviously some snobby rich kid," Ron shot back, rubbing his side. "Did you see the way he talked? Like he was already bored of us."
"Harriet's a rich kid," Hermione pointed out.
Harriet looked up from the spot on the floor she had been studying. "Why am I being dragged into this?"
"You weren't raised rich," Ron said. "That bloke was. You can tell. And he's American. Probably thinks he's better than everyone because he owns a pair of jeans and a funny accent."
"Leave him alone," Harriet said, quieter than she expected. The words came out more defensive than she had intended. She could still feel the place where Lucian's shoulder had nearly brushed hers, could still hear the way he had said I made a promise like the promise was the only reason he was on this train at all.
Ron huffed and slumped lower in his seat.
"Fine. Whatever. Pass the beans."
Hermione shook her head, already pulling another book from her bag, but her eyes flicked once toward the door Lucian had disappeared through. Harriet turned back to the window. The countryside streamed past in shades of green and gold. Somewhere further up the train a loud, familiar laugh that could only belong to the twins echoed faintly through the wood.
She found herself replaying the conversation in pieces. The easy tease about the scars. The careful vagueness whenever the questions got too close to home. The brief, unguarded moment when he had spoken about a promise.
Harriet pulled her sleeves over her hands and settled deeper into the seat. Outside, the sky had begun to bruise toward evening. In a few hours they would be at Hogwarts. In a few hours Lucia would be Sorted, and whatever careful distance he had tried to keep would become significantly harder to maintain.
She wasn't sure yet whether that thought felt like a warning or a promise of something more interesting than Lockhart's smile.
Ron launched into a detailed complaint about the likelihood of being forced to write essays on Lockhart's favourite hair-care charms. Hermione contradicted him with citations. Harriet listened with only half an ear, her attention still caught on the memory of a black scar and a boy who had looked at her own without pity.
The train rattled on toward Scotland, carrying all of them with it.