The comfortable atmosphere in the compartment was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door—the kind of knock that suggested its maker had practiced it extensively in front of a mirror while holding an imaginary prefect's badge and saying important-sounding things about duty and responsibility.
The door slid open with bureaucratic precision to reveal Percy Weasley, who had clearly been waiting his entire life for the opportunity to wear a prefect's badge and tell people what to do in an official capacity. The badge itself gleamed with an enthusiasm that suggested it had been polished approximately seventeen times that morning.
"Attention, first years," Percy announced with the sort of practiced authority usually reserved for town criers announcing royal proclamations or the imminent arrival of dangerous livestock. "We'll be arriving at Hogsmeade station in approximately one hour. You should begin changing into your school robes now to ensure you're properly dressed when we disembark."
He delivered this pronouncement with the air of someone who believed that improper dress code was probably the first step on the slippery slope toward complete societal collapse.
"Thanks, Percy," Ron said with the weary patience of someone who'd been receiving official announcements from his brother since approximately age three. "We'll get right on that. Promise. Cross my heart. Would swear on a stack of Chocolate Frog cards if you've got any handy."
Percy's expression suggested he didn't appreciate his younger brother's flippant attitude toward important matters like punctuality and proper attire. His eyes swept the compartment with the efficiency of someone mentally cataloging potential dress code violations.
There was a moment—just a brief flicker—where Percy's professional demeanor cracked slightly at finding eight students crammed into a compartment designed for perhaps six, with the remains of what appeared to be the entire Hogwarts Express food trolley scattered across the seats like the aftermath of a very polite Viking raid.
"Blimey," Percy muttered, apparently forgetting his official capacity for a moment. "Did you lot buy out the entire trolley?"
"Yes," Harry confirmed simply.
"Why?"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Ron supplied. "Also, we were hungry."
"All of you were hungry enough to require—" Percy peered at the mountain of wrappers, "—approximately forty Galleons worth of magical confectionery?"
"We're growing boys," Ron said virtuously. "And girls," he added, nodding toward the female members of their group. "Growing girls. Very nutritionally demanding, adolescence."
Percy looked like he was struggling with whether this technically violated any school regulations, decided it probably didn't (or at least not any he could cite from memory), and returned to his official demeanor with visible effort.
"Mr. Potter," Percy said, his tone shifting to something that hovered somewhere between reverence and the sort of respect usually reserved for war heroes or people who could do complex mathematics in their heads. "It's an honor to meet you again. I wanted to extend my personal gratitude for your role in apprehending Peter Pettigrew earlier today."
He said this with the sort of formal gravity that suggested he'd been rehearsing the statement for the past three hours.
"That was remarkably brave," Percy continued, warming to his subject like a lecturer who'd finally found an attentive audience. "And showed exceptional judgment under pressure. Not to mention considerable magical skill for someone your age. Your parents would have been very proud. The whole wizarding world is in your debt. Really, quite extraordinary—"
"Percy," Ron interrupted gently, "you're gushing."
Percy's ears went red. "I am not *gushing*. I am expressing appropriate gratitude for—"
"You're definitely gushing," Fred said, appearing in the doorway behind Percy with the kind of perfect timing that suggested he and George had been lurking in the corridor waiting for exactly this opportunity. "It's quite touching, really. Brings a tear to the eye."
"Very emotional," George agreed, appearing on Percy's other side like a ginger-haired bookend. "Though possibly a bit excessive."
"I think Percy might actually swoon," Fred observed clinically.
"Should we fetch smelling salts?" George wondered.
"I AM NOT SWOONING," Percy said with considerably more volume than strictly necessary.
Several nearby compartments fell silent, their occupants clearly wondering what was causing the Weasley brother in the corridor to announce his non-swooning status with such vigor.
"Of course you're not," Fred said soothingly. "You're expressing measured, appropriate, definitely-not-gushing appreciation for Mr. Potter's heroism."
"While wearing your special prefect voice," George added.
"The one you practice in the mirror," they said together.
Percy's face had now achieved a color that suggested his blood had discovered new and exciting ways to manifest in his cheeks. "I do not practice voices in mirrors. And my appreciation is entirely appropriate given the circumstances. Mr. Potter exposed a Death Eater who'd been hiding for twelve years. That's worthy of acknowledgment."
"Oh, we agree," Fred said. "We're just saying you might want to dial back the hero worship to somewhere below 'religious experience.'"
"For Percy, that counts as gushing," George explained to Harry apologetically.
Harry, who'd been watching this exchange with growing amusement, decided to intervene before Percy's ears actually caught fire. "Thank you, Percy. Really. I appreciate it. Though honestly, the Aurors did most of the actual work. I just... noticed something odd and mentioned it."
"You exposed a traitor who'd been living as a rat for a decade," Percy said firmly, apparently determined to give credit where he felt credit was due even if his brothers were making it extraordinarily awkward. "That's not 'noticing something odd.' That's exceptional observational skills combined with theoretical knowledge well beyond your years and the courage to act on your conclusions."
"See?" Fred said. "Definitely gushing."
"I will hex you," Percy said with quiet menace.
"Can't hex us," George said cheerfully. "You're a prefect now. Have to set a good example. It's in the manual."
"There is no manual," Percy said through gritted teeth.
"Then how do you know all those prefect rules?" Fred asked with apparent innocence.
"I *made* a manual," Percy admitted.
"He made a manual," George repeated wonderingly.
"Our brother made a manual about how to be a prefect," Fred said, as if confirming the existence of unicorns.
"It's color-coded," Percy said defensively. "And indexed. With cross-references."
There was a moment of awed silence while everyone processed the information that Percy had not only created a manual for prefect behavior but had put sufficient effort into it to include color-coding and an index.
"That's actually quite impressive," Hermione said, apparently unable to help herself. "How many pages?"
"Forty-three," Percy said with barely concealed pride. "Plus appendices."
"Of course there are appendices," Ron muttered.
"Percy," Susan said with the kind of diplomatic firmness that suggested she'd dealt with officious authority figures before, "we really do appreciate you reminding us about changing. And we promise to be ready in time. Right, everyone?"
A chorus of agreement came from the compartment's occupants, who were clearly hoping this would end the extended interruption.
"Good. Excellent." Percy adjusted his robes with the sort of fussy precision that suggested he was very aware of the prefect badge on his chest and wanted to ensure it remained perfectly visible. "As I was saying, first impressions matter at Hogwarts. Arriving properly dressed demonstrates respect for the institution and its traditions."
He paused, apparently just noticing that the compartment contained zero visible trunks despite housing eight students. "Your trunks should be in the luggage compartments or overhead racks. If you need assistance retrieving them—"
"We can manage, thank you," Daphne said with aristocratic politeness that somehow managed to be both respectful and dismissive. "Prefect Weasley."
Percy brightened noticeably at the formal acknowledgment. "Excellent! Glad to hear it! I'll continue my rounds then. Remember—one hour until arrival. Don't be late getting changed. First impressions. Very important. Can't stress that enough."
"We've got it, Perce," Ron said. "First impressions. Change clothes. Don't show up looking like we've been living rough in the compartment eating candy for seven hours."
"Even though that's exactly what we've been doing," Tracey added helpfully.
Percy looked like he wanted to say something about that but couldn't quite figure out how to phrase it as an official concern. He settled for a sort of resigned sigh that suggested he was already regretting agreeing to be responsible for younger students' behavior.
"Just... be ready. Please." He turned to leave, then paused. "And Mr. Potter? Truly. Well done today. The whole wizarding world is safer because of what you did."
Before anyone could respond (or Fred and George could add commentary), Percy swept off down the corridor with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he had many more students to officially remind about dress codes.
The moment he was out of earshot, Ron collapsed back into his seat with the exaggerated relief of someone who'd just survived a natural disaster. "Merlin's saggy left—"
"Ron," Hermione interrupted sharply.
"—sock," Ron finished innocently. "I was going to say sock. Very saggy. Needs elastic."
"Sure you were," Hermione said skeptically.
"That was painful," Susan observed. "Though I have to admire his dedication to his duties."
"Percy's very big on achievement," Ron explained to the group at large. "Always has been. First in his class, perfect marks, now prefect badge, probably planning to be Head Boy, then Minister for Magic, then possibly Supreme Ruler of the Universe if he can find the appropriate application form."
"That's not fair," Hermione protested. "There's nothing wrong with being ambitious and taking your responsibilities seriously."
"There's taking responsibilities seriously," Ron countered, "and then there's Percy, who treats being a prefect like it's a calling from on high. He's been insufferable about it. And it's only been two days."
"What was he like before?" Hannah asked curiously.
"Still a bit of a prat," Ron admitted, "but a lovable prat. Now he's a prat with authority and a color-coded manual."
"With appendices," Neville added, apparently still processing this information.
"Let's not forget the appendices," Tracey agreed.
"Forty-three pages," Hermione said with what sounded like genuine admiration. "That's quite thorough."
"That's quite mental," Ron corrected.
"I think it shows initiative," Hermione said firmly. "The prefects are supposed to help younger students adjust to Hogwarts, and having a comprehensive guide to duties and responsibilities demonstrates—"
"That Percy has entirely too much time on his hands?" Ron suggested.
"—dedication to his role," Hermione finished with dignity.
"You'd probably make a manual too, wouldn't you?" Ron asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"I might create an organizational framework for key responsibilities," Hermione admitted. "Possibly with section dividers. And perhaps a reference guide for commonly-asked questions."
"See?" Ron said to the compartment at large. "Academic soulmates. This is going to be my whole Hogwarts experience, isn't it? Surrounded by people who think making manuals about things is a reasonable use of time."
"You could always make your own manual," Tracey suggested with a slight smile. "The Ron Weasley Guide to Avoiding Responsibility Through Strategic Incompetence."
"That's not—I don't—" Ron sputtered. "I'm not strategically incompetent!"
"Just naturally incompetent then?" Harry asked innocently.
"You know what? I don't need this abuse. I have brothers for that." Ron stood up with exaggerated dignity. "Come on, let's go get changed before Percy comes back to check on us. He probably has a subsection in his manual about appropriate time management for uniform changes."
"Subsection C, paragraph four," Hermione said thoughtfully. "If he's organized it logically."
Everyone stared at her.
"What? I'm just extrapolating from standard manual organization principles!"
"Right then," Ron said, clearly deciding not to pursue this conversational direction. "Boys, let's clear out and give the girls privacy to change. We can grab our stuff and find somewhere else to sort ourselves out."
"Sensible plan," Tracey agreed. "Though where exactly are you planning to change? The train's fairly crowded at this point."
"Bathrooms at the end of each carriage," Harry suggested. "Bit cramped, but functional."
"Or we could find an empty compartment for a few minutes," Ron proposed. "Shouldn't be too hard—half the train's probably already changed."
"Actually," Hermione said, standing up and adjusting her robes (which everyone suddenly realized she'd been wearing the entire journey, complete with perfectly straight tie and not a wrinkle in sight), "Neville's trunk is still in the compartment where we started. We should retrieve it first, then you can all change together while the girls have privacy here."
There was a brief pause while everyone processed the fact that Hermione had apparently changed into her school uniform approximately seven hours ago and had been sitting in full Hogwarts regalia while everyone else ate candy and played Exploding Snap.
"Hermione," Tracey said carefully, "when exactly did you change into your robes?"
"Before boarding," Hermione said, as if this was perfectly obvious. "I wanted to be prepared and properly dressed from the moment I set foot on the Hogwarts Express. First impressions, as Percy said, are very important."
"You've been wearing school robes for seven hours," Susan said slowly, as if confirming she'd heard correctly.
"Yes?"
"Weren't you uncomfortable?" Hannah asked.
"Why would I be uncomfortable? They're perfectly serviceable robes, properly fitted, with adequate room for movement. Much more appropriate than Muggle clothing for a journey to magical school."
"She changed in the station bathroom," Neville supplied helpfully. "I saw her coming out while Gran was giving me the Trevor lecture."
"The Trevor lecture?" Ron asked.
"The one about responsibility and proper pet care and not losing him on the train," Neville explained. "It's quite comprehensive. Takes about fifteen minutes."
"Gran gave me a manual about Trevor care," Neville added. "Twelve pages."
"Was it color-coded?" Harry couldn't help asking.
"No, but it had illustrations. Very detailed illustrations. I'm not sure where Gran found anatomical drawings of toad respiratory systems, but she definitely found them."
There was a brief moment of silence while everyone contemplated Mrs. Longbottom's commitment to thorough instruction.
"Your family is very dedicated to documentation," Hermione said approvingly.
"We Longbottoms take responsibility seriously," Neville said with unexpected dignity. "Gran says if you're going to do something, you should do it properly. With references."
"I'm sensing a theme in wizarding education," Tracey observed. "Is everyone here going to turn out to have color-coded manuals about things?"
"I don't have any manuals," Ron said defensively.
"You couldn't organize one if you tried," Harry said.
"I could too! I just choose not to. Strategic decision."
"Strategic incompetence," Tracey coughed into her hand.
"Right!" Ron said loudly, clearly wanting to change the subject. "Neville's trunk. Three compartments down. Let's go get it before Percy comes back to check on our progress and discovers we're still sitting here debating manual-making instead of changing."
"He would have that in his manual, wouldn't he?" Susan mused. "Appropriate response to students who haven't followed prefect instructions."
"Subsection D," Hermione suggested. "Enforcement and Follow-up."
"PLEASE stop," Ron begged. "You're all mental."
"We prefer 'thoroughly prepared,'" Hermione said with dignity.
"Same thing," Ron muttered.
The four of them—Harry, Ron, Neville, and Hermione—exited the compartment, leaving the girls to begin their changing process. The corridor was notably more crowded than earlier, with students moving between compartments in various states of uniform transition. A third-year boy rushed past wearing robes but apparently no shirt underneath, suggesting his changing process was perhaps not as well-planned as Hermione's.
"See?" Hermione said, gesturing at the semi-dressed student. "This is why you change early. Avoid the last-minute rush."
"Or," Ron countered, "you could just not wear school robes for seven hours unnecessarily."
"There's nothing unnecessary about appropriate attire!"
"You wore robes on the Muggle London Underground," Neville pointed out. "I saw you boarding at King's Cross."
"I was transitioning between worlds," Hermione said firmly. "It seemed appropriate to begin the transition gradually."
"You're completely mad," Ron said, but his tone suggested this was more observation than criticism.
They navigated through the increasingly crowded corridor, dodging students, trunks, and at least one escaped owl that nobody seemed to be claiming. Neville led the way with Trevor clutched protectively against his chest, the toad having apparently given up on escape attempts in favor of resigned acceptance of his fate.
"Three compartments down," Neville announced, stopping at a compartment whose door was currently open. "Right here."
The compartment was occupied by five older students—fourth or fifth years based on their size and the kind of confident sprawl that suggested they'd claimed the space and considered it sovereign territory. They were engaged in what appeared to be a very animated discussion involving considerable hand gestures and occasional bursts of laughter.
"—and then Flitwick actually said, 'Mr. Montague, that is not how Cheering Charms work, and you've violated at least three separate school policies—'"
The story cut off as they noticed first-years hovering in the doorway.
"Excuse me," Neville said with the kind of polite uncertainty of someone interrupting strangers mid-conversation. "Sorry to bother you, but I need to get my trunk. It's up on the rack."
He gestured toward the overhead storage, where his trunk sat among several others, looking substantially more secure than most thanks to what appeared to be approximately seventeen different fastening charms.
The older students paused their conversation, turning to assess the first-year with expressions ranging from amused tolerance to mild annoyance at the interruption.
"Is that your trunk?" one of them asked—a tall boy with aristocratic features and perfectly styled dark hair that probably required dedicated maintenance. "The one that looks like it's been secured against apocalypse-level threats?"
"Gran takes travel safety very seriously," Neville said apologetically.
"Apparently so does your trunk." The boy gestured magnanimously. "Go ahead. Just try not to drop it on anyone. These are expensive robes and I'm not keen on explaining compression damage to my parents."
"I'll be very careful," Neville promised, entering the compartment and reaching for his trunk.
The problem immediately became apparent. Neville's trunk was not only heavy but positioned at an awkward angle behind two other trunks, and Neville himself was struggling with the geometry of extracting it safely while still clutching Trevor and trying not to disturb the other luggage or the students seated below.
"Here," Harry said, entering behind Neville and adding his hands to the trunk's handle. "On three?"
"Right. One, two—"
"Wait!" Neville said suddenly. "Trevor's trying to escape again!"
The toad had indeed seized the opportunity of distraction to make a break for freedom, launching himself toward the compartment floor with the kind of desperate enthusiasm that suggested he'd been planning this moment for hours.
One of the older students—a girl with sharp eyes and quick reflexes—snatched Trevor out of mid-air before he could hit the ground. "Got him!"
"Thank you!" Neville said with genuine relief. "He's been doing that all day."
"Your toad has commitment," the girl observed, handing Trevor back to Neville. "Most toads give up after the first few escape attempts. This one's got spirit."
"Or a very strong desire to not be my pet," Neville said sadly.
"Nonsense," Hermione said firmly from the doorway. "He's just exploring his environment. It's natural curiosity."
"He's trying to run away," Neville corrected.
"Curious exploration," Hermione insisted.
With Trevor secured and properly chastised (or as chastised as a toad could be), Harry and Neville successfully maneuvered the trunk down from the overhead rack. It was indeed remarkably heavy for luggage that theoretically just contained clothes and school supplies.
"What's in here?" Harry asked, adjusting his grip. "Stones? Additional trunks? Reference manuals about trunk organization?"
"Just normal things," Neville said. "Though Gran did pack about twelve books about proper magical education and appropriate behavior."
"Of course she did," Ron muttered from the doorway.
One of the older students—the girl with the prefect badge who'd caught Trevor—had been watching Harry with obvious recognition. Her expression shifted from polite tolerance to something approaching realization.
"Wait," she said slowly, her eyes narrowing. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you? The one who caught Peter Pettigrew?"
Harry suppressed a sigh that wanted to escape. His brief hope for anonymity had been thoroughly demolished somewhere around the time Aurors had appeared on the Hogwarts Express to arrest a Death Eater. "Yes, that's me."
The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic.
"Brilliant work!" another older student said, nearly dropping what appeared to be a half-eaten Cauldron Cake in his excitement. "The whole train's been talking about it! Exposing a Death Eater on your first day—that's absolutely mental!"
"In a good way!" the prefect girl added quickly. "A very good way! We meant mental in the 'impressively brave and clever' sense, not the 'possibly unhinged' sense."
"Though also a bit unhinged," one of the boys amended. "I mean, confronting a Death Eater as an eleven-year-old suggests either remarkable courage or possibly concerning judgment about personal safety."
"It was more fortunate timing than brilliance," Harry said, trotting out what was becoming his standard deflection. "I just happened to recognize an unusual magical signature. Could have happened to anyone."
"Could have," the prefect agreed. "But didn't. Happened to you. Most first years can barely sense their own magical signatures, let alone identify animagus transformations in random pets."
"Harry's been studying extensively," Hermione supplied, apparently unable to help herself despite Harry's earlier gentle suggestion about not volunteering information. "He's quite advanced in magical theory. Well beyond first-year level in several areas, actually. His understanding of magical signatures and animagus detection is really quite remarkable for someone who's only known about magic for a month—"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted gently but firmly, "maybe we should let these students get back to their conversation? We've got what we came for."
"Oh! Right, sorry." Hermione's expression suggested she'd just realized she was delivering an unsolicited academic assessment of someone she'd met that morning. "We should get changed anyway. Percy's probably timing us with a pocket watch."
"Percy Weasley?" the tall aristocratic boy asked with obvious recognition. "The new prefect?"
"My brother," Ron said with resigned acknowledgment.
"Ah." The boy's expression became sympathetic. "He stopped by our compartment earlier. Very... thorough in his instructions about proper dress code timing."
"Did he mention his manual?" one of the other students asked.
"He mentioned his manual," the prefect confirmed. "And offered to share relevant sections if we needed guidance on appropriate uniform standards."
"That's our Percy," Ron said. "Sharing manual excerpts with strangers. Building bridges through bureaucracy."
"To be fair," the girl said, "it was actually quite well-organized. Color-coded and everything."
"With appendices," Neville added, because apparently this fact needed to be shared with everyone.
"Of course there were appendices," the aristocratic boy said. "One doesn't create a forty-three-page manual without appendices. That would be inefficient."
There was a moment of silence while everyone contemplated whether this statement was sarcastic or sincere.
"Right then," Ron said decisively, "we're going to go change now before this conversation gets any stranger. Thank you for not dropping Neville's trunk on us."
"And for catching Trevor," Neville added.
"Anytime," the prefect said. "Good luck with the Sorting. Try not to catch any more Death Eaters tonight—let the professors handle the excitement for a bit."
They maneuvered Neville's trunk out into the corridor, with Ron and Harry handling the bulk of the weight while Neville tried not to get in the way or drop Trevor again.
"Empty compartment?" Ron suggested, nodding toward a door a bit further down. "Quick change, then back to the girls?"
"Lead on," Harry agreed.
The compartment Ron had identified was indeed empty, its previous occupants apparently having completed their changing and departed for more social opportunities. The four of them entered and began the process of extracting school robes from their respective trunks.
—
Harry's trunk opened to reveal organization that would have made a military quartermaster weep with joy. Every item had its place, every place had its item, and there was nary a wrinkle or misplaced sock in sight. His school robes hung from a specialized hook that maintained perfect form, and even his casual clothes were folded with geometric precision.
"Blimey," Ron said, peering into Harry's trunk. "Did elves pack this? It looks like a shop display."
"I packed it," Harry said mildly, retrieving his robes.
"You packed it to look like that? On purpose?"
"Organization saves time," Harry explained. "If everything has a place, you always know where to find it."
"He sounds like Hermione," Neville observed.
"I do not sound like Hermione," Harry protested. "I just appreciate efficiency."
"That's exactly what Hermione would say," Ron pointed out.
Harry decided not to argue, primarily because he suspected they might be right.
Ron's trunk, by contrast, appeared to have been packed by someone operating under the theory that if you threw enough things into a confined space, eventually they'd organize themselves through random chance. His robes were crumpled at the bottom beneath what appeared to be several books, a chess set, approximately fourteen pairs of socks (none of which matched), and something that might have once been a sandwich.
"Is that food?" Hermione asked with horror, having noticed the suspicious sandwich-like object.
"Was food," Ron corrected, pulling out his robes and shaking them vigorously. "Mum packed snacks for the journey. I think this one got lost."
"It's been in there for seven hours," Hermione said. "In a hot trunk. That's a food safety violation waiting to happen."
"It's fine," Ron said, examining the sandwich with more optimism than it deserved. "Probably still edible."
"Do NOT eat that," Hermione commanded with the authority of someone who'd read entirely too much about food-borne illness prevention.
"Wasn't going to," Ron muttered, vanishing the sandwich into his pocket with the clear intention of eating it later when Hermione wasn't watching.
Neville's trunk proved to be its own adventure. What had looked from the outside like standard student luggage turned out to be organized with such paranoid thoroughness that actually retrieving anything required navigating approximately seventeen different fastening mechanisms.
"Gran really doesn't trust travel," Neville explained, wrestling with a strap that appeared to have been charmed to resist unauthorized access. "Says proper packing prevents disaster."
"Proper packing usually doesn't require cryptographic-level security," Tracey observed.
"Everything's bound," Neville continued, managing to unfasten one strap only to discover three more underneath. "Wrapped. Labeled. Cross-referenced. There's an index."
"An index," Ron repeated. "For a trunk."
"Gran's very thorough."
"Your grandmother and Percy should start a support group," Harry suggested. "People Who Make Unnecessary Documentation About Everything."
"Here," Hermione said, pulling out her wand with the brisk efficiency of someone solving a practical problem. "*Alohomora.*"
The trunk's various fastening mechanisms clicked open with synchronized precision, apparently deciding that arguing with a properly-cast unlocking charm was above their pay grade.
"Thanks!" Neville said gratefully, finally able to extract his school robes without further struggle. "I should probably learn that one before Gran sends my Christmas package. She'll definitely use even more fasteners for gifts."
"It's first-year curriculum," Hermione assured him. "We'll all be learning it in the first few weeks. Very useful charm—opens most standard locks, though there are exceptions for high-security applications and certain types of magical barriers—"
"Hermione," Ron interrupted, "we love your educational enthusiasm, but maybe save the extended lectures for after we're dressed? Percy's probably having an anxiety attack about our time management."
"I wasn't lecturing," Hermione protested. "I was providing helpful context!"
"You were absolutely lecturing," Ron said, but not unkindly. "It's fine. We're getting used to it."
Harry had been observing Hermione during this exchange and had noticed something interesting about her positioning. She'd very deliberately turned to face the compartment window, presenting her back to where the boys were changing. Her shoulders were rigid with determination to maintain proper etiquette, and she appeared to be studying the passing Scottish landscape with the intensity usually reserved for important examinations.
"Hermione," Ron said as he pulled on his robes, "you know we're just putting robes over our regular clothes, right? Not actually stripping down to our smalls or anything scandalous."
"I'm being polite!" Hermione said without turning around, her voice carrying the conviction of someone who'd read extensively about proper social behavior. "It's appropriate etiquette to provide privacy when people are changing clothes!"
"We're literally just putting on robes," Ron repeated, now fully dressed and looking at Hermione's rigid back with confused amusement. "I've got more clothes on now than I did before. Less skin visible, technically."
"The principle stands," Hermione insisted firmly. "Proper etiquette is proper etiquette regardless of whether the specific situation technically requires it. Better to err on the side of excessive propriety than potential impropriety."
"Daphne would approve," Harry observed, adjusting his own robes.
"Daphne would definitely approve," Neville agreed. "This is very aristocratic levels of concern about propriety."
"I'm not being aristocratic," Hermione protested, still facing the window. "I'm being respectful!"
"You're being Hermione," Ron said. "Which is fine. Weird, but fine."
"All set," Neville announced, having successfully wrestled his robes into submission despite Trevor's continued efforts to create chaos. "Though I think Trevor is filing a formal complaint about being confined during the changing process."
"Trevor's had a very eventful day," Hermione observed, finally turning around now that everyone was fully dressed in their school robes. "Between multiple escape attempts, being summoned by advanced magic, and witnessing the arrest of a Death Eater, he's probably exhausted."
"Trevor and I both," Neville muttered, clutching his toad with the resigned air of someone who'd signed up for pet ownership and gotten adventure instead.
"Right," Harry said, checking everyone's appearance with the practiced eye of someone who understood that Percy would absolutely notice any dress code violations. "We all look appropriately dressed for Hogwarts arrival. Should we head back?"
"Probably should," Ron agreed. "The girls are likely finished by now, and we don't want to keep them waiting. Plus Percy might come looking for us to verify we followed his instructions."
They began the process of returning trunks to appropriate locations—Harry's went back to the overhead rack with practiced ease, Ron's was hoisted up with somewhat more effort, and Neville's required careful positioning to avoid triggering any of Gran's security charms.
The corridor was even more crowded now, approaching critical mass as students rushed to complete last-minute preparations. Harry's enhanced perception picked up the building excitement—nervous energy from first years, confident anticipation from older students, and the general buzz of hundreds of young wizards approaching the end of a journey and the beginning of something new.
They navigated back to their original compartment, Harry leading the way while Ron provided running commentary about various students they passed.
"That's Marcus Flint," Ron said, nodding toward a large older student with prominent teeth. "Slytherin. Captain of their Quidditch team. Plays like he's trying to commit murder via Bludger."
"That seems excessive for a school sport," Hermione observed.
"You haven't watched Hogwarts Quidditch," Ron said. "Excessive violence is basically the point."
They reached their compartment and knocked politely—because Hermione would have insisted on proper etiquette, and it was easier to just comply than argue about it.
"Come in!" Susan's voice called.
---
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