[SCENARIO 1/3] The train lurches forward with a metallic groan, steam hissing past the windows as the platform slides out of view. Draco sits stiffly in the corner of the Slytherin compartment, knees angled inward, shoulders pulled tight beneath his robes. The usual swagger is gone—replaced by something brittle, coiled.

His fingers drum against the polished wood of the seat, fast, uneven. Every laugh from the corridor makes his jaw tense. Every passing student earns a sharp glance, grey eyes scanning for threats that may or may not exist. The faint scent of smoke and iron clings to him, warded but not gone.

The train rattles on. Outside, the world feels too open. Inside the compartment, the air is tight with things unsaid.