I managed to catch the damn train—barely.
The old hag at the ticket booth had the attitude of a cursed troll and the speed of a dying snail. I swear, she stared at me like I'd just pissed in her cauldron. Had to put on my best impersonation of a pompous magical bureaucrat—chin high, voice clipped, like I had cursed half the realm for fun—to finally get her to treat me like a "valued customer."
"I'm on official business," I'd told her, adjusting my fake glasses like I ran a department in Magical Defense Enforcement. "The Headmaster is expecting me."
Her eyes narrowed like she knew I was full of crap. Maybe she did. But she also knew that challenging someone in government robes—no matter how wrinkled—was a fast way to end up with a magically reversed digestive system.
She gave me the ticket, alright. Grudgingly. While chewing the inside of her cheek like it was soaked in rage and regret.
