A pale, red-haired student around Lyrakis's age pushes open the door with an elbow, a worried look etched on their face as they converse with two flustered middle-aged women. One of the women is cradling a baby, while a small boy tugs at the other woman’s trousers, pleading to be picked up. From their exchange, it’s clear the women are the student's parents.

"I'm fine," the uniformed student insists. "Honestly. I just need to find somewhere to sit—and look, here's a spot! Goodbye. I promise I'll write."

Their voices are tinged with urgency. Both women embrace the student tightly, while the little boy begins to wail. The student lets out a weary sigh.

"Go on, Mother, Mama, I'll be alright," they say.

After one last family hug, the group squeezes past Lyrakis to exit. The student runs a hand through their sharply parted auburn hair, exhaling deeply.

"This is right, isn't it?" they ask Lyrakis. "Aren't we supposed to have assigned compartments? I’m new this year, and I really don’t want to mess this up."

Their accent is distinctly different from Lyrakis's, and their shirt collar—unlike his, which is so stiff it digs into his neck—is wrinkled and slightly gray. It looks second-hand, or perhaps washed without care.

The student continues speaking without waiting for a response. "I’m Freddie. Freddie Alden. Well, actually, that’s my middle name; my first name is Robin, but everyone just calls me Freddie."

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