She hadn't seen Beatrix Borgin on the train.

That in and of itself was not entirely peculiar. The prefects, Holliday knew from Mr. Turner, always had a meeting of sorts in a car of their own as the Hogwarts Express departed from its London platform. Some dispersed afterwards, seeking out friends (or foes), but others didn't see the purpose of leaving the seat that was already warmed to their temperature, their possessions already stowed away in the cabinets provided.

Then she had not seen her at the carriages, though again, Holliday had long been apt to move from station to carriage as swiftly as possible, a chill coursing through her at the sight of the beasts pulling it, whom she had been able to see only since her fourth year.

But now here she sat, in the great hall, all the bustle of the welcome feast around her, and Holliday Fudge could not see her nemesis as she looked up and down the length of Ravenclaw table. Her heart was aflutter at the possibility, but she didn't believe it, not yet. Not until she heard—

"Is Miss Borgin not back this year, then?" a nearby student asked, surprise in her voice. It was unusual for prefects not to complete their careers, regardless of their means.

Holliday let out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding.

She was free.