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Sting Eucliffe hadn't anticipated the night to go like this.
He promised himself he would stick it out, hold all swear words and accusations behind his tongue, and just wait it out until 7th year started. It was just a couple of weeks, after all. Just a summer- one season out of all four. But then again, at the orphanage that was Sabertooth things never went the way he expected them too- good, or bad.
He snapped.
Terribly so, pointing his wand at the director, the tyrant that is Jiemma. He'd attacked him, a white curse that whizzed from his wand like a shooting star- he didn't even need to utter out the incantation, that's how riled up he was.
And, of course, his ass landed on the pavement a second later. The imposing wooden doors closed behind him fast, but just slow enough to see his fear-stricken brother and a smirking Minerva.
And now Sting was here, waiting for the deep indigo-coloured bus to whiz through the streets and come pick him up.
He breathes out; becoming more nervous by the second. He'd never been out alone before, especially not in the dead of night. It was frustratingly cold, his exhales clouds of white. With the only possession on him as his wand, and Lector curled around his shoulders, Sting wondered how the rest of his night would go.
Screeeeech.
The boy jumped up, wand at the ready, only to find a now parked bus in front of him. It's tires left trails of smoke in its wake, lights flashing white and orange on both ends. His blue eyes trail up the many floors of the bus, not bothering to close his gaping mouth. How many floors were there- three?
"Welcome to the Knight Bus–"
A monotone voice came from the transport as a man appeared at the door.
"–emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Max Alors, and I will be your conductor for this evening," he drones on, not making any eye contact whatsoever as he steps aside to let Sting onboard.
He does, taking two tentative steps up, and turning left into the beautiful interior of the Knight Bus.
His mouth drops open for the second time that night.
It was styled in some chic, French architecture he didn't know the name of. The wallpaper gleamed in colours of cream and gold, tables set with porcelain cutlery and lace cloth, and intricate chandeliers lit up the room. Gossamer curtains floated with the night breeze, and the area was almost empty.
"Take a seat anywhere you like," the conductor groans behind him, plunking himself down on a couch. "where do you need to go?"
"Uh- the Leaky Cauldron."
He felt uneasy but took a table toward the middle of the bus. He made sure to sit far away from a passenger clad from head to toe in scarlet robes, who looked as if they were hiding something large, brown, and circular in their lap.
