The soft chime of Sara's alarm pulled her from the depths of sleep. She blinked at the digital numbers—6:30 AM. College awaited, and she had to shake off the remnants of her dreams. With a groggy determination, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.

The water was icy at first, but as it cascaded over her, Sara felt the last vestiges of drowsiness wash away. She reveled in the simple pleasure of warmth and cleanliness, her mind gradually shifting from slumber to reality. The mirror reflected her tousled hair and the faint remnants of yesterday's eyeliner. She decided to go for a fresh-faced look today—no need to impress anyone, right?

Back in her room, Sara faced the wardrobe. College fashion was a delicate balance: not too casual, not too dressy. She pulled out a fitted dark green short-sleeve knit crop top—a touch of style without screaming for attention. Paired with high-waisted, light blue flared jeans, it was an ensemble that said, "I'm effortlessly cool." Or at least, she hoped it did.

White sneakers completed the look. Sara loved how they made her feel ready for anything—whether it was sprinting to catch the bus or navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the college building. She slung her black shoulder bag over one shoulder, double-checking that her notebook and pens were in place. The bag was a trusty companion, worn at the edges from countless journeys.

Noticing that Shubman was still asleep, she saw that he had prepared breakfast and left it on the table. Grateful for the thoughtful gesture, she ate quickly, then scribbled a thank-you note and left it on the table before heading out to college.

In the classroom, she found a seat and started organizing her things when a girl approached her. "Can I sit here?" the girl asked.

Sara nodded with a friendly smile. "Sure."

The girl sat down and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Trisha. Trisha Kulkarni."

"Nice to meet you, Trisha," Sara replied warmly. "I'm Sara Tendulkar."

As she tiptoed downstairs, the aroma of breakfast greeted her. Shubman had left a plate on the kitchen table. Scrambled eggs, toast, and a sprinkle of chopped herbs. Simple, nourishing—the kind of meal that said, "I care about you even when I'm half-asleep."

Sara devoured it, grateful for Shubman's thoughtfulness. She scribbled a quick thank-you note on a sticky pad and left it next to the empty plate. Theirs was a silent camaraderie—a shared space where words weren't always necessary.

Outside, the sun was still stretching its golden fingers across the city. Sara walked briskly, the familiar route to college etched into her muscle memory. The campus buzzed with activity—students hurrying to classes, laughter echoing off the red-brick walls. She found her usual spot in the lecture hall, near the window. The seat had seen countless doodles, whispered secrets, and late-night study sessions.

And then, as if scripted by fate, a girl approached. Her eyes were curious, her smile tentative. "Can I sit here?" she asked.

Sara gestured to the empty chair. "Sure," she said. "I'm Sara."

The girl settled down, her eyes scanning the room. "Trisha," she introduced herself. "Trisha Kulkarni."

"Nice to meet you, Trisha," Sara replied, warmth in her voice. "I'm Sara Tendulkar."

Trisha settled into the seat next to Sara, her notebook open and pen poised. The lecture hall hummed with anticipation—the kind that only college classrooms held. Dr. Kapoor, their genetics professor, was known for his quirky analogies and penchant for tangents.

"So," Trisha began, her voice conspiratorial, "Sara Tendulkar, huh? The name carries some weight."

Sara chuckled. "It does," she admitted. "But I promise not to hit sixes during class discussions."

Trisha leaned closer. "No promises about googly questions, though."

And just like that, they were off—the banter flowing effortlessly. Trisha's curiosity was insatiable, and Sara found herself answering questions about cricket, genetics, and life beyond the spotlight. Trisha, it turned out, had a knack for unraveling complexities. She dissected Mendelian inheritance as if it were a thrilling mystery novel.

As Dr. Kapoor launched into a convoluted explanation of epigenetics, Sara nudged Trisha. "Bet you can't summarize that in three sentences."

Trisha grinned. "Challenge accepted." She scribbled furiously, then whispered, "Okay, so epigenetics is like post-it notes on your DNA. They don't change the text, but they alter how it's read. It's like turning genes on or off with invisible ink."

Sara stifled a laugh. "Invisible ink—I like that."

Their friendship blossomed beyond the classroom. They shared lunches in the sun-drenched courtyard, dissecting not just genetic theories but also their dreams. Trisha wanted to revolutionize healthcare delivery; Sara dreamed of bridging the gap between research labs and patient bedsides. 

Sara was on the couch glued to the TV. It was magic—the kind that unfolded not on a green field but within the pages of old books.

Shubman, in his cricket whites, looked amused. "Harry Potter, huh?" he said, gesturing at the TV. "I thought you were more of a Cricket fan."

Sara grinned. "Cricket is cool, but I'm here for the wizardry," she confessed. "Besides, I've always wondered if the Golden Snitch could outpace a cricket ball."

They settled onto the plush couch, the TV screen flickering to life. The Hogwarts Express chugged across the Scottish countryside, and Sara felt a thrill. She'd grown up reading J.K. Rowling's books—their dog-eared pages a refuge from the spotlight that came with her last name.

As Harry, Ron, and Hermione navigated their magical education, Shubman leaned closer. "Imagine if we had broomsticks," he mused. "We'd revolutionize fielding positions."

Sara nudged him. "No cricket talk," she reminded him. "We're here for the wonder."

And wonder they found—the Marauder's Map revealing secret passages, the Sorting Hat whispering destinies, and Snape's potions class more treacherous than any reverse swing. When Dobby the house-elf appeared, Shubman raised an eyebrow.

"Cricket ball or Bludger?" he asked.

Sara laughed. "Definitely a Bludger," she decided. "Dobby's got moves."

As the Triwizard Tournament unfolded, they debated strategy. "Imagine if the Goblet of Fire chose cricketers," Shubman mused. "Instead of dragons, we'd face bouncers."

Sara shook her head. "Nah," she said. "We'd summon Patronuses—mine would be a cricket bat."

And so, in the glow of the TV, they journeyed through Hogwarts—defying gravity on broomsticks, deciphering riddles, and sipping imaginary Butterbeer. When the credits rolled on "The Goblet of Fire," Sara stretched her arms above her head.

"Best decision ever," she declared, echoing their previous viewing.

Shubman yawned. "Agreed. But now I'll dream of Hippogriffs."

Sara stood, her eyes lingering on the magical world within the screen. "You know," she said, "sometimes reality feels dull compared to Hogwarts."

He looked at her, his gaze soft. "Maybe," he said. "But we have our own magic here."

Sara wondered if, just maybe, the mansion held its own Room of Requirement—a place where dreams took flight, and cricket and wizardry danced together.