Chapter 2 - Magic Express

The summer passed in a strange, shimmering blur for Elara—equal parts anticipation and denial, like a fever dream she couldn’t quite wake from. At first, it had been all smiles and proud glances, an attempt to smother the concern and apprehension the party had left. Still, her family paraded her acceptance into Littlewick like a medal pinned to their chest. She let herself float on the joy, the giddy disbelief. But the box remained under her bed. Untouched. Sealed the same night as the party, its contents too strange, too real, to be confronted a second time. She told herself she'd get to it. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or maybe when she was braver. But each time she knelt beside the bed and reached for it, her hand would hesitate just shy of the cool ribbon, her heart hammering, her mind echoing with the words of the letter.

And yet, she didn’t throw it away. She didn’t reject it; it had to be some hazing ritual or some cruel joke that would be dispelled the instant she got to the school. But no matter how surreal the implications, no matter how strange the letter’s final lines had been, this was Littlewick. The Littlewick. The most prestigious, most secretive, most impossibly magical school in the world. Every magical forum online had threads dedicated to rumors about its entrance process, about how only the rarest applicants were chosen, about how it tested your spirit, not just your grades. Elara had been selected, and she couldn’t ignore it. So instead, she left the box where it lay, the knowledge of it humming beneath her like a second heartbeat. When the second letter arrived with her official departure date, platform location, and a single, handwritten reminder—“Don’t forget to dress appropriately for your first day, sweetheart”—she knew the time for pretending was over.

That morning, before the sun had fully risen, Elara had stood in her room, heart pounding, and opened the box for the second time.

Now, she stood on the platform, the weight of her decision pressing into every step.

The cobblestone beneath her feet was slick with morning dew, the platform shadowed by towering iron lampposts that flickered faintly with magic rather than fire. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the chill in the air crawling up her legs and into her spine, though she couldn’t say if it were the cold or the nerves that kept her teeth clenched. She wore the uniform exactly as prescribed—white skirt, pressed white blouse, silver-accented sash, her school crest pinned above her heart. It fit perfectly, too perfectly, as if tailored to her measurements long before she'd even tried it on. And beneath it, hidden from the curious eyes of the dozen other students milling around the platform, was it. The thing that crinkled when she walked, when she shifted, when she breathed too deeply. The diaper.

She had debated for hours, days, over whether to wear it. She had stared at the letter, re-read its phrasing a dozen times, hoping to find a loophole or excuse. But the words were clear, and worse—they had been gentle. Not demanding. Not cruel. Just... expectant. And Elara, for reasons she still couldn’t name, had found herself wanting to meet those expectations. Not because she wanted to—but because someone at Littlewick did, and she wasn’t ready to challenge them. Not yet.

The stillness of the morning was shattered by the shrill, melodic whistle of a train in the distance. A sound like steam meeting magic, high and clear and full of purpose. Around her, students perked up, chattering more eagerly now, some holding their bags tight, others visibly seasoned by past years. The train rolled into view not on tracks, but conjuring the rail ahead of itself with every heartbeat, its wheels floating inches above the steel line that formed beneath it in perfect, glittering synchronicity. It was magnificent—obsidian and brass, glowing with subtle runes that pulsed like breathing light. The emblem of Littlewick shimmered on its side.

The doors hissed open. Students began to board in waves, laughter echoing off the stones, trunks scraping across the platform like dull thunder. Elara stood still for a breath longer, her bag slung over one shoulder, her suitcase in a long line of others to be handled by rail attendants, her thighs pressed tight together, or, as tightly as the diaper allowed, making her feel hyper-aware of every soft crinkle beneath her uniform skirt. It wasn’t loud—not really—but in her mind, the sound was a siren, amplified and unbearable, the fabric whispering secrets she didn’t want anyone to know. She shifted her stance, tried to walk with confidence, and stepped forward into the carriage with all the grace she could summon.

The interior of the train was alive with magic. Not merely enchanted, but steeped in it—crafted so intimately with arcane design that it breathed, hummed, responded to the presence of its passengers. Light danced through thin glass tubes embedded in the ceiling, glowing with a warm, golden pulse that shifted subtly from one compartment to the next, as if reflecting the mood or tone of each car. It wasn’t a uniform train, not in feel or atmosphere. Each carriage had its energy and rhythm, and Elara could feel that rhythm shift with every step she took. Students bustled about in uniforms much like hers—crisp blouses, pleated skirts, or pressed slacks—but the trim and sashes varied wildly. Deep ruby red, rich forest green, deep ocean blue. House colors, she assumed. Or at least, that’s what the Littlewick forums claimed.

And that was the thing—Littlewick forums. Even those were unreliable. Shadowed in secrecy and deliberately misleading by design. The few who claimed to be alumni—or had "cousins" or "sisters" who’d attended—spoke in riddles, careful omissions, or outright contradictions. There were threads upon threads speculating about what each house stood for, but no two posts ever seemed to agree. Some insisted red meant bravery, others rebellion. Some said blue was for intellectuals, others for manipulators. And green? Everything from nature-lovers to sadists had been suggested. Elara had scoured those forums obsessively over the summer, hunting for clues, but what she found was a veil of half-truths and clever lies. An intentional fog. Littlewick doesn’t want you to know until you arrive, one cryptic comment had read. The truth doesn’t live online. It lives in the experience. At the time, it had felt profound. Now, it felt like a warning.

Laughter bounced off the curved walls of the front carriage—too loud, too confident to be innocent. Elara had boarded near the front, apparently by mistake, and that much became painfully clear the moment she stepped into the first car. The students here lounged like royalty, each with the ease of someone who belonged. Fourth-years, from the looks of them. Their uniforms were worn in subtle ways: sleeves rolled with practiced indifference, buttons open at the collar, house sashes tilted just so. They held themselves with that heavy, intoxicating mix of power and boredom. Eyes slid toward her the moment she entered—quick, curious, then smirking.

A girl with blue accents and a pinched smirk looked up from her seat, her eyes flicking to Elara’s sash and then down, too low, far too knowing. “Careful, little one,” she cooed with exaggerated sweetness, “this car’s for students who can sit through a ride without a nap.”

Laughter erupted around her. Not cruel, not loud—but sharp enough to sting. Elara flushed instantly, heat crawling up her neck, her fingers curling tighter around the strap of her bag. The older students lounged like royalty in plush seats, legs stretched, feet on tables, smirks tugging at their lips as their eyes followed her like a procession.

Another comment floated out as she passed a group of green-clad students leaning lazily against the wall, “First years belong in the back. Unless you need a chaperone to hold your hand?”

That did it.

Elara stopped mid-step, turning just enough to meet the gaze of the girl who’d spoken. Her mouth curved—not in a smile, but something sharper. “Do you spend all four years learning to be a condescending witch, or did you come in with that talent?”

Gasps and scattered laughter followed, but it was different now, tinged with surprise, maybe a little respect. Elara didn’t wait for a reply. She spun back toward the aisle and kept moving, her pulse hammering in her ears. She was fuming, cheeks flushed, every inch of her body buzzing with adrenaline and second-guessing. She didn’t know why she’d snapped, not exactly—but something about their knowing glances, the way they looked at her, made her feel like prey. And she was sick of pretending she wasn’t angry.

Each car she passed grew a little quieter. The posturing of the fourth-years gave way to the smugness of the thirds, who watched her pass with the detached amusement of predators already fed. The second-years were louder again, still forming their hierarchies, but there was less edge in their eyes—less cruelty. She moved quickly, not pausing long enough to invite commentary. And then, finally, the last cars.

The moment she stepped through the threshold, she felt the shift. It was quieter here, more subdued. The lights were softer, and the chatter was more nervous than mocking. These were the first years, her peers.

The compartment she chose was only half full—a boy and two girls, all dressed in crisp new uniforms with creases still pressed into the sleeves. Their eyes flicked to her as she stepped inside, not with suspicion, but wide-eyed uncertainty. Elara offered a small, cautious smile, gesturing toward the open seat. “Mind if I sit?”

They nodded, almost in unison, and she stepped past their knees and into the corner seat beside the window. The cushion was surprisingly soft, the back curved just enough to cradle her. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and slid her bag beneath her feet. The seat muffled the crinkle of her undergarment, but it still made her skin prickle. If the others heard it, they didn’t react. She didn’t dare look down to check.

The compartment had two rows of three seats, facing each other, with a tall window occupying the far wall. Outside, steam hissed in lazy spirals against the rising sun, and the silhouette of distant trees blurred in the distance. The train was preparing to move. Elara leaned slightly toward the glass, letting her temple rest against the cool pane. The others murmured soft introductions—she caught their names but didn’t yet anchor them to faces. Everything felt too big, too fast. Her emotions swirled in a vortex of nerves, excitement, and embarrassment.

The train whistle sang again, long, high, and echoing across the early morning platform like a trumpet heralding the beginning of something irreversible. Then, with a smoothness that felt unnatural, the train began to move. It didn’t lurch or clatter like the old commuter lines Elara was used to. It glided. The station blurred into a wash of gray stone and brass pillars, fading behind them as the train picked up impossible speed, its acceleration effortless, graceful, as though it had always meant to be in motion.

Elara pressed her forehead to the cool window and watched the world melt away. Trees became streaks. Clouds smudged across the sky. Her heart thudded in time with the rhythmic hum of the engine. Then she shifted in her seat, and the soft, unmistakable crinkle made her flinch. The diaper between her legs was thick and unyielding, pressing her thighs apart in a way that left her constantly aware of it. She hadn't gotten used to it—not after an hour, not even after carefully sitting down in the compartment. She swallowed hard and glanced at the others, trying to be casual, but her eyes searched for signs. Were they wearing one too? She tried to imagine it: the bulk hidden beneath skirts and slacks, the faint sounds muted by magic or layers. Surely she wasn’t the only one. Right?

The silence in the compartment was broken by the most talkative of them all—Quinn, a girl with short, choppy hair dyed soft lavender, wearing her silver-colored sash slightly crooked and her blouse half-untucked. She bounced one leg rapidly, her hands constantly fidgeting—twisting a ring, tugging her cuff, tapping the edge of her seat. “So I heard they sort us as soon as we get there,” she said, eyes wide behind chunky round glasses. “Like, boom, you step off the train, and they already know where you belong. How freaky is that?”

“Not that freaky,” said the boy across from her, stretching his arms behind his head. He had sun-kissed skin, sharp cheekbones, and a relaxed drawl to his voice. “Magic reads personality, right? They probably use some kind of scrying mirror. My cousin went here and said the school knows who you are before you even speak.” He introduced himself earlier as Marcus Blackthorn, his family name carrying a vague air of prestige that he seemed disinterested in leveraging.

The last of their quartet was a quiet girl who hadn’t spoken much—Mei, if Elara remembered correctly. Her long, ink-black hair was tied back in an intricate braid, and her uniform was immaculate, ironed, and precise. She sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly on her lap. She watched the others more than she spoke, her dark eyes flicking from face to face, taking it all in like a puzzle she hadn’t yet chosen to solve.

Elara waited until Quinn’s rant about magical luggage sorting fizzled out, replaced by a moment of stillness. It was the first lull, the kind of silence that comes not from awkwardness, but from breath. A pause before the next wave of nervous chatter. Elara leaned forward slightly, mustering the courage to speak, her voice casual, even as a bead of sweat crawled down her spine. “What do you guys think of the uniforms?”

There was a beat. Then a few shrugs. Quinn was the first to reply. “They’re fine, I guess? I like the sash colors.”

Marcus gave a half-grunt of agreement. “Wish the fabric was thicker. Kinda breezy.”

“They’re practical,” Mei said softly. “Tailored well. Charm-woven. Mine resists wrinkles.”

That was it. No one mentioned anything unusual. No mention of discomfort. No signs of anyone shifting nervously in their seat, or glancing at each other with that quiet knowing. Just normal reactions to normal uniforms.

Elara’s stomach twisted.

She nodded, murmured something like “Yeah, same,” but her thoughts were racing now. Why her? Why had she received that letter? Why had her box contained... that? Her classmates seemed so normal—awkward, yes, and nervous, but not embarrassed. Not hiding something bulky beneath their clothes. They did not constantly check if anyone had noticed a sound that only she could seem to hear.

She turned her face back to the window, masking the heat blooming on her cheeks. The countryside whirled past, a blur of color and motion, but all she could see was the space between her legs—the soft shape of the diaper she hadn’t wanted to wear, and the echo of the words signed in lavender ink, Love, Mommy.

She wasn’t sure what was waiting for her at Littlewick. But right now, she felt terrifyingly, humiliatingly alone.

It was as if merely thinking about it—acknowledging its presence between her thighs, admitting that she was wearing one—summoned the need. The pressure in her bladder came on suddenly, insistently, a tight ache that made her shift in her seat with a quiet wince. Elara tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the chatter in the compartment, on Quinn’s latest theory that the school itself might be floating in another dimension entirely, but it was no use. Her body refused to be distracted. Each crinkle, each twitch of pressure, reminded her with alarming clarity of what she was wearing… and of what someone—Mommy—seemed to expect her to do with it.

No.

She stood abruptly, trying not to look flustered. “Excuse me,” she murmured, cutting off Quinn mid-sentence with an apologetic smile. “Be right back.”

They nodded or mumbled something in return, but she didn’t wait to register their reactions. Her boots clicked softly against the polished floor as she moved toward the end of the carriage. She passed another compartment full of whispering students, her steps quickening with each one, until she found the small bathroom nestled between car junctions. She ducked inside, shut the door behind her, and slid the brass bolt across with a satisfying click.

The room was cramped and curved at the corners. The walls were etched with faint sigils that pulsed in time with the train’s rhythm. A soft, magical light glowed overhead, bathing the space in a pale, shifting hue that made everything look subtly unreal. Elara turned to face the mirror, not to look at her face but at her skirt. She lifted it carefully, revealing the thick diaper beneath.

It was still pristine. White and innocent, with pastel cartoon characters frolicking across the front. Her cheeks burned at the sight, a flush rising on her neck. It looked ridiculous, oversized and absurd, yet somehow designed for her. She touched it with hesitant fingers, then moved to the tapes.

The letters had said nothing—nothing—about actually using the thing. Not once. It had never once stated that she would be expected to wet herself like an infant. As long as she had access to a toilet, she saw no reason to let that line be crossed.

Her fingers gripped the tabs and peeled them open. The sound was loud in the tiny room, the rip of adhesive tabs freeing themselves from the plastic shell, making her wince. As she moved the front panel away, she paused. Her eyes narrowed.

Had the decorations just changed?

The colors—she could have sworn—had shifted ever so slightly. The soft lavender stars had darkened toward pink. The bunnies looked subtly... smug? No, that was insane. Just the lighting. She shook her head. The train was full of enchantments—illusions layered into the very walls. Of course, the lighting could be playing tricks on her. She was tired, nervous, and hyper-aware. She couldn’t trust her eyes.

She sat, relieved herself with a quiet, stubborn sigh, and quickly returned to her feet, grabbing the diaper and awkwardly holding it in place as she retaped it around her hips. Not perfect, but secure enough. A little lopsided, but nothing her skirt wouldn’t hide. She washed her hands in the shallow basin and stared at her reflection only briefly—flushed cheeks, tight jaw, wary eyes. A girl halfway between ordinary and something else entirely.

Elara returned to the compartment with a practiced calm, sliding back into her seat beside the window as if nothing had happened. The conversation had shifted again—Marcus and Quinn debating the school’s location, Mei offering only the occasional thoughtful interjection. The blur outside the window was sharper now, the scenery moving past too fast to be natural. Forests became shadows. Mountains flickered on the horizon and were gone in moments. Elara leaned against the glass, watching the world tear itself apart into wind and color.

“No one really knows where it is,” Marcus was saying, gesturing with one hand. “Some say it’s built into the side of a cliff, others that it’s invisible until you’re inside its wards.”

“Or that the whole thing’s mobile,” Quinn chimed in eagerly, her voice high with excitement. “Like the school moves. It could be hundreds of miles away by the time we get off the train. Maybe it's alive. Maybe it grows and shifts around us, depending on who we are.”

“I think it’s cloaked,” Mei added softly. “Hidden not just from sight, but from memory. Maybe we pass through it and forget. Maybe we’ve already been there.”

That idea settled over the group like a thin layer of mist—almost silly, but not entirely dismissible. Not here. Not on a train gliding on conjured tracks, bound for a school no one had seen with certainty. The air around them had a charge now, as if the train itself were listening.

Elara leaned her forehead against the window and stared out into the kaleidoscope blur of the world. Her reflection stared back—pale, quiet, eyes a little too wide for comfort—and beneath it all, she still felt the soft crinkle of the undergarment beneath her skirt. Still felt the weight of Mommy’s letter, folded neatly in the side pocket of her bag. The others hadn’t mentioned it. None of them had hinted at receiving anything like it. If they had, they were hiding it well. But Elara couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being prepared for something... different. Something deeper. Something worse.

And yet, beneath the embarrassment, beneath the constant vigilance of her body’s every sound and motion, was the thrum of something else. Wonder. Fear, yes—but curiosity too. The kind that made your fingers reach for a doorknob even when you didn’t know what lay on the other side.

The countryside gave way to clouds—actual clouds—drifting just outside the windows as the train rose higher and higher until even the sky looked unfamiliar. Elara’s breath fogged the glass, her mind wondering what the future may hold for her.