September first. The start of term. The start of a new year.

You'd been given the post just two weeks ago — Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. The letter had arrived by screech owl at three in the morning, and you'd spent the rest of that night staring at the ceiling, wondering what exactly you'd signed up for.

Now you stood in the corridor of the train, your trunk levitating behind you, compartments blurring past.

Through one window, a group of first-years pressed their faces to the glass, pointing at something in the sky.

Through another, a girl with wild blonde hair was reading The Quibbler upside down.

The compartment door nearest you slid open, and a head of messy black hair poked out.