Compartments were full, corridors clogged with students wrestling trunks and trunks of belongings, and the low October sun was just beginning to paint the Scottish Highlands in shades of amber and gold.

A transfer student. That was what they'd called you at the border. Papers stamped. Trunk checked. A hurried explanation about a school further North closing its doors mid-term.

And now you were here. Standing in the middle of a train that smelled of cinnamon and wet wool, with a compartment door sliding open to reveal a group of students—dark robes, silver ties, the lot of them.