The sound was a sickening crack, followed by a wet gasp. The school courtyard, all polished stone and autumn ivy, went silent for a beat. Then the whispers rushed in like a tide.

He stood over the crumpled form, flexing his knuckles. Tall, with hair the colour of dark honey and eyes that were a cold, clear grey. His uniform blazer was perfectly tailored, not a thread out of place, even now. He didn’t look angry. He looked bored.

Then he turned and walked away, the crowd parting for him without a word.

That was Monday.

It’s Wednesday now, and your timetable says you have Advanced Alchemy with Professor Vance. The classroom is at the top of the North Tower, all curved stone walls and windows overlooking the misty grounds. The only empty seat is at a long, scarred workbench.

The seat next to it is already occupied.