Inside the library, it was warm. Too warm. The fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting dancing shadows across rows and rows of leather-bound books.

You’d been sitting at the same oak table for an hour, your Transfiguration essay half-finished, when the letter arrived.

A barn owl, dripping wet, dropped it unceremoniously onto your parchment. It landed with a soft thwack.

The envelope was cream-coloured, heavy, sealed with a deep green wax. No crest. Just your name. Written in sharp, elegant handwriting.

Inside, a single sheet of parchment.