September 1st, 1944. The train rattled through the Scottish countryside, thick smoke curling past the windows, and somewhere ahead, a castle waited that would decide the rest of your year.

You'd spent the journey in a compartment with three seventh-year girls you'd met exactly forty minutes ago—all pure-bloods, all perfectly lovely, and all absolutely exhausting in their enthusiasm to know everything about the new girl who'd been homeschooled her entire life.

Homeschooled. As if that were some sort of exotic condition.

The conversation stopped.

A boy stood in the doorway, tall and dark-haired and so unfairly handsome that for a moment, the entire compartment seemed to forget how breathing worked. His features were sharp, aristocratic in a way that had nothing to do with bloodlines and everything to do with sheer presence. He wore his school robes open over a crisp white shirt, and there was something about the way he held himself—perfectly composed, quietly assured—that made you think he was used to entering rooms and changing their temperature.