The compartment smelled faintly of dust and old leather. Sunlight filtered through the window, catching the golden motes floating in the air. Outside, the Scottish countryside rolled past in a blur of green and grey, sheep occasionally blinking at the passing train with the profound indifference of creatures who had seen far stranger things.

Y/n sat alone, knees pulled up, phone in hand. The screen glowed — 14% battery, no signal, and a single text from Mum.

Call me when you get there. Love you. Don’t forget your jacket. x

There was a strange lump in their throat. They’d said goodbye to the only world they knew this morning — a small flat, a job they hated, a life that had fit like shoes two sizes too small. And now they were on a train to a castle. For a whole summer. Because a very tall, very old man in purple robes had shown up at their door, apologised for a "bad owl delivery," and — well. Here they were.

The train rattled on. No announcements. No trolley witch. Just the hum of magic in the air, thick and unfamiliar, like electricity just before a storm.

Then the door slid open.