The party was breathing its last, settling from a roaring bonfire of shouted conversations and thumping bass into the warm, glowing embers of late-night chatter. The air, hazy and warm, smelled of spilt beer and the strange, sweet scent of an era coming to a close. It wasn't a sad feeling, Jake decided from his perch on the arm of a knackered sofa, just... final.
His final year of university wasn't ending with a whimper, but with a distracted sigh. He'd always been an observer, and his psychology studies had only sharpened that instinct. He saw his friend Liam holding court with a story that got a little grander with each retelling, a familiar defence against the nine-to-five job waiting for him. He saw Chloe, her laughter bright and infectious, trying to squeeze every last drop of joy from these final moments of structured freedom. They were all feeling it—that mix of excitement and terror about what came next.
And there he was. Jake. Wondering what came next for himself. He was tired, sure—tired of essays and exams—but mostly he felt a profound sense of uncertainty. His degree felt like a box of tools with no instructions, and the future was a vast, unbuilt project. It was a daunting thought, but tonight, surrounded by friends, it felt a little less lonely. Tonight was about celebrating the 'now', and the cheap vodka, passed around in a spirit of communal recklessness, had certainly helped with that.
He didn't remember the walk home, but he must have made it. His key was on the nightstand, and his shoes were, for some reason, in the middle of the floor, standing upright like a tiny, abandoned Stonehenge. His head was pounding with the familiar rhythm of a hangover as he collapsed into bed, the room spinning itself into a blurry vortex. He closed his eyes, surrendering to sleep.
Oblivion, however, was not on the agenda.
He didn't wake up so much as he simply… became aware. The spinning sickness was gone. The headache had vanished. There was no sound, no light, no sense of touch. He was floating in a void of perfect, silent black. It wasn't frightening; it was serene, a complete sensory deprivation tank for the soul.
Panic, he thought with a strange detachment, was probably the correct response. But he felt too calm, too disconnected from his physical self to muster it.
Then, three rectangles of light bloomed into existence before him, hanging in the nothingness like impossible cinema screens. Each pulsed with a soft, internal light, displaying a single, iconic image.
The first showed a grim, ornate iron throne, forged from a thousand swords. Below it, in stark white letters, were three words: GAME OF THRONES.
The second showed a sprawling, fantastical castle, its spires reaching towards a starry night sky. A steam train was pulling away from a station in the foreground. The text read: HARRY POTTER.
The third depicted a rain-slicked, neon-drenched futuristic city street, with flying cars zipping between monolithic skyscrapers. The title: BLADE RUNNER.
Jake stared, his mind struggling to process the incongruity. It was a dream. It had to be. A bizarre, vivid dream brought on by a night of celebration. Yet, it felt more real than the party he'd just left.
A new thought, not his own, echoed in the void. It wasn't a voice, but a pure, simple concept imprinted directly into his consciousness.
CHOOSE THE START OF YOUR JOURNEY.
He considered the options, the dream-logic making it feel like the most important decision he'd ever made.
Game of Thrones? He saw the throne and felt a visceral chill. That wasn't a world of adventure; it was a meat grinder of politics and betrayal. His skills of observation would just make him a more paranoid, miserable victim before his inevitable, messy end. No, thank you.
Blade Runner? The aesthetic was incredible, but the relentless rain and existential dread felt a bit too much like a Tuesday night in Manchester, let alone a holiday. The philosophical questions about what it meant to be human felt too much like work.
That left the castle. Hogwarts. He looked at the image, and it was more than just nostalgia. For an orphan who had found his own makeshift family in friends, the story of a lonely boy finding a true home, a place he belonged, resonated on a level so deep it ached. It wasn't just an escape. It was a promise. It was hope.
He focused his intent on the image of the castle. "That one," he tried to say, but no sound came out. He simply thought it, with as much conviction as his disembodied mind could manage.
The other two images dissolved into the black. The picture of Hogwarts swelled, rushing towards him, filling his entire perception. The gentle light of the castle windows became a blinding sun, and the serene silence was shattered.
He was falling.
And then, with a jarring lurch that rattled his teeth, he wasn't.
The silence of the void was replaced by a cacophony of sound—the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of wheels on track, the high-pitched shriek of a steam whistle, and the excited chatter of children's voices from down the corridor. The air, thick with the smell of coal smoke and something sweet, like liquorice, was a physical presence after the sterile nothingness. The worn velvet of the seat felt rough under his suddenly clumsy hands. Jake's eyes snapped open.
He was in a train compartment, the kind with worn, red velvet seats and polished wood panelling. Rolling green hills and impossibly picturesque countryside slid past the window. In front of him, on the opposite seat, sat a large, old-fashioned suitcase and a smaller leather satchel.
As he stared, information slammed into his mind not as a gentle flood, but as a dizzying, painful rush. Facts and names—Jake Bloom, orphan, first-year, parentage unknown—imprinted themselves behind his eyes, leaving a faint throb of a headache in their wake. It felt less like learning and more like being overwritten.
Jake Bloom. The name felt both foreign and familiar. He tentatively reached for the suitcase, his hands feeling clumsy and new. It was heavy. He clicked open the brass latches and lifted the lid. Inside, neatly folded, were several sets of plain black Hogwarts robes, a few sets of simple, modern-looking casual clothes, and a small stack of second-hand textbooks. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.A History of Magic. He picked up the top book, the worn cover feeling solid and real in his hands. This wasn't a dream.
Beneath the books was a small, drawstring leather pouch. He opened it, tipping the contents into his palm. The weight of the metal was surprising. A few heavy gold coins—Galleons. A larger pile of silver Sickles, and a handful of bronze Knuts. It wasn't a fortune, but it was something.
He turned his attention to the satchel. He unbuckled the strap and pulled out the contents. More books, quills, and pots of ink. And then he saw it. Tucked inside was a long, thin box. He lifted the lid, and his breath caught in his throat.
Resting on a bed of velvet was a wand. It was simple, elegant, made of a dark, reddish-brown wood with a smooth, unadorned handle. Tucked beside it was a small, cream-coloured card, written in an elegant, looping script. It read: Redwood and Dragon Heartstring. Eleven inches. Supple. He felt an inexplicable urge to pick it up. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the smooth, cool wood. The effect was instantaneous and absolute. After the serene nothingness of the void and the disoriented confusion of the train, the wand was a sudden, undeniable anchor of reality. A warmth, vibrant and alive, bloomed in his palm and surged up his arm, chasing away the last vestiges of detachment. It wasn't just 'right'; it was the first thing that had felt truly real since he'd closed his eyes in his bed.
Beneath the wand box was a single piece of thick, heavy parchment. He unfolded it. The emerald-green ink was unmistakable. It was his invitation letter, welcoming Mr J. Bloom to Hogwarts.
He leaned back in his seat, the wand still clutched in his hand, and stared out of the window. The train, the clothes, the money, the wand—it was all real. He was here. He, Jake, a psychology student from a world of science and logic, was on his way to a school of magic. The daunting uncertainty of his old future felt a million miles away, replaced by a new, far more immediate, and infinitely more terrifying brand of it.
He carefully placed his new wand and the letter on the seat beside him, his movements slow and deliberate as if testing his own limbs. He shifted the heavy suitcase onto the floor and swung the satchel up onto the luggage rack. The physical actions helped, grounding him in the moment. But when he sat back down and the reality of his situation crashed back in, it was like a physical blow.
His friends. Liam, Chloe, the whole messy, wonderful group he'd just been with. Had that been the last time he'd ever see them? Was that life, his real life, gone forever? As an orphan, he'd never had a family to lose, but the friends he'd made were his anchor, the only home he'd ever really known. A cold spike of pure panic shot through his chest. He wasn't just on an adventure; he was severed. Cut off. He dropped his head into his hands, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Yet, as the panic crested, a strange, calming certainty washed through him, as clear and unbidden as the information he'd received moments before. It wasn't a voice, but an innate knowledge that settled deep in his bones: he could return. This wasn't a one-way trip. The thought didn't erase the fear, but it took the edge off the despair, transforming the terror of permanent loss into the manageable anxiety of an overwhelming, temporary state. This was a detour, not a deletion.
His mind still raced, a million questions firing at once. How did this work? What were the rules? Why him? He was so lost in the swirling vortex of his own thoughts that he didn't hear the rattling of the approaching trolley.
A sharp rap on the compartment door made him jump. He looked up as the door slid open to reveal a smiling, dimpled woman with a trolley laden with a mountain of colourful sweets.
"Anything off the trolley, dear?" she asked, her voice warm and cheerful.