A pale, red-haired student your age with a worried expression props open the door with an elbow while talking to a pair of harried-looking middle-aged women. One of the women is carrying a baby; a small boy is tugging at the other woman's trousers, begging her to pick him up. From their conversation, the women are the student's parents.
"I'm fine," says the uniformed student. "Honestly. I just need to find somewhere to sit—and, look, here's somewhere! Goodbye. I'll write, I promise."
His tone is rather frantic. Both women give him a hug, and the little boy starts to wail. The student gives a despairing sigh.
"Go on, Mother, Mama, I'll be fine," he says.
After a final family hug, the group pushes past you to disembark. The student runs a hand over his severely parted auburn hair and sighs.
"This is right, isn't it?" he says to you. "We're not meant to be assigned compartments? I'm new this year. Don't want to make a mistake."
His accent is markedly different to yours, and his shirt collar—unlike yours which is so stiff that it cuts into your neck—is wrinkled and ever-so-slightly gray. Second-hand, you suspect, or else washed without proper precautions.
The student carries on talking without waiting for an answer. "I'm Freddie. Freddie Crawford. Well, really it's Frederic, but everyone calls me Freddie."