Wheels of the train

The wheels of the train went round and round.

She awoke and the dream slid away...

The wheels of the train went...

Julias eyes widened and she looked around. She was sitting in a train  compartment – two large benches, upholstered in red, faced each-other  with a tiny table inbetween, and a group of pre-teen children in  identical dark gray schoolrobes were in the process of stirring awake.

How the bloody hell had she gotten there from her hospital bed?!

Okay. Okay.

Act natural, she told herself. Don't freak out. You've got a gap in your memory, or perhaps you're dreaming. In either way, you don't know where  you are so don't cause suspicion until you've reviewed your situation.

Julia did a quick mental check. Two working hands, which was good. No binder, which would've been worrysome if there had been anything to bind down. She appeared to be the same age as the other kids – maybe ten or eleven, clad in robes. A glance at her reflection in the window revealed shoulder-length blonde hair and features which, although  juvenile, didn't EXACTLY register as those she'd had as a preteen, more  like results of guesswork from someone who'd never seen a childhood  photo of her...and outside, on the other side of the glass the steeping  hills of highlands rolled by in evening light.

As the girls gaze traveled back to her fellow travelers Julia noticed that they were also glancing around in the tell-tale manner of utterly confused people  trying to "act natural". And then it clicked in place - a familiar  eyecolor here, a birthmark there. These weren't some random children she  was stuck with.

The only one whom she instantly recognized was the kid sitting on the opposite bench. A stocky pale youth, with gray  hair and strong cheekbones, his tie askew, expression as fed up and sour as if he'd been forced to chew on lemons all day. They regarded  one-another for a moment, before the girl dared inquire: „...Samson?“

The  boy rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm: „No, I'm Alice,“ and  pointed at his gray hair. None had hair quite like Daniel Samson Clarke did.

There was a collective sigh of relief as the others let down their guards, having received the needed confirmation that, against all  expectations, they were still among their own.

„Henry?“ came a shaky question, from a small sickly-looking brown-haired girl, staring at her in disbelief

„Melodie?“ she guessed back

„No, it's...it's me, Margaret, actually,“ she kept staring at her „Henry, are you a...girl?“

There was no escaping it. „Ugh,  yeah. I couldn't guess why,“ Julia replied, blushing, and showed off a pair of tiny outstretched hands „Look though! I have two arms again!“  She declared victoriously, as if apparent gender change was not a big deal compared to having a healthy body once more. Best to try and shrug it off for now, hoping that her gender gets lumped with the rest of this  places' weirdness. She let her gaze wander to the compartments next occupant.

„Hamm- ughm, General?“  she guessed, purely by process of elimination for the youth appeared nothing like her old boss had. For starters, the General Montgomery  Hammond she knew didn't have a round face nor ears that looked like they  might've flapped off of their own accord if startled. Nor would The General have been tightly clasping what looked like some sort of a  conductors' baton.

„Correct, Newman,“ he replied in a high-pitched  childs' voice, using Julias' assumed name „Does anyone in here know  what is going on?“ Julia and Margaret looked at one another, both equally uncertain, before Julia made an attempt to deliver her observations:

„Well, sir...we woke up as children, but – as is  evident from me – not in bodies identical to what we would really have looked like at that age. Thus it's not time travel, but someones' educated  guess at what we should look like in our given roles, like back when we were sent to Wyderia, which suggests the same perpetrators. The interior of the train seems mostly contemporary and I'd say that the landscape is distinctly Scottish, so this could still be our own world or a copy  of it. Since clothes appear to be schoolrobes I would assume that we are  heading for a field trip somewhere.“

„Or to a boarding school of some sort.“

„Or that, yes.“

„Music  school perhaps...?“ muttered Margaret, having pulled out a thin  „conductors baton“ of her own. Julia checked her belt at that, and found that she had one as well. They all did, each ones' unique with varying  designs and lengths.

„Bloody hell. We...we...should go find the others.“

„Sit  tight, they're on their way,“ called a blonde kid who MUST have been  Samuel (for no-one else could blend into the background this  seamlessly), to the surprise of everyone who hadn't noticed him in the  compartment, peering out into the corridor by pressing his face against the door.

The door was slid open by the leader of a second group  of kids and Julia could recognize him instantly as Robert Clarke. Roberts' resemblance to his son had become distinct with the elimination  of their age gap. Same short nose, same hairline and cheekbones that  were no longer covered up by age-induced wrinkles and obesity. In fact  there was little that connected Mr. Clarke to the elderly gentleman that  Julia had always known him as. If anything he looked like how she  would've imagined Beckett to have appeared as a youth, apart from a pair  of smart-looking spectacles perched atop his nose and a pale complexion  hinting at days spent reading indoors.

He was accompanied by four  more children, whom Julia recognized as Alice, James, Melodie and Raymond Maxwell, the last of whom started  laughing uncontrollably upon noticing Julias' long hair and skirt. Bloody hell, he'll never live it down.

„Oh,  good, everyone is here,“ said the little Mr. Clarke joyfully, making a  point of ignoring Maxwells' outburst. The newcomers pressed themselves into the already tight compartment, with Alice sliding the door closed  for privacy. „It looks like we've been whisked away for another detour again.  In order to figure out who's behind our...sudden relocation...I would  first have to ask you all what's the last thing you remember before  waking up here."

"There's no need for that, since it's obvious  that you or your wife are behind this once again," The General said, giving the Mr. Clarke a stern look „So, in Wyderia it was The Fire, what are we fetching this time?“

Mr.  Clarke sighed, not bothering to deny the allegations. The boy pulled out a slim little  book from under his schoolrobes and  opened it in the middle, showing off a peculiar sketch. A triangle,  within which lay a circle, both cut in half by a straight line „These. A trio  of powerful artefacts...“

Julia frowned and tilted herself to read the words on the cover.

The Tales of Beedle The Bard