Hermione’s trunk—already stuffed to the point of rebellion with extra books her father had insisted on lifting as if it weighed nothing at all—proved to be her downfall the moment she reached the train.
Or rather, the steps into it.
She had managed to drag it onto the platform with sheer determination and a lot of embarrassment.
What she had not managed was getting it onto the Hogwarts Express.
It sat there now like a stubborn beast refusing to move, half-tilted against the carriage step while Hermione strained against it with both hands, cheeks flushed, arms shaking.
“Come on,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“Please—just—move—”
The trunk did not move.
Behind her, sniggering laughter began to rise.
“First year’s gonna cry,” someone said.
“Bet she breaks a nail before she even gets on the train,” another voice added.
Hermione’s throat tightened.
She pushed harder, humiliation burning hotter than exertion.
The trunk still refused to cooperate.
Her vision blurred slightly.
Don’t cry.
Not here.
Not now.
Then—
A voice cut cleanly through the noise.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
It was calm.
Polite.
Unhurried.
And completely out of place.
Hermione turned her head.
And forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.
The boy standing there looked like he had stepped out of a different century entirely—and somehow decided Hogwarts Station was a reasonable place to appear.
If Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet had ever committed the literary crime of producing a son, Hermione was fairly certain he would look exactly like this.
He wore a black frock coat with silk lapels, tailored so precisely it seemed sculpted rather than stitched.
The shoulders were structured, giving him a composed, almost aristocratic silhouette, while the waist tapered sharply in a way that made Hermione’s brain briefly stop functioning in a socially acceptable manner.
A grey waistcoat peeked beneath the coat, matching perfectly cut trousers.
Polished black boots.
An ascot cravat, tied with deliberate elegance, held in place by a small diamond pin that caught the station light like a quiet spark.
And then there was his face.
Jet-black hair, slightly wavy, falling to his shoulders like something deliberately untamed.
And eyes—green, almond-shaped, unusually steady—observing her not with judgment, but with something far more disarming.
Attention.
Kind attention.
Hermione realized she had been staring.
And still hadn’t answered.
“I—yes,” she managed weakly.
A faint smile touched his lips, as if that was all the confirmation he needed.
He stepped forward without hesitation, placed his hands on the trunk, and lifted it as if it weighed no more than a book.
He carried it effortlessly into the compartment.
Hermione just stood there.
Her brain had apparently left the building.
When he returned, she finally found her voice again—somewhere between panic and hope.
“Thank you,” she said quickly.
“That was very kind.
You’re welcome to share this compartment if you want?”
The words hit her moments after they left her mouth.
Brilliant.
Truly brilliant.
Invite the impossibly elegant stranger to sit with you like you’re not already socially combusting.
But instead of mockery, he simply smiled wider.
“I’d like that,” he said.
Very much.
Hermione blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then, remembering at least one piece of social protocol, she extended her hand.
“I’m Hermione Granger.”
He did not take it.
For a split second, panic flickered through her—had she already done something wrong?
Then he gently took her fingertips instead, turning her hand with surprising care.
And bowed slightly.
Brushing his lips across her knuckles.
The gesture was light.
Formal.
Completely absurd.
And somehow devastating.
Hermione’s mind went entirely blank.
No thoughts.
Only malfunction.
When he straightened, his expression was amused—but not cruelly so.
More like he had just confirmed something pleasant.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Granger,” he said smoothly.
“My name is Harry Crow.”
That broke something in her.
Because he was still standing there.
Still real.
Still smiling.
And she had absolutely no idea how to recover.
“So—um—I’m Hermione Granger and I’ve read a lot of books and I didn’t expect magic to be real and I’ve studied all the first-year material already and I just hope that’s enough—”
She was spiraling.
She knew she was spiraling.
She could not stop spiraling.
A soft laugh interrupted her descent.
Not mocking.
Warm.
“Relax, Hermione,” Harry said, settling into the seat opposite her.
“And breathe occasionally.
We’ve got a long train ride ahead.
Plenty of time to become friends.”
The word hit her harder than any insult from school ever had.
Friends.
Hermione froze.
“Friends?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely considering the word.
“That was the idea.
Unless I’ve misunderstood something terribly already.”
Her chest tightened—but in a way that wasn’t painful.
“I’d like that,” she said quickly.
“I’d really like that.”
For the first time that day, something in her settled.
Not fixed.
But steadied.
And the train began to move.
Far away from the Hogwarts Express, Albus Dumbledore was pacing.
His office at Hogwarts was quiet, but it did not feel peaceful.
The air itself seemed strained, like reality was waiting for something to snap.
Harry Potter was returning.
After nearly a decade of controlled absence, carefully maintained distance, and carefully constructed assumptions.
Tonight, that balance would end.
Dumbledore stopped by the window, hands folded behind his back.
The goblins had him.
That much was clear now.
But they would not keep him.
Not permanently.
Harry Potter belonged within the magical world he understood.
Not buried under goblin influence.
Not shaped by unknown agendas.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Whatever they had done…
He would correct it.
He always did.
On the Hogwarts Express, the world outside blurred into green and gold as countryside rolled past.
Hermione had stopped trembling without noticing when it had happened.
Harry Crow—still impossibly composed, still dressed like he belonged in a painting rather than a train carriage—was now leaning slightly forward, genuinely curious.
“So,” he said, “your parents heal people’s mouths?”
Hermione blinked.
Then laughed.
“Yes.
They’re dentists.”
His expression did not change immediately.
Then—
“Dentists,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the word for traps.
“Exactly,” she said.
“They fix teeth.”
A pause.
“That sounds… extremely specific.”
“It is.”
He leaned back slightly, processing this like a new category of magic entirely.
“I’ll be honest,” he said.
“I thought you were joking.”
Hermione snorted.
“I wish I was.”
A brief silence settled between them—but not an uncomfortable one.
Then Hermione tilted her head.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything,” Harry replied.
She hesitated.
“You said you’re not a pureblood.
But the way you’re dressed—everyone here seems to think purebloods dress like… that.”
Harry blinked once.
Slowly.
“I was told this was how Muggles dressed.”
Hermione stared at him.
Then, despite herself, laughed.
“Oh no.”
His expression tightened.
“That bad?”
“It’s… very bad.”
Harry exhaled through his nose, leaning back further in his seat.
“That’s… actually impressive in a depressing way.”
Hermione wiped a tear from laughing too hard.
“Where did you get your information from?”
“Diagon Alley,” he said.
The laughter stopped instantly.
“Oh,” Hermione said carefully.
“That explains it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Explain what?”
“My mum read some of those books,” she said.
“Muggle Studies ones.
They’re… about a century out of date.
And even then, not great.”
Harry stared at her.
“Great.”
A pause.
“So I’ve been dressed like a historical reenactment of a misunderstanding.”
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed gently.
Harry looked down at his coat as if it had personally betrayed him.
“Fantastic.”
Hermione bit her lip, trying not to laugh again.
“On the bright side, you’ll stand out.”
“I already do that,” he muttered.
Then, quieter: “Director Ragnok called me ‘Old Crow’ once.
I think he was being polite.”
Hermione tilted her head.
“Is that bad?”
Harry gave a small, humorless smile.
“In goblin language?
It’s complicated.”
He exhaled.
Then looked back at her.
“I think I should explain something,” he said.
Something in his tone shifted.
Not darker.
Heavier.
And Hermione, for the first time since meeting him, realized there was more to Harry Crow than strange clothing and perfect manners.
A lot more.
And whatever story he was about to tell—
was going to change the rest of her life.