Combing his hair up and applying a touch of gel to secure it, Harry revealed his forehead.
The hollowing in his cheeks had filled out—not with the soft pudginess brought on by sugar and grease, but with a thin, firm layer of flesh that had gradually coated the edges of his frame through a month of running, push-ups, and stretching.
Owl, wand box, robes, books, newspapers…
First thing in the morning, he used his fingers to double-check his luggage.
Once everything was packed, Harry stepped out of his room.
Snape sat in the living room, holding a book in his rocking chair.
He wasn’t actually reading; it looked more like he was lost in thought.
Seemingly catching the sound of his movement, Snape jerked upright and shot a look over.
“Do you remember what today is?” he asked.
Harry pulled the ticket from his coat pocket.
“Of course, Professor Snape. I believe I am ready to head to Hogwarts.”
Snape stared at him, expressionless.
After a long pause, he tucked the book behind his back along with both hands and began to explain:
“Potter, the method the Ministry of Magic uses to keep tabs on you brats casting spells outside of school relies on a trace charm known as the Trace.”
“It detects any magical activity in the vicinity of an underage wizard and identifies which spell you used. But it possesses a fatal flaw: it cannot tell who performed the magic. So, if an adult wizard happens to cast a spell near you in the dead of night, you had better pray the Ministry officials are in a good mood. Naturally, you can appeal, but it will cost you time and energy.”
“Even more intriguing, if you hail from a pure-blood family, the Ministry turns a blind eye when your parents cast magic in front of you, writing it off as parental guidance. But if you come from a Muggle household? Regrettably, they won’t be nearly so forgiving…”
For reasons unknown, right before his departure, he began laying out the Ministry’s rules to him, even pointing out the loopholes within them.
Harry listened attentively, especially regarding the loopholes.
As Snape spoke, he idly twirled the book in his hand, which resembled a notebook of some kind.
“Potter!”
Suddenly, he barked again, locking his stern gaze directly onto him.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Harry froze momentarily; this was clearly advanced Potions material.
He hadn’t seen it in his textbooks, nor had he encountered it in publications like Charms Today.
“…I don’t know, Professor. Your question is far beyond my material,” Harry replied helplessly.
“Though I recall wormwood acts as an insect repellent, and asphodel root… seems to soothe anxiety?”
Snape said nothing, merely staring at him.
He was acting somewhat strange today, prone to sudden outbursts.
Was it because term was starting?
“Potter, what I am about to do next is something you will not like, but you must accept. I am going to cast a Memory Charm on you to make you forget who spent every single night over the past month teaching you to identify those damned potion ingredients and correcting your posture when holding a cauldron. You do not need to remember that I did these things; you only need to remember the knowledge itself.”
Then, he spoke abruptly, his voice dropping lower than usual, devoid of its usual sarcasm.
“Naturally, to make this memory more convincing, the person standing in my place will be Dumbledore.”
“He possesses more than enough standing and ability to instruct you in these matters.”
“As for the reason? I have no desire for you to display any affection toward me at school. I will not be giving you a pleasant face.”
Listening to this, Harry’s brows furrowed.
“—Wait!”
Tensing all over, his fists clenched, he opened his mouth to protest.
Yet Snape gave him no opportunity to speak.
Unbeknownst to Harry, the wand was already in his hand, its tip glowing softly.
Harry’s vision gradually blurred.
So this is the power of a wizard!
When he regained full consciousness, Harry was already sitting aboard a train.
Outside the train window, a dingy platform slowly drifted backward, while his luggage was stowed safely beside him.
Tucked inside his coat pocket was a ticket for King’s Cross Station dated September first.
It seems that besides being unable to read my memories, they can’t tamper with them either.
Upon coming to, he remembered everything that had transpired over the past month with total clarity.
It was a subtle realization.
This was not a failure of Professor Snape’s magic, but rather something innate to Harry himself.
Is it because of that dream?
Sitting up straight, under the peculiar gaze of a passenger sitting opposite him, he retrieved food from his bag and fed Hedwig—his owl, the one gifted by Hagrid.
Why did Professor Snape want me to forget?
His excuse just now was clearly flimsy and perfunctory.
Perhaps he assumed that casting the spell would guarantee I’d forget, so he didn’t even bother coming up with a plausible lie?
And furthermore…
does he know his Memory Charm had no effect on me whatsoever?
Harry harbored plenty of questions in his mind, but he was in no hurry.
So long as he kept moving forward, he would eventually discover the truth.
The journey from Cokeworth, where Spinner’s End was located, to central London was quite a distance.
Fortunately, no transfers were required, taking him straight to King’s Cross Station. The source of this chapter is g.com.
The train would come to a stop there.
All he needed to do was disembark, find the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, and walk right through it to reach Platform 9¾.
There, he would board another train—a wizarding train—bound for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Harry had double-checked all these arrangements with Professor Snape.
Time ticked by, and as the train pulled into the station, he pushed his luggage cart off the platform.
Off-white stone pillars supported rows of arched windows as sunlight filtered through the stained glass.
People milled about, the sound of footsteps mingling with the rolling of trunk wheels across the floor, while announcements blared from the loudspeakers every few seconds.
Pushing his trunk, Harry craned his neck to look at the overhead signs, though he didn’t actually need to search.
They were simply too conspicuous.
Perhaps because everyone was so punctual, a long line had already formed right before Harry’s eyes in front of the barrier leading to Platform 9¾.
A group of wizarding families clad in robes and cloaks stood there, calling out to their children as they charged toward the wall.
Besides those dressed as wizards, there were quite a few families dressed in Muggle attire as well.
In fact, those in Muggle clothing actually outnumbered the rest.
Some wore fine suits and leather shoes, others wore long dresses, and a few even dressed in formal evening wear suited for gala events.
Looking at them, it hardly seemed like they were sending their children off to school; it looked more like they were attending a charity banquet—setting aside the owls fluttering overhead and cats of various patterns darting between people’s feet.
However, dressing like Muggles didn’t necessarily mean they were Muggles.
Of course, the Muggles bustling through the lively King’s Cross Station remained completely oblivious to the chaotic scene.
“Hey, it’s Harry Potter!”
Just as Harry drew closer, a delighted voice chimed out.
He looked up to see a round-faced girl pointing at him, saying something to the adult beside her.
At the sound of her voice, the other people waiting to cross the barrier fell silent for a brief instant, turning their heads one after another to look over.
The long, queuing line went quiet and ground to a halt.
Harry was not surprised by this reaction.
Meeting the array of curious, grateful, confused, cold, and mocking glances, he calmly pushed his luggage toward the very back and took his place at the tail end of the line.
“I believe we should head through quickly and get on the train,” he reminded them, his gaze passing over the crowd ahead toward the couple and child at the very front.
Standing directly in front of Harry was an elderly woman draped in a dark gray shawl, her silver hair styled neatly.
She was accompanied by a boy and called back in response, “Of course, Mr. Potter.”
Then, taking his cue, she shouted toward the front: “Stop blocking the way, everyone! The children need to board the train!”
With that, the stalled line began moving once more.
“Hello, Mr. Potter. I am Augusta Longbottom,” the elderly woman introduced the timid-looking boy standing beside her.
“This is my grandson, Neville Longbottom. He is a first-year as well.”