September 1st arrived faster than expected.
Inside King’s Cross Station, Harry pushed a heavy luggage trolley, staying close to Hagrid’s right side.
The half-giant’s bulk cut an easy path through the crowd and made the station feel a little less overwhelming.
Halfway across the concourse Hagrid stopped dead.
“Blast it—I’m nearly out of time.
Sorry, Harry, I’ve got to go ahead.
Need to get this parcel to Dumbledore right away.” He shoved a ticket into Harry’s hand.
“Train leaves in ten minutes.
Don’t lose that.” “Hagrid, this Nine—” Harry looked up.
Hagrid had already vanished into the press of people.
He took a breath.
Riding a train alone wasn’t the end of the world.
Five minutes later the calm had evaporated.
There was no Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Ordinary platforms, ordinary benches, ordinary pillars.
He pushed the trolley back and forth between 9 and 10, heart climbing higher with every passing minute.
“Hey, little guy.
Lost?” Harry looked up.
A young man with white hair and a quiet smile was watching him.
“You’ve got an owl.
New Hogwarts student, I’m guessing.
Can’t find the platform?” “Yes, sir.” Relief hit so hard Harry’s voice almost cracked.
“Can you show me?
I’m going to miss it.” “Of course.
Follow me.” Hedwig gave an indignant hoot as the trolley jolted forward.
Harry muttered a quick apology and kept pace.
They stopped in front of an ordinary stone pillar.
“See that one?
Run straight at it.
Don’t slow down.” Harry barely had time to process the instruction before the white-haired man strode forward.
The stone surface rippled like water struck by a pebble.
His long white hair disappeared through the wall.
Harry swallowed, closed his eyes, and charged.
Cobblestones replaced smooth station flooring under the trolley wheels.
The air smelled of soot, steam, and hot oil.
A dark-red steam engine waited on the tracks, white clouds rolling from its stack.
Robed witches and wizards crowded the platform.
Someone shouted about a missing toad.
A broom was being stuffed into an overhead rack.
The sign overhead read Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
The white-haired man stood by an open carriage door, beckoning.
“Hurry up.
Train’s about to leave.
Find a compartment and stow your things.” Inside, the man lifted Harry’s trunk onto the luggage rack with a casual flick of his wand.
“Thank you, sir.
I wouldn’t have made it without you.” “It’s nothing, Harry.” A small smile.
“You’ve helped me more than you know.” Harry assumed the man had simply recognized the scar.
A hesitant voice came from the doorway.
“Excuse me—any free seats?
Everywhere else is full.” A tall, thin red-haired boy stood there, freckled, wearing robes a size too small that left his wrists exposed.
He gripped the doorframe with one hand and his collar with the other.
“Come in,” Harry said.
“Sit wherever.” “Thanks.
Ron Weasley.” “Harry Potter.” Ron stiffened.
His eyes flicked to Harry’s forehead and away again.
“You’re that Harry Potter?
The scar’s real?” Harry pushed his bangs up.
The lightning bolt was plain.
“Cool.” Ron’s gaze shifted to the white-haired passenger.
Harry followed it.
“Lethean Styx.” Both boys assumed he was simply an older student.
Professors rarely rode the Express; they had Portkeys.
The snack trolley rattled to a stop outside the door.
“Anything from the trolley, dears?” Ron’s voice dropped.
“No… I brought sandwiches.” Something soft and distant moved behind Styx’s eyes—an old memory of after-school snacks and a different life.
He said nothing.
Harry noticed the embarrassment at once and dug into his pocket.
“My treat.
One of everything, please.” A Chocolate Frog immediately leapt for the window and made a clean escape.
Harry was left holding the empty box and a trading card.
“It’s Dumbledore,” Ron said.
“I’ve got three of him already.” As they watched, the figure on the card walked out of the frame.
Outside, the countryside rolled past under a warm late-afternoon light.
Harry and Ron talked without pause—one raised in the wizarding world, the other in the Muggle one.
Styx sat quietly in the corner, offering the occasional neutral comment.
Ron was just about to demonstrate a spell Fred had taught him for turning Scabbers yellow when a breathless voice appeared at the door.
“Has anyone seen a toad?
A boy named Neville lost his.” A curly-haired girl stood in the doorway.
Her eyes moved from Harry to Ron, who still held his wand half-raised.
“Are you casting a spell?
Let’s see it, then.” Ron cleared his throat.
“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow—turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!” Nothing happened.
The girl raised an eyebrow.
“Are you sure that’s real magic?
I’ve tried a few myself.
They’re rather more useful.” She pointed her wand at Harry’s glasses.
“Oculus Reparo.” The cracks vanished.
Harry took the glasses off, then put them back on, astonished.
Hermione’s gaze landed on the scar.
“You’re Harry Potter!
I read about you in Modern Magical History.
I’m Hermione Granger.” “Ron Weasley,” Ron managed.
Only then did Hermione notice the third passenger.
“Oh—Professor Styx.
I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” Styx lifted his head from the shadowed corner, expression mild.
“Hermione.
Aren’t you still looking for Neville’s toad?” She blinked, then turned back to the compartment.
“Right—have any of you seen a toad?” Three heads shook.
Styx drew his wand.
“What’s its name?” “Trevor.” “Accio Trevor.” A toad shot through the open door in a clean arc.
Someone in the corridor yelped about a flying toad.
Styx caught it neatly and handed it over.
Hermione stared.
“What spell was that, Professor?” “Fourth-year material.
Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four.
You’ll get there.” He nodded toward the corridor.
“Take it to Neville.
He’s probably frantic.
You two—change into your robes.
Hogwarts is close.”