Chapter 5
The morning of September 1st dawned clear and bright, with golden sunlight streaking through the curtains of Thomas Greene's bedroom. He had barely slept the night before—his mind had been buzzing with everything he had learned and experienced since Professor McGonagall had come into his life. Diagon Alley. Spellbooks. Owls. Magic. And today, he would finally board the Hogwarts Express.
His trunk sat packed at the foot of his bed, its worn leather corners slightly scuffed but holding all the essentials: his black robes, cauldron, books, and newly purchased owl, who blinked sleepily from inside her cage near the window. The midnight-black barn owl with white speckles had no name yet, but Thomas already felt a bond with her. He promised to name her once they settled in.
His mother knocked gently and peeked in.
"You ready, love?" she asked with a faint smile. Her voice wavered ever so slightly. He nodded, grabbing his wand holster and strapping it clumsily to his arm under his jacket.
"I think so. Platform nine and three-quarters, right?"
She nodded, though her eyes betrayed the same uncertainty that he felt. Magic still felt surreal, even after everything. But now wasn't the time to question it.
They took a cab to King's Cross Station. Thomas stared out the window most of the way, too jittery for conversation. His mother kept glancing at him, no doubt wondering what he'd gotten himself into—or what she'd agreed to.
The station was its usual busy self—travelers rushing to and fro, train announcements echoing from loudspeakers, and the scent of grease and metal heavy in the air. Thomas clutched the handle of his trolley, which held his trunk and the owl cage, as they navigated toward Platforms 9 and 10.
His heart began to race.
Platform nine and three-quarters.
He scanned the signs, then spotted the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Just a solid brick pillar. Ordinary, inconspicuous.
But he knew better.
"I think… I just need to run at it," Thomas muttered, adjusting his grip on the trolley.
"Run at the wall?" his mum repeated, eyes wide. "Thomas—"
"It's fine, they explained it," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "It's my turn."
He took a breath, dashed forward—and vanished through the barrier.
On the other side, he stumbled to a halt and gasped.
There it was: the Hogwarts Express. A gleaming scarlet steam engine, puffing gently beneath a high-arched glass ceiling. The platform bustled with robed families and students chatting, hugging goodbye, and hauling trunks toward the train.
Magic was real. And it was beautiful.
Thomas stood frozen for a moment until someone nudged past him, and he snapped out of his daze. He waved quickly as his mum appeared through the barrier, looking around in awe.
"I think this is where I go," he said.
She knelt and pulled him into a tight hug. "Be careful. And write to me, okay?"
"I will. I promise."
After a long moment, they let go. Thomas swallowed the lump in his throat, gave his owl cage a small pat, then boarded the train.
Inside, the Hogwarts Express was warm and lively. Laughter and chatter filled the corridors. He wheeled his trunk past crowded compartments until he found an empty one near the back.
Sliding the door shut, he heaved his trunk up onto the rack and collapsed onto the seat, letting out a breath. Alone at last, for a moment.
He stared out the window as the train lurched forward and began to move, the platform slowly disappearing. He imagined Ron and Harry meeting somewhere else on the train. Surely that was happening now. In his old world, they met in the very first compartment. That scene was iconic.
But this time, he was sitting alone.
Not for long.
The door slid open and in stepped a bushy-haired girl with a determined look on her face.
"Oh, good, everywhere else is full," she said, already dragging her trolley inside. "Do you mind?"
"No, go ahead," Thomas said, shifting to make room.
She plopped down across from him and extended her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger. Are you from a wizarding family?"
Thomas blinked. She was exactly like in the films. The way she spoke, her expression, the tone—he almost laughed.
She was so Hermione.
"Oh wow," he thought, amused. "She really is as annoyingly confident as portrayed in the first film."
He shook her hand. "Thomas Greene. I'm Muggle-born."
Her eyes lit up. "Really? Me too! Isn't this all just fascinating? I've already read all our textbooks. I even practiced a few spells already. I managed a perfect Alohomora last night."
Thomas blinked. "You… opened a lock?"
She beamed. "It took a few tries, but yes. It's all in the wrist movement and pronunciation. You should try it. Do you know any spells yet?"
"I've practiced a little," he admitted. "Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, Reparo. Nothing fancy."
Hermione nodded approvingly. "Those are good choices to start with. It's all about control. And pronunciation. Honestly, it's surprising how much proper enunciation affects wand movement—"
The door slid open again. A round-faced boy poked his head in, his cheeks pink with exertion.
"Um, excuse me. Everywhere else is full. Mind if I join you?"
"Of course not," Hermione said cheerfully. "Come in."
The boy shuffled inside and sat beside Thomas, placing a small toad in his lap.
"I'm Neville. Neville Longbottom."
Hermione perked up. "Longbottom? That sounds familiar."
Neville winced slightly, then adjusted his tie nervously. "Yeah, I was raised by my gran. Augusta Longbottom."
Hermione snapped her fingers. "That's it! I think I saw your name in a book—maybe Modern Magical History or Great Wizarding Families of the Twentieth Century?"
Neville fidgeted. "Probably. I… don't like to talk about it much."
Thomas watched him curiously. As he remembered about about Neville in the films. Then his eyes dropped to Neville's forehead—and his breath caught.
A faint lightning bolt-shaped scar.
No. That wasn't right.
That scar belonged to—
Hermione gasped. "Oh! I remember now!"
Thomas and Neville both looked at her.
"You're the boy who survived!" she blurted. "There was a whole paragraph about you in Modern Magical History—how your family was attacked and you were the only one who survived!"
Neville looked mortified. "Please… don't."
Hermione flushed, suddenly realizing her mistake. "Oh. I—I didn't mean to upset you."
Thomas stared at Neville, heart thudding.
Boy who survived. That… that was Harry's title. That was his story.
He felt his throat go dry. Something wasn't right. This couldn't be real.
He leaned forward.
"Wait… what about Harry Potter?" he asked quickly.
Neville and Hermione turned to him.
Neville tilted his head. "Who?"
Thomas's heart nearly stopped.
The compartment fell silent. The rattle of the train on its tracks seemed suddenly too loud.
Hermione frowned slightly, confused.
But Neville just looked genuinely puzzled.
"Harry… who?"
Thomas stared at them.
Something had gone very wrong.