The Dursleys dumped Harry and his trolley at the curb and sped off, delighted to be rid of him. Inside the concourse, clocks gleamed and loudspeakers crackled. Platforms Nine and Ten sat perfectly ordinary with a perfectly solid barrier between them.
A plump, kind-looking witch shepherded a flock of red-haired children past. "Packed with Muggles," she murmured, then to her boys, "Now, what's the platform number?"
"Nine and three-quarters," said the tallest, touching a shiny P badge.
"Percy's the new prefect," one twin stage-whispered. The other sighed, "Perfect Percy."
Harry edged closer. "Excuse me—how do I get onto the platform?"
"Straight at the barrier between Nine and Ten," she said kindly. "Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous."
One twin jogged casually and vanished. The other twin grinned at Harry. "If you're not real, we're seeing things."
"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the first twin reappearing, to which their mother replied, "Don't be ridiculous. You are Fred."
A little girl tugged at her robes. "Mum, can't I go?"
"You're not old enough yet, Ginny. You'll see him off."
Harry gripped the trolley, aimed at the barrier, and ran. Cool air folded around him—and then there it was.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters
Steam breathed over a crowded platform; cats yowled in baskets, owls hooted, and the scarlet engine gleamed like a dragon at rest. Harry stood grinning—then that thin, restless unease rose again, as if he were late to meet someone he couldn't name.
Down the platform stood the dark-eyed boy he'd glimpsed before—Void—a black bird perched on his gloved hand. The twins arrowed toward him.
"Good to see you again!""How's Luna—didn't she come with—?"
The bird nipped their teasing fingers; they yelped and laughed, gentling their touch. Void looked up. His eyes met Harry's and a small, relieved smile touched his mouth. The knot in Harry's chest loosened a notch—mysteriously, stupidly. Then Void's gaze slid past Harry's shoulder; the smile thinned and went out. He turned toward the carriages. The raven hopped to his shoulder, and the twins fell in beside him.
Mrs. Weasley's hand warmed Harry's elbow. "Best get aboard, dear."
The Train
The corridor was a river of robes and chatter. A round-faced boy hovered, anxious. "Has anyone seen a toad? I've lost him."
"We'll help you look," said a girl with lots of bushy hair, already organizing a search.
Farther along, a pale boy practiced a superior expression in the window, two heavyset shadows in his wake.
Harry slid open a door mid-train. A tall, freckled boy in hand-me-down robes hovered outside with a battered trunk.
"Er—everywhere else is full. Can I—?"
"Yeah, of course." They heaved the trunk in together.
"I'm Ron. Ron Weasley."
"Harry. Harry Potter."
Ron's eyes flicked to the lightning scar and then away, manners battling amazement. "Blimey—sorry."
"It's fine," Harry said—and realized he meant it.
The whistle shrieked; the train shuddered and pulled away. Hands waved through steam, then the view opened onto green fields stitched with hedgerows.
"Anything off the trolley, dears?" sang a cheerful voice. Harry, giddy with the idea of choosing, bought Chocolate Frogs, Every Flavour Beans, and warm pumpkin pasties. Ron produced a squashed sandwich and a sleeping rat named Scabbers; in moments the seat became a small kingdom of sweets.
They traded bites and faces. Ron gagged on a sprout-flavoured bean. Harry's frog leapt—he caught it—and the card showed Albus Dumbledore wandering off the frame. Ron talked about his family: Bill and Charlie out of school, Percy the prefect, the twins a menace, his mum knitting jumpers, and how Weasleys always landed in Gryffindor.
The door banged open. The bushy-haired girl peered in with the toad-boy. "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one. Are you sure that's a real spell?" She eyed Ron's wand. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple ones and they worked for me." She turned to Harry. "You're Harry Potter." (Not a question.) "I hope I'm in Gryffindor; it sounds the best." She added to Ron, brisk as a nurse, "You've got dirt on your nose," and swept on.
When the corridor cleared, unease crept back. Harry glanced at the window and caught Void's reflection moving past—slim, contained, the raven steady as night on his shoulder. The knot unpicked itself a little. Harry blinked, baffled at himself.
The door slid again. The pale boy from the glass stepped in with his hulks. "So it's true," he drawled. "Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts." He offered a hand. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Ron snorted; Malfoy's eyes flicked to Ron's faded robes. "You'll find some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. I can help you there."
"I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," Harry said.
Colour rose under Malfoy's pale hair. One bodyguard reached for a frog; Scabbers woke up and bit him. The boy yelped; Malfoy threw a tight smile and retreated.
"Reckon we made the right enemies," Ron said, voice shaking with relief until it turned into a laugh.
As afternoon deepened, someone shouted for first-years to get their robes on. Harry tugged his new ones over his clothes; in the glass, two boys in too-long sleeves became students. The nerves surged again—then Void strode by with the twins, the raven's beak tucked against his collar, and the fizz calmed like water after a stone stops skipping.
Hogsmeade and the Lake
Cold night air flooded the platform. "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" bellowed a huge voice.
Hagrid loomed out of the mist, lantern swinging. He led them down a steep, slick path toward a black lake. "No more'n four ter a boat!"
Harry and Ron clambered in; Neville and the bossy girl squeezed beside them. In the next boat, two identical flaming heads bracketed a slim figure with a raven—their laughter carried; Harry didn't look straight at him, but the nearness cooled his nerves.
"Heads down!" Hagrid called as they slid under a curtain of ivy into a rock tunnel. Then, all at once, the boats drifted into open starlight, and the castle rose on the far shore—turrets and windows blazing like a ship of stone and fire. Harry's mouth fell open.
"Yeh'll get yer first sight o' Hogwarts," Hagrid said proudly—as if he'd built it.
They bumped gently at an underground dock and scrambled after Hagrid up dripping steps, through a heavy door, and into the vast Entrance Hall where torches flamed and their footsteps echoed.
The Antechamber
A tall witch with a firm mouth and a tartan-trimmed robe waited there. Professor McGonagall explained, crisp as chalk on slate, about the four Houses, about points and cups, about how their triumphs would earn them and rule-breaking would cost them. "The Sorting will take place momentarily."
When she left, chatter rose and fell like a nervous tide.
Ghosts swept through the wall—the Fat Friar beamed; a stern lady in pearls drifted by; a nearly headless man tipped his hat, and his head flopped on by a shred of skin. "Nearly Headless?" someone whispered, appalled. "How can you be nearly headless?" "Like that," Ron whispered back, wide-eyed.
Harry's stomach swooped. He found himself searching—an old instinct now, like looking for the North Star. Over by a shadowed pillar, he found him: Void, the raven a neat piece of night on his shoulder. The boy glanced over and—just that—Harry's heart stopped trying to bolt. The relief was ridiculous. He didn't know the boy. He didn't know why the sight helped. But it did.
McGonagall returned. "Form a line."
The Great Hall and the Hat
They filed into a hall lit by thousands of floating candles beneath a ceiling that looked exactly like the night sky outside. Four long tables stretched under banners of red-and-gold, green-and-silver, yellow-and-black, blue-and-bronze. At the front sat a three-legged stool and a patched, ancient Sorting Hat.
The Hat sang—of founders and their favoured traits—and when it finished, the Hall applauded. McGonagall lifted a scroll.
"Abbott, Hannah!" The hat considered, then Hufflepuff.
"Bones, Susan!" Hufflepuff again.
"Boot, Terry!" Ravenclaw.
"Granger, Hermione!" The Hat was indecisive but said Gryffindor; she ran to the table, flushed and pleased.
"Malfoy, Draco!" The Hat didn't hesitate: Slytherin. The green-and-silver table thundered.
"Longbottom, Neville!" The hat took ages; Neville trembled, then it shouted Gryffindor and he bolted, almost forgetting to take the Hat off.
"Weasley, Ronald!" The brim tugged back and forth; at last: Gryffindor. The twins whooped; Percy clapped, dignified.
Harry's mouth was dry as dust. The knot cinched tight again. He couldn't help it—he looked for the steadying point. Across a sea of heads, he found it—Void, still among the first-years. The boy's gaze skimmed Harry's face and away again, as brief as a hand resting between the shoulders: you'll be fine.
"Potter, Harry!"
The whisper tore through the Hall like wind. Harry walked to the stool, legs hollow, and the Hat dropped over his eyes.
Hmm, purred a small voice. Difficult. Very difficult… Plenty of courage. Not a bad mind. Talent—oh yes. And a thirst to prove yourself. Where to put you?
Not Slytherin, Harry thought, hard enough to bruise. Anywhere but Slytherin.
Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great there.
Not Slytherin.
Well, if you're sure—better be…
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Red-and-gold erupted. Ron whooped; the twins hammered the table. Harry pulled the Hat off, legs wobbly, and hurried to the space they'd made for him.
As he sat, the knot inside him finally gave. Maybe it was the roar and the colors and the friend across from him grinning like he'd won the lottery of brothers. Maybe it was something simpler: that in all this noise, if he looked—if he needed to—he could still find that one steady point.
He didn't know why it mattered.
He only knew the unease was gone.