Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—a peculiar node steeped in the interweaving of magic and reality.
Clamor was its eternal theme. Thick white steam billowed up from beneath the scarlet Hogwarts Express, forming a scalding white curtain that shrouded the platform. The air was heavy with moisture, tinged with faint coal smoke, and laced with an indescribable dryness unique to the magical world.
Caged owls hooted in discontent. Parents lowered their voices, only to raise them again as they issued endless reminders, their words drifting through the air in fragments. First-years setting foot here for the first time vented their barely contained excitement with shrill cries.
All of it combined into a chaotic symphony.
Eric Prince pushed his luggage trolley forward with an impassive expression. His very existence was the only rest note in that symphony.
He moved among the crowd, yet it was as if an invisible barrier separated him from everyone else.
The eleven-year-old children around him had eyes sparkling with curiosity and yearning for the unknown, their gazes chasing every owl that flew past, marveling at every strange piece of luggage.
Eric's eyes, however, were far too deep for a child's—utterly calm, without the slightest ripple.
He was not a child.
At least, his soul was not.
As a transmigrator, his mind housed a cold will known as the [Causality Investment System]. To him, this world was no paradise of miracles and magical adventures.
It was his hunting ground.
A place to reap causality points, stockpile trump cards, and lay out plans for the future.
Nine years at Hogwarts—here, the torrent of history would surge into monstrous waves. And he intended to become the most shrewd investor of this stormy golden age.
"System activation… final confirmation… Host identity: Eric Prince."
A cold, mechanical voice echoed deep within his consciousness, devoid of emotion, composed solely of logic.
"Beginner task activated: Before the Hogwarts Express reaches its destination, the host must complete one causality investment of no less than Grade A on any key plot character."
Eric's steps never slowed.
His leather shoes struck the solid ground with steady, rhythmic taps as he boarded the train.
Unlike the other first-years, he had no need to crane his neck and search carriage by carriage for an empty seat.
From the moment he stepped onto the platform, his target had been perfectly clear.
The corridor inside the train was narrow and swaying. Outside the windows, the platform slid backward, the farewell crowd turning into blurry patches of color. The corridor was packed with students—some shouting and roughhousing, others sharing snacks brought from home. The air was thick with the sweet, cloying smell of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.
Eric ignored it all.
His gaze pierced through the jostling heads, locking precisely onto a compartment midway down the carriage.
Behind the glass door sat two boys.
One had black hair and a pair of battered round glasses mended with clear tape. His expression carried the restraint and confusion of someone entering a new environment for the first time, yet within those green eyes lay a trace of resilience not easily noticed.
The Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter.
The other boy was freckle-faced, with the Weasley family's trademark flame-red hair. He sat there a little awkwardly, hands unsure where to rest, his eyes darting about.
Ron Weasley.
Eric knew this was the point where fate converged—the starting line of the legendary Golden Trio.
According to the established script, he should have quietly walked away, waited for Hermione Granger's slightly boastful self-introduction, waited for Draco Malfoy's arrogant provocation.
But Eric had no intention of following the script.
His system was called "Investment," not "Waiting."
Investment was about timing—and about taking the initiative.
Clatter—
He did not knock.
There was no need; knocking would only give them time to prepare themselves mentally.
He reached out and slid the compartment door open in one clean, decisive motion. The metal track screeched sharply, instantly severing the slightly awkward conversation that had just begun inside.
The two boys were jolted by the sudden intrusion.
Harry Potter looked up in confusion. Surprise in his green eyes swiftly turned into caution. He straightened unconsciously, the hands resting on his knees tightening slightly.
Ron Weasley's reaction was far more dramatic. He sprang up from his seat as if pricked by a needle, his cheeks flushing as his hands flew behind his back, as though hiding some unspeakable secret.
Eric paid their reactions no mind.
He stepped into the compartment and sat down in the seat opposite them. His movements were smooth and elegant, without the slightest hesitation—more like the rightful owner of the compartment than an intruder.
He then dragged his suitcase in from the corridor and set it in the empty space beside him, everything unhurried and composed.
As he settled in, the air in the compartment instantly grew thick.
Awkwardness.
A suffocating awkwardness, mixed with scrutiny and unease, fermenting within the cramped space.
Harry and Ron exchanged looks, silently communicating their confusion. Who was this uninvited guest? What did he want?
Eric did not rush to speak.
He was waiting.
Like a seasoned hunter patiently standing by a trap, waiting for the moment when the prey was at its weakest. He knew perfectly well what Ron Weasley's greatest sore spot was—and he had calculated precisely when it would be laid bare.
The train swayed rhythmically as the Scottish Highlands flashed past the window.
Time ticked by.
Lunchtime drew near.
From the corridor came the crisp jingle of a snack trolley's bell, along with the witch's cheerful call.
"Anything from the trolley, dears? Cauldron cakes, Chocolate Frogs?"
The trolley passed their compartment door, but neither Harry nor Ron moved.
Harry was new to the wizarding world and had no concept of his own wealth—he didn't even know what those Galleons and Sickles truly represented.
Ron's reason, however, was far simpler.
Poverty.
When the corridor finally fell silent again, leaving only the ka-chunk of the train rolling over the rails, an ill-timed sound rang out in the congealed air.
"Grrr—"
A drumlike, unmistakably loud growl from Ron's stomach.
Ron's face went up in flames.
The red spread visibly from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.
Under the gaze of the well-dressed, coldly composed boy sitting opposite him, Ron Weasley's meager self-esteem was being sliced apart inch by inch. He could feel that calm, emotionless stare upon him—more piercing than any mockery.
After hesitating for a long while, his lips twitching several times, hunger finally won out. He pulled something from his luggage, wrapped in greasy, stained parchment.
A pitiful sandwich.
The edges of the bread had gone dry and stiff, curling slightly to reveal the coarse texture inside. Between them lay a slice of corned beef so thin it was nearly translucent, dull in color and miserably alone.
This was everything Mrs. Weasley, having given all she could, managed to prepare for her youngest son's lunch.
Ron was clearly mortified by it.
He practically buried his face in the sandwich, taking a large bite as quickly as possible, trying to finish it at once—using the act of chewing to hide his embarrassment and avoid the maddeningly calm gaze across from him.
Now.
Unhurriedly, Eric placed his own lunchbox onto the small table between them.
Click.
With a soft sound, the exquisite silver lunchbox was opened.
A rich aroma—rosemary mingled with roast chicken—instantly and dominantly flooded the cramped compartment.
Inside lay two neatly cut roast chicken sandwiches. The golden bread was sprinkled with herbs. In a small side compartment were several plump, fresh berries, glossy red. At the very edge sat a slice of chocolate mousse cake, the dark brown sponge coated in a smooth layer of chocolate glaze that gleamed enticingly.
This lavish scent formed a brutally stark contrast with the meager smell coming from Ron's shriveled sandwich.
Ron's chewing froze.
His eyes were glued to the luxurious lunch, his throat bobbing unconsciously. Then, as if burned, he lowered his head sharply to stare at the hard piece of bread in his hand.
The red on his face deepened from a flush to a purplish hue.
Eric gently pushed the lavish lunch toward the center of the table.
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as though stating a fact verified countless times.
"Weasley?"
Ron jerked his head up, blue eyes filled with wariness and humiliation.
"I've heard your family has a lot of people."
Eric looked at him calmly, his deep eyes reflecting Ron's reddened face.
"Seems the food really doesn't stretch very far."
There was no contempt in the tone. No mockery.
It was simply a cold, poison-tipped steel needle—precise, steady, merciless—piercing every disguise and shred of dignity Ron Weasley had woven throughout his childhood.
This kind of flatness hurt more than any malicious laughter.
Because it stated the truth.
A truth he had tried with all his might to conceal, now revealed so casually.
"You—!"
Ron's lips began to tremble uncontrollably.
In his clenched, anger-tightened grip, the pitiful sandwich was crushed out of shape, crumbs falling in a soft cascade.
He wanted to retort, to roar, to hurl what he held at that calm face opposite him.
But he couldn't say a thing.
Because every word was true.
Poverty.
The word was branded deep into the blood and bones of the Weasley family—and into the deepest core of Ron's inferiority and nightmare.
Harry Potter sat awkwardly to the side, glancing between Eric and Ron, utterly at a loss for what to do. The sword-edge tension left him restless; he could only watch as Ron's face shifted from purple-red to a faint bluish tinge.
A violent surge of emotion—an explosive mix of extreme inferiority and towering rage—erupted from Ron Weasley like magma before a volcanic blast.
It was a mental storm on the verge of solidifying.
And at that very moment—
A cold, emotionless mechanical prompt sounded with pinpoint precision in Eric's mind.
[System Notification: Grade A Fate Deviation detected! Target: Ron Weasley.]
[Emotional Anchor: Extreme inferiority and anger.]
[Congratulations, Host. Grade A Causality Investment completed!]
[Reward obtained: Causality Points ×50!]
[Reward obtained: Ron's Inferiority Treasure Chest ×1!]