St. George's Primary School

In the winter afternoon in Little Whinging, the sunlight was as stingy as scattered gold hidden behind clouds, barely penetrating the mist to sprinkle on the neat streets, casting a faint warm glow on the monotonous houses.

Yulian pushed Harry's arm, and the two walked side-by-side out of the Dursley family's yard. Behind them, Aunt Petunia's deliberately lowered complaints could be heard, like a discordant note gradually blown away by the cold wind.

Harry put on an old cotton jacket that was still too big for him, the sleeves rolled up several times still covering half his hands. The cuffs of his faded jeans were frayed and picked up imperceptible dust.

He walked with his head slightly bowed, his black hair falling forward to cover the lightning-shaped scar. Only when he occasionally looked up would his emerald-green eyes flash with a hint of light, like stars quietly twinkling in the dark night.

"The winters here are much colder than Bordeaux," Yulian exhaled a breath of white air, watching it quickly dissipate in the air, and turned to Harry with a smile.

Although the winters in Bordeaux were also chilly, there was always a humid wind carrying the lingering scent of vineyards, unlike the damp cold of the English wind, which felt like tiny ice pellets against the face.

Harry blinked, hesitated for a few seconds, then responded in a low voice, "Yeah, it just snowed. I hate snow the most. The staircase at night is especially freezing."

His voice was very soft, with a sense of accustomed calmness.

Yulian's heart sank slightly. He had known for a long time that Harry wasn't treated well by the Dursley family, but he hadn't expected them to be so harsh.

He looked at Harry's red ears and chapped fingertips, and remembered his childhood at Black Vine Winery, the warm fireplace, the hot chocolate his grandmother made with her own hands, and his grandfather's gentle voice as he taught him magic in the secret room.

Two completely different childhoods, like a painting with stark contrasts.

"Are you from France?" Harry asked this time, "Does it snow there too?"

"Yes, it snows too. Snow can be very beautiful sometimes," Yulian picked up Harry's words, pointing to the clouds on the distant horizon.

"In Bordeaux, when it snows, the vineyards turn into a white ocean, with grapevines covered in ice crystals, like they're adorned with diamonds. When the sun comes out, the ice crystals melt, and the whole estate steams, with the smell of earth filling the air."

Harry looked up, following his gaze, a hint of longing in his eyes.

In his entire life, he had only seen snow in Little Whinging – cold, dirty, and always accompanied by Dudley's teasing and Aunt Petunia's scolding. No one had ever told him that snow could be beautiful.

Seeing the look in Harry's eyes, Yulian patted his shoulder, "Don't worry, Harry."

"Time is like a ceaselessly flowing river. It passes through rugged valleys and will eventually merge into open plains. Trust the flow of time, and good things will await downstream."

"Wow, that's so poetic, Yulian. Can I call you Yulian?"

"Of course. Harry."

"Yulian, what you said sounds so philosophical."

"Haha, those are just lines copied from books."

"Hahaha!"

After bidding farewell to Aunt Petunia's family, Yulian returned to his parents' residence on Charing Cross Road. The old building was faintly visible in the evening mist, like a hazy oil painting.

Not far away, the bookstore owner and the old man from the record store were arguing heatedly about whether "The Beatles were greater than Bach," while the leaky sign of The Leaky Cauldron hung crookedly, as if it might fall at any moment and hit an unlucky passerby.

The family business was progressing smoothly. The wines from Black Vine Winery were making their debut in the British market, and many distributors had shown strong interest.

Even The Daily Mail had featured an interview with Yulian's father, Altair, praising Black Vine wines.

Clara was busy handling Yulian's school enrollment. After much selection and comparison, she finally chose St. George's Primary School, located in the center of London.

The school had a long history and excellent teaching quality. Most students came from middle-class families, and it wasn't too far from their residence on Charing Cross Road.

On the first day of school after Christmas, Clara personally took Yulian to the school gate.

The arched entrance of St. George's Primary School was covered in ivy. In winter, the leaves turned yellow but stubbornly refused to fall completely, looking like a crooked wizard's hat.

Red brick teaching buildings, pointed windows, neat lawns – a typical English campus. Even the children chasing each other on the playground wore neatly ironed school uniforms, as if they could rehearse a children's version of "Pride and Prejudice" at any moment.

"Study hard, and call me if you need anything," Clara said gently, stroking his head.

Yulian nodded, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and walked into the classroom. A dark blue blazer, a white shirt, a tie tied as straight as a ruler, paired with those emerald green eyes and the Black family's inherited upright posture, caused a murmur as soon as he entered:

"Wow, who is he? I've never seen him before."

"Yeah, he looks like Oliver from the movie 'Oliver Twist'!"

"How is he like an orphan? He looks like a little prince."

At this moment, a socially adept female student came over to greet Yulian. Yulian answered the children's questions one by one.

"He's from France? Does he eat snails every day?"

"His name is so long... Shiloh Yulian Black?"

Yulian's homeroom teacher was a kind middle-aged woman named Mrs. Davis.

She led Yulian to the front of the classroom and introduced him to the class: "Class, this is our new transfer student, Shiloh Yulian Black. He just moved to London from France. Everyone should get along well with him."

A slight commotion rippled through the classroom as the students curiously sized up Yulian.

Yulian nodded slightly, offering a textbook-perfect polite smile: "Hello everyone, you can just call me Yulian. I'm very happy to be your classmate."

Mrs. Davis pointed to an empty seat in the back row: "Yulian, you can sit there."

Yulian walked to the empty seat and sat down. Next to him was a blond boy who smiled friendly at Yulian: "Hello, my name is Thomas. Are you really from France? Does France have a lot of vineyards and wine?"

"Yes, I used to live in Bordeaux, and my family runs a winery," Yulian replied with a smile.

Thomas's eyes lit up: "Wow, then you must have tasted a lot of good wine! My dad also likes drinking. He always says that Bordeaux wine is the best in the world."

"Not really, I'm not old enough to drink yet. But my dad also says Bordeaux wine is the best."

After they chatted for a few minutes, the class bell rang.

St. George's Primary School's curriculum was somewhat different from French schools, but for Yulian, these primary school courses were simply too easy.

Having lived two lives, his knowledge from his previous life combined with his studies under a private tutor made him more than capable of handling these basic language, math, and science courses.

In class, the primary school material Mrs. Davis taught was no longer simple for Yulian; it was overly simple. Therefore, he often zoned out, thinking of the magic his grandfather taught him in the secret room, of that willow wand, and of the inscription on the wall: "It is not our bloodlines that make us who we are, but our choices."