St. George's Primary School

Winter afternoons in Little Whinging were stingy with sunlight. It was like flecks of gold hiding behind the clouds, barely filtering through the mist to fall on the neat streets and cast a faint warmth over the drab houses.

Yulian nudged Harry's arm, and the two walked side by side out of the Dursley family's yard. Behind them, Aunt Petunia's deliberately subdued complaints faded into the wind like a string of discordant notes.

Harry wore an old, oversized padded coat that still didn't fit. Its sleeves had been rolled up several times but still covered half his hands, while the frayed hems of his faded jeans were smudged with barely noticeable dust.

He walked with his head slightly lowered, his black hair falling over his forehead to hide his lightning-shaped scar. Only when he occasionally looked up did his emerald-green eyes glimmer, like stars quietly twinkling in the dark.

"Winter here is much colder than in Bordeaux." Yulian breathed out a cloud of white vapor. Watching it quickly dissipate, he turned to smile at Harry.

Winters in Bordeaux were cold too, but there was always a damp breeze carrying the lingering scent of the vineyards. The wind there wasn't as wet and chilly as England's, where it stung your face like tiny grains of ice.

Harry froze for a moment, then hesitated for several seconds before answering softly, "Yeah, it just snowed, after all. I hate snow the most. The stairwell gets especially freezing at night."

His voice was quiet, carrying the calm of someone used to it.

Yulian's heart sank a little. He had known Harry wasn't treated well by the Dursleys, but he hadn't realized they could be so cruel.

He looked at Harry's reddened ears and chapped fingertips, and thought of his own childhood at Black Vine Winery: the cozy fireplace, the hot chocolate his grandmother made by hand, and the gentle voice of his grandfather teaching him magic in the Chamber of Secrets.

Their two childhoods were as different as night and day, like a starkly contrasting painting.

"Did you come from France?" Harry asked this time, taking the initiative. "Does it snow there too?"

"Yeah, it does. Snow can be beautiful sometimes." Yulian picked up the thread of their conversation and pointed toward the clouds on the horizon.

"In Bordeaux, when it snows, the vineyards turn into a white ocean. Ice crystals cling to the vines like diamonds. When the sun comes out, they melt, and mist rises all over the estate. The air is full of the smell of soil."

Harry lifted his head and looked in the direction Yulian pointed, a hint of longing in his eyes.

In all his 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 Harry's expression, Yulian patted him on the shoulder. "Don't rush, Harry."

"Time is like a ceaselessly flowing river. It passes through rugged valleys, and in the end, it will reach the wide plains. Trust in the passage of time. Something good is always waiting downstream."

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

"Of course, Harry."

"Yulian, you sound so philosophical."

"Haha, I copied those lines from a book."

"Hahaha!"

After saying goodbye to the Dursleys, Yulian returned with his parents to their home on Charing Cross Road. The old buildings appeared and disappeared in the evening mist, like a hazy oil painting.

Nearby, the bookstore owner and the old man from the record shop were arguing heatedly over whether The Beatles were greater than Bach. Meanwhile, the Leaky Cauldron's leaky sign hung crookedly, as if it might fall and hit some unlucky passerby at any moment.

The family business was doing well. Black Vine Winery's wines were making their first impression on the British market, and many distributors had shown keen interest.

Even The Daily Mail had interviewed Yulian's father, Altair, and lavished praise on Black Vine wine.

Clara was busy arranging Yulian's enrollment. After much consideration and comparison, she finally chose St. George's Primary School in central London.

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

On the first day of school after Christmas, Clara personally walked Yulian to the school entrance.

The arched gateway of St. George's Primary School was overgrown with ivy. Its leaves had withered in winter, but stubbornly clung on instead of falling completely, making it look just like a crooked wizard's hat.

A red-brick school building, pointed windows, and a tidy lawn—everything about the place was classically English. Even the children chasing each other on the playground wore neatly pressed uniforms, as though they could step straight into a children's adaptation of Pride and Prejudice at any moment.

"Study hard, and call me if anything happens." Clara gently patted his head.

Yulian nodded, slung on his backpack, and walked into the classroom. In his navy coat, white shirt, and ruler-straight tie, with his emerald-green eyes and the Black family's trademark upright bearing, he drew a flurry of whispers as soon as he entered:

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

"Yeah, he looks just like Oliver from Oliver Twist!"

"How does he look like an orphan? He's obviously a little prince."

By then, a sociable girl had already come over to greet Yulian, and he answered the children's questions one by one.

"Did he come from France? Does he eat snails every day?"

"His name's 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. "Everyone, this is our new transfer student, Shiloh Yulian Black. He's just moved to London from France, so be sure to make him feel welcome."

A soft stir went through the classroom as the students curiously sized Yulian up.

Yulian dipped his head slightly and gave a textbook-perfect polite smile. "Hello, everyone. Just call me Yulian. I'm happy to be your classmate."

Mrs. Davis pointed to an empty seat at the back of the classroom. "Yulian, you can sit there."

Yulian walked over and sat down in the empty seat. Beside him was a blond boy, who smiled at him in a friendly way. "Hi, I'm Thomas. Did you really come from France? Are there lots of vineyards and wineries there?"

"Yes, I used to live in Bordeaux. My family runs a winery." Yulian smiled as he answered.

Thomas's eyes lit up. "Wow, then you must've tried lots of good wine! My dad likes wine too. He always says Bordeaux wine is the best in the world."

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

They chatted for a little while before the bell rang.

The curriculum at St. George's Primary School differed somewhat from that of French schools, but the elementary lessons were far too easy for Yulian.

Having lived two lives, with the knowledge he'd gained in his previous one and the lessons he'd received from his tutor, he handled the basic language, math, and science classes with ease.

The elementary lessons Mrs. Davis taught weren't merely simple to Yulian; they were far too easy. So he often found his mind wandering to his grandfather teaching him magic in the Chamber of Secrets, to the Willow Wand, and to the words carved into the wall: "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."