Platform Nine

September 1st, Hogwarts began its term.

The morning mist over the Thames had yet to fully dissipate. Damon rose early, dressed in a well-fitted casual suit, took his lightweight suitcase, and set off for Platform Nine at King's Cross Station.

With a light sprint toward the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, Damon successfully entered Platform Nine and saw a deep red steam locomotive parked beside a platform crowded with travelers.

A sign on the train read: Hogwarts Express, Eleven O'Clock.

The steam engine's smoke curled above the chattering crowd as cats of every color wove between people's feet. Students pushing luggage carts were like colorful butterflies crashing into a spiderweb—the Weasleys' fiery red hair blazed in the fog, Malfoy's pale blond head floated above the crowd, and Hermione Granger's bushy brown curls bobbed up and down as she flipped through A History of Magic.

A first-year pushing a luggage cart collided with Damon's birdcage while running. Chachabarton flapped her wings indignantly inside the gilded cage, and a few snowy owl feathers drifted out.

"S-sorry—I think I was going too fast."

"No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have been standing here daydreaming."

A clear, low voice drew closer. Harry, who had fallen to the ground, instinctively looked up and saw a warm, slender hand. He grasped it without thinking and was steadily pulled to his feet.

Even though Harry Potter was a boy, he had to admit the boy before him was remarkably handsome. If they were already close friends, Harry might have clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Hey, mate, you're really good-looking."

But they were strangers meeting for the first time, so he naturally couldn't say that.

Regardless, this person left an excellent first impression on Harry. He couldn't help but speak:

"Are you also a new student coming to Hogwarts?"

"That's right. My name is Damon White. Just call me Damon."

"You're Harry Potter?"

"Yeah—it's me—"

Harry, who had been about to introduce himself, felt a bit awkward and instinctively brushed his hair over his scar.

He worried that this boy might pester him with questions like everyone else he'd met, or even get excited and shout.

If possible, Harry hoped not—there were still so many people on the platform!

To his relief and surprise, the handsome boy simply smiled and turned to leave, ending the conversation rather abruptly.

Watching the figure with a suitcase in one hand and an owl cage in the other, recalling that slightly mysterious smile, Harry instinctively followed.

"Is this your owl? She's the same color as my Hedwig."

"Yes, her name is Chachabarton."

The owl inside the golden cage cast a disdainful glance at Harry, clearly still annoyed about the earlier collision.

Harry gave an awkward smile and shot an apologetic look at Chachabarton, his mouth running away again:

"Chachabarton? That sounds like a strange name—I mean, it's a nice name."

"Your Hedwig is nice too. Bathilda Bagshot—A History of Magic, right?"

"How did you know!" Harry's heart surged with the joy of finding a kindred spirit, and his attitude grew warmer.

"Mm, I like reading in my spare time."

The crowd around them was too dense, so they couldn't talk much and began to push through with effort.

Harry found an empty compartment near the back of the train and happily turned to look for Damon, but the words died on his lips.

"Damon, there's a seat here."

The other's situation was truly unfortunate—the area he was in seemed especially crowded, and he was now almost packed in by a group of young witches.

When they saw Harry calling out to Damon, their enthusiasm waned a bit, allowing Damon to pass through the crowd and reach Harry's side.

"Whew, thanks for that, Harry."

The two placed their owls on the seats and then moved their suitcases toward the train door.

Harry tried to lift his trunk onto the step but couldn't budge it at all. When he strained, the box nearly came crashing down on his foot. Just then, he heard a strange incantation.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The weight in Harry's hands suddenly vanished. The trunk that had been impossible to lift now felt as light as a feather. He forgot about moving the box and stared wide-eyed at Damon, exclaiming excitedly:

"You've already learned magic!"

Seeing someone his own age cast a spell was far more shocking to Harry than anything Hagrid had shown him.

Those nights at the Dursleys' when Dudley would slap fairy tales in his face and yell, "Only freaks do tricks!"—now, it seemed he had found a group of freaks just like him. No, even better than him.

"It's just the simplest Levitation Charm. It's in Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. You'll learn it right after you enroll."

"No—it's not the same!"

Harry shook his head, wanting to say more, but then he caught himself—was he making too big a deal of this?

So he stopped talking and quietly placed his trunk in the corner of the compartment.

Just then, a haughty voice sounded behind them:

"Exactly, it's not the same at all. Some spells can have terrible consequences if mispronounced. I never dared to try. Being able to use it so freely shows your skill."

Damon turned and saw a girl with bushy brown hair, his gaze flickering briefly over her prominent front teeth.

Then the two boys sat down, and the girl introduced herself openly:

"Hello, I'm Hermione Granger."

"Damon White."

"Harry Potter."

"Ah!" Hermione suddenly let out a shriek, her voice trembling with excitement. "Is it really you? I know everything about you! Of course, I bought a few extra reference books—Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of Dark Magic, Important Twentieth-Century Magical Events—they all mention you."

"Mention me?" Harry said, feeling a sudden dizziness wash over him.

"Goodness, you actually didn't know? If it were me, I'd definitely try to find every book that mentions me." Hermione spoke with fervor.

At that moment, Damon silently pulled out a copy of Magical Defense Theory and began reading quietly.

He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking.

For Harry, the night he lost his parents was an eternal wound, and he could never take joy in being recorded for something like that.

Hermione noticed Damon reading, her eyes lighting up so brightly they nearly sparkled. For a moment, she was torn—should she keep talking to the legendary "Boy Who Lived," or start a new conversation with this fellow book lover in front of her?

Just as she was hesitating, a round-faced boy stood uncertainly at the still-open compartment door, stammering:

"Hello, can I sit with you all?"

"Of course, come in!"

Hermione spoke first, and Harry looked at the boy at the door with some anticipation.

"Hello, I'm Neville."

Neville instinctively sat down next to Harry, his fingers twisting together nervously.

Damon put down his book and glanced at Neville, a faint smile spreading across his face.

The Gryffindor Sword Saint? Right now, he looked like nothing more than a pure, simple boy next door.

"Neville, what's moving in your pocket?"

Harry looked curiously at Neville's pocket.

"Ah, it's my pet, Trevor. He always likes to run off."