McGonagall vanished as abruptly as she had appeared, leaving Stephen alone in his luxurious, but now seemingly ordinary, living room. He stood, surrounded by new items that, only yesterday, had seemed part of an alien, impossible reality.
For the next month, his estate transformed into a personal laboratory. Stephen systematically studied every item brought from Diagon Alley. First, he tackled the wand. He spent hours turning it in his hands, trying to understand its mechanism. How could such a simple piece of wood be connected to the energy that scorched shelves in the shop? He tried to find buttons, levers, hidden mechanisms, but discovered nothing. It was simply wooden, with a core Ollivander had mentioned. This "core"—what was it? And why did Thestral hair make it so "complex and dark"? He ran his finger over its surface, feeling a strange warmth that appeared when he simply held it. It was illogical and irritating, yet intriguing. He felt it wasn't just an object, but a key to something incredible.
His textbooks became the next object of intense scrutiny. He started with "Magical Theory," expecting to find clear laws and axioms. But instead, he found vague explanations based on "will," "belief," and "concentration." This was terrible! Where were the formulas? Where were the equations explaining how energy transformed from one state to another? He read about spells that, in essence, were just a set of words and wand movements. It seemed primitive and inefficient to him. How could one rely on such an imprecise science?
Stephen delved into the books, trying to formulate his own theories. He made notes in the margins, sketched diagrams, trying to conceptualize magic as a form of energy that could be measured and controlled. He attempted to correlate spell descriptions with the principles of physics, and each time he encountered discrepancies. It was frustrating, but at the same time, it ignited his zeal. He was convinced he could find the hidden laws that, in his opinion, wizards simply overlooked, relying on "magic."
His new snowy owl, whom he named Athena (after the goddess of wisdom, of course), proved surprisingly patient. She sat on her perch in his study, attentively watching him with her yellow eyes as he mumbled about "quantum magic" and "energy resonance." Sometimes he even addressed her as if she were a colleague.
"Do you understand this, Athena? They say for the 'Wingardium Leviosa' spell, you just have to wave your wand and say the words. But where's the physical force to lift the object? How is an anti-gravity field formed? It's absurd!" The owl merely blinked.
The month flew by in this intensive study. Stephen was ready for Hogwarts. Not because he believed in all these fairy tales, but because he saw it as a challenge. A challenge to his intellect. He was going to unravel this world, dismantle it, and understand how it worked. And then he wouldn't just be able to use magic, but control it on a completely new, scientific level.
September 1st arrived. In the morning, the Strange estate was unusually lively. Servants bustled about, loading his numerous, impeccably packed trunks into a luxurious limousine that was to take him to King's Cross Station. Stephen, dressed in his strictest yet, in his opinion, most functional attire, watched the process with disbelief. It seemed illogical to arrive at a magical school in such a ostentatious manner. But Mrs. Hudson had insisted.
At King's Cross Station, the usual commotion reigned. People hurried, announcers called out train arrivals and departures, the air was filled with the smell of steam and diesel. Stephen looked at the chaos of the ordinary world with disdain, but quickly focused on his goal. Platform 9¾. The letter had said to look for it between platforms 9 and 10.
The limousine stopped right at the station entrance. Stephen got out, and behind him, to his deep irritation, one of the servants unloaded his numerous, impeccably packed trunks. Stephen disliked drawing attention.
"This is inefficient," he muttered, looking at his luggage, which seemed too cumbersome for a public place. "And why so many things?"
He walked up to the barrier between platforms 9 and 10, which appeared to be an ordinary brick wall. He looked around carefully, trying to find any logical clue.
At that moment, slightly to the side, Stephen noticed a boy with messy black hair, round glasses, and... a distinct lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. The boy looked a little bewildered, holding a trolley with a large trunk and a cage containing a snowy white owl. His gaze darted uneasily between platforms 9 and 10.
The boy seemed to have noticed Stephen too—perhaps because of his unusually elegant limousine and impeccably dressed servant. He approached, his eyes looking at Stephen with curiosity.
"Excuse me," the boy said. "Are you going to Hogwarts too? I... I can't seem to find Platform 9¾."
Stephen frowned.
"You mean, you can't locate the correct platform? I, too, have encountered this systemic inefficiency. The letter specifies 'between platforms 9 and 10,' but here, obviously, is only a solid brick wall. Is this a spatial anomaly? Or an illusion? Can you provide information on how this platform operates?"
The boy blinked, clearly puzzled by his phrasing.
"I... I'm Harry. And I have no idea. I just found out about Hogwarts."
Stephen stared at Harry's scar.
"Harry... That's an unusual mark. The result of an injury? Or an anomaly? In any case, it's irrelevant. If you lack information, we must find someone who can provide it. That is the most efficient path to problem resolution."
He looked around and saw a large, noisy family with fiery red hair, clearly preparing for a journey. They were pushing trolleys with bulky trunks and cages from which came the hooting of owls and the meowing of cats. Some of them seemed to pass straight through the brick barrier without any effort!
Stephen pointed them out to Harry.
"Look. Those individuals evidently know how to pass through. They are our source of information."
He decisively headed towards the group. Harry, slightly overwhelmed but curious, hurried after him, pushing his trolley.
"Fred, George, are you coming?" shouted a tall, good-natured woman with bright red hair, standing next to one of her sons.
Stephen, wasting no time, approached her, Harry slightly behind him.
"Excuse me, madam," Stephen began, his tone polite but demanding. "We are unable to access the platform. We require Platform 9¾, but a wall obstructs passage. Can you explain the procedure for traversing this seemingly impenetrable wall? And provide instructions?"
Mrs. Weasley, seeing two bewildered first-years (one with extremely strange questions, the other simply lost), immediately smiled.
"Oh, dears, you must be first-years! First time here? Don't worry, it's quite simple. You just have to walk straight at the brick barrier between platforms nine and ten. If you're nervous, run. The main thing is not to stop."
Stephen looked incredulously at the wall, then at Mrs. Weasley.
"Run into a wall? That is dangerous. It is illogical and could result in injury. Are you certain this is the sole method? And, by the way," Stephen added, not taking his eyes off Harry's forehead, "this young man has a unique scar. That likely holds some significance?"
Mrs. Weasley, hearing this, looked at Harry, and her gaze fell on his scar. Her eyes widened.
"Harry Potter?!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with surprise and joy. "Oh, my goodness! Ron, Fred, George, Ginny! Come here! It's Harry Potter!"
Harry blushed, and the other Weasley children immediately crowded around him, examining him with curiosity. Stephen observed this reaction, noting in his notebook: "Unusual scar elicits strong social reaction. Likely associated with a well-known event."
"Now, dears," Mrs. Weasley said, gently nudging Harry and her son Ron. "The train's about to leave! Ron, you go first!"
Ron, looking slightly shy, nodded and, taking his trolley, ran headlong into the wall. And disappeared.
Harry looked at Stephen, then at the wall.
"Shall we try?" he asked with some uncertainty.
Stephen pursed his lips. His brain refused to accept such an unscientific concept. However, the facts were clear: people were disappearing into the wall. Therefore, it worked. He took a deep breath.
"Alright, Harry. I surmise it's a portal activated by momentum. Perhaps there's a protective field to prevent harm. Follow my lead, but be prepared for the unpredictable."
Stephen, still analyzing the situation, resolutely pushed his trolley straight into the brick wall. He braced himself for impact, for pain, for a humiliating collision. But nothing happened. Instead, he felt a strange dizziness, similar to the sensation of Floo powder, and suddenly found himself on an entirely different platform. Harry followed him, appearing almost immediately.
Platform 9¾ was filled with hundreds of children and their parents. Above Stephen's head hovered a massive scarlet steam engine, puffing clouds of smoke. The inscription on it read: "HOGWARTS EXPRESS." Around them was a joyful din, laughter, and farewells. It was an organized chaos, unlike Diagon Alley, but still too much emotion for Stephen.
He quickly looked around.
"Train located," Stephen muttered. "Portal transit confirmed, though the principle of operation remains unclear."
Stephen and Harry exchanged glances.
"Well," Harry said, smiling. "Looks like we made it."
Stephen nodded. "We." It was a new sensation.