King's Cross was alive in a way the orphanage never was.Not loud exactly, but filled with a steady current of movement that gave even still moments a hum. The stone floor carried the rolling wheels of suitcases, the brisk steps of office workers, the dragging shuffle of a boy who didn't want to go where he was being taken. Rowan kept close to McGonagall, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder, his other hand in his coat pocket where his fingers brushed the narrow case of his wand.
She moved with purpose, the kind that made people sidestep without looking at her.They passed the numbered platforms — 5, 6, 7 — the air smelling faintly of coffee and hot iron. McGonagall stopped between platforms nine and ten. A tall clock overhead ticked in a clean, unhurried rhythm. She glanced around once, making sure no one was too near, then leaned slightly toward him.
"Straight ahead," she said. "At the pillar. Don't slow down, don't hesitate. Best to keep your eyes forward."
Rowan looked at the pillar, then at her. "It's solid."
"In your world," she said, as if that explained everything.
The space between nine and ten was busy enough that no one seemed to notice them stepping out of the way. The pillar's bricks were warm in colour, not particularly remarkable. Still, as Rowan looked, he thought he caught a faint ripple along its edge — not like heat shimmer, but a thin seam where two things met.
"Go on," McGonagall said.
He shifted his bag and stepped forward, the ground sounding the same underfoot until it didn't. The seam in the air slid past his shoulders, and the noise of the Muggle station folded away behind him.
Steam curled in the sunlight. The scarlet engine dominated the platform, its paint deep and clean, the brass fittings catching every stray beam. The air smelled of coal and something sharper — a tang that reminded him of the faint burn in the back of his throat when magic moved too quickly through a room.
The crowd here was different. Robes in every colour moved between trunks and owls in cages. A boy laughed too loud over something in a sweetbox. A girl tried to shush her younger brother while their mother fixed his hair. The sound of so many voices wove together with the hiss of the engine.
McGonagall glanced at him once. "You'll be fine," she said. "Find a seat, keep your ticket handy. I'll see you at the castle."
She didn't touch his shoulder or shake his hand — she simply gave a small nod, the sort that implied a farewell without closing the door. Then she was moving back through the crowd, her figure quickly lost among the shifting robes.
Rowan stood for a moment, the strap of his bag still biting into his shoulder. The platform stretched on both sides, carriages lined in a long, straight row. Each door stood open, the interiors shadowed against the brightness outside.
He stepped onto the train. The floor gave slightly under his weight, the smell inside different — varnished wood, something faintly sweet, a trace of smoke. The corridor was narrow, the windows along the compartment doors catching flashes of the platform outside. Magic hummed here, not in great waves but in small, bright pockets — wands in cases, spells recently practised, the faint residue of something cleaned by magical means.
A group of older students pushed past him, laughing, one holding a large wicker basket that rattled slightly. Rowan shifted aside without comment, his eyes on the compartments. Most were already partly full. In one, a boy with pale hair sat with two others, his posture sharp and deliberate. In another, two red-haired boys leaned over something in their laps, grinning like conspirators.
He passed a compartment where a dark-haired boy with round glasses sat opposite a red-haired one. They were mid-conversation, glancing toward the door as he passed, but neither spoke to him. He kept moving.
Near the middle of the train, he found a compartment with a single boy inside. The boy was small, his robes slightly loose on him, and he was bent over a small green toad that sat unhelpfully on the seat beside him.
"Is this taken?" Rowan asked.
The boy looked up, startled. "Oh — no. Not at all. Come in, please."
Rowan slid the door shut behind him and set his bag on the rack above. The toad blinked at him once, then returned its attention to whatever toads thought about.
"I'm Neville," the boy said. His voice carried the uncertainty of someone introducing themselves for the first time in a while.
"Rowan," he said.
Neville nodded, then looked down at the toad. "This is Trevor. He keeps… getting away."
Rowan sat opposite him. "Does he get far?"
"Far enough," Neville muttered. He cupped his hands around the toad, who sat there without resistance. "Gran says if I lose him again, she'll… well, she'll be very cross."
Rowan nodded once. The train gave a small shudder beneath them, though it hadn't yet begun to move.
The door slid open again. A girl stood there, hair in a thick brown cloud, a slightly out-of-breath look about her.
"Oh — there you are!" she said to Neville. "I've been looking everywhere. You left your toad— oh, you've found him." She glanced at Rowan. "Hello. Hermione Granger."
"Rowan," he said.
She stepped in without hesitation, setting her small satchel on the rack. "I've been up and down the train twice already. There's a lot of people this year — more than I expected. Are you both first years?"
"Yes," Neville said.
"Me too." She smoothed her robes and sat beside Rowan. "Have either of you practised any spells yet?"
Neville shook his head quickly. "I don't… I mean, I tried, but nothing happened."
Hermione's expression softened slightly, though her voice stayed brisk. "It's probably just your wand — they're very particular. I've been reading ahead, of course. I've learned a few charms already."
Rowan listened without interruption as she explained one she'd been practising — a simple light charm. She pulled her wand from her pocket, a vinewood length with a polished tip, and pointed it toward the ceiling.
"Lumos," she said.
Light blossomed at the tip, clean and steady. Rowan's eyes followed the way it brightened the narrow compartment, the way it shifted the still air. He didn't comment, just watched as she extinguished it with a quick, "Nox."
Neville clapped once, quietly. Hermione looked pleased, though she tried to hide it. "We'll learn much more difficult ones soon," she said.
The train began to move, the platform sliding away beyond the glass. Hermione asked questions in quick succession — where they were from, whether they'd read Hogwarts: A History (she had, twice), what they thought they'd be sorted into. Neville answered slowly, Rowan more briefly, though he gave enough for her to keep going.
After a while, Hermione stood. "We should look for the trolley. And maybe walk the train — it's good to know where everything is. And we might find people we know."
Neville looked hesitant, but Rowan said, "Alright," and stood.
They moved through the corridor together. Some compartments had doors open, others shut. In one, Rowan saw the pale-haired boy again, now speaking animatedly to two others who seemed intent on listening. Further along, they passed a set of twins leaning over a large box that wriggled faintly. One caught Rowan's eye and grinned.
"Want to see something brilliant?" the twin asked.
Hermione kept walking. "We're busy," she called over her shoulder.
Rowan glanced back once, but followed her.
Near the end of the train, they passed a compartment where the boy with glasses and the red-haired boy were joined by a third, who was holding something small and white in his hands. Rowan didn't stop.
By the time they returned to their compartment, the trolley witch was making her way down the corridor. She had a cart stacked with sweets — Chocolate Frogs, pumpkin pasties, something called cauldron cakes. The air around it smelled rich, sugary.
Neville bought a pasty. Hermione chose a small box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Rowan bought nothing at first, then added a single pumpkin pasty after the witch waited without impatience.
They ate as the countryside rolled by. Hermione tried a bean and made a face. "Pepper," she said, then laughed.
Neville relaxed enough to talk about his grandmother's house, the greenhouse she kept, the old family wand she'd given him. Hermione responded with facts from books, Rowan with occasional questions that made Neville pause and think before answering. The rhythm settled without effort.
Outside, the land grew wilder. Trees pressed closer to the tracks, the sky deepened toward evening. Rowan leaned back in his seat, his hand brushing the pocket where his wand rested. The train carried them forward, the steady clack of its wheels as even as breath.
The train swayed gently as it cut through the late afternoon. Shadows from the trees flickered across the compartment, brief and uneven. The three of them sat in an easy stillness, the earlier rush of words from Hermione now giving way to stretches of quiet where the sound of the train was all there was.
Neville had Trevor in his lap again, the toad's sides rising and falling in slow rhythm. Hermione sat opposite, one leg tucked under her, her gaze moving between the book on her knees and the view beyond the glass. Rowan kept his eyes outside, though not because the countryside was so remarkable. It was the way it moved — fields giving way to hedgerows, then to dark clusters of pines, each change marked by a shift in the light.
Somewhere down the train, a burst of laughter carried, bright enough to cut through the steady rumble of the wheels. Hermione glanced toward the door but didn't move.
After a while, Neville spoke without looking up. "Have you ever been this far north?"
Rowan shook his head.
"It feels… different," Neville said, as if he couldn't quite place why.
Hermione closed her book. "It's the air," she said. "And the light. And the fact that we're going somewhere none of us have been before. That always makes things feel different."
Rowan didn't disagree, but he didn't add anything either.
The trolley witch passed again later, slower this time, a few trays empty. Rowan bought nothing; Hermione tried another bean and declared it to be "definitely grass." Neville bought a second pasty and ate it without much ceremony.
The rhythm of the train settled into them. They shifted in their seats now and then, Neville adjusting Trevor, Hermione changing the way she sat, Rowan leaning back with his arms folded, then forward with his elbows on his knees. Outside, the landscape kept changing — low hills now, scattered sheep moving like pale dots across the green.
At one point, a compartment door slammed further up the train, and the sound of running feet passed in the corridor. Hermione made a small frown but said nothing.
As the sky began to dim, the lamps in the corridor came on, throwing warm rectangles of light across the floor. The compartment grew cozier in the glow, the glass reflecting their faces faintly back at them.
Hermione checked her watch. "We should be there soon," she said.
Neville looked relieved. "Feels like we've been on here forever."
Rowan said nothing, but his hand brushed the pocket where his wand was. It wasn't a nervous gesture — more a reminder that it was still there, still waiting.
The train slowed once, then again, each time picking up speed after. The third time, the brakes caught in earnest. The wheels sang against the rails, the carriage giving a slight forward pull before settling. Outside, the darkness was nearly complete now, broken only by the glow of oil lamps on the platform ahead.
They stepped into the corridor, joining the steady press of students moving toward the doors. The air inside was warm; the air outside, when they stepped down, was something else entirely — cold, clean, edged with the faint scent of water and pine.
The platform was smaller than Rowan expected. The roof didn't stretch far, the wooden boards underfoot giving slightly when he shifted his weight. A voice called out above the sound of the crowd.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"
A large figure, taller and broader than anyone else present, held up a lantern that cast long shadows on the ground. Students began moving toward him in a loose line, some with the quick steps of excitement, others with slower, more uncertain motions.
Hermione caught Neville's sleeve to keep him close; Rowan followed without needing to be asked. The man's voice carried easily over the chatter as he herded them toward the edge of the platform and down a short slope.
The path wound toward a stretch of dark water. The lanterns cast uneven light on the surface, which lay still except for the faint movement near the shore. Four boats waited, each empty but tethered to the dock.
"No more'n four to a boat!" the man called.
Neville hesitated at the edge; Hermione climbed in first, steadying herself with a hand on the side. Rowan stepped in after her, the boat shifting slightly under his weight, then Neville followed with Trevor clutched in one hand. A fourth boy — small, sandy-haired — joined them without a word.
The man checked each boat quickly, then pushed off.
The motion was smooth, the water barely disturbed. Above them, the night opened wide, the stars sharp against the black. Rowan sat in silence, the sound of the oars in other boats carrying softly across the lake.
Then the turn came, and the castle rose into view.
It was not just large — it was layered, each tower catching the starlight in its own way, each window spilling a different warmth into the dark. Stone walls climbed from the rock as if they had been there long before anyone thought to shape them.
Neville let out a small breath. Hermione sat forward, her hair catching the light from the bow lamp. Rowan didn't move, but his gaze didn't leave the sight.
The boats carried them across without hurry. The dock on the far side was lit with more lanterns, their glow against the water making small gold trails. They stepped out one by one, the boards creaking underfoot.
The path climbed from the dock toward the great doors of the castle, which stood open just enough for the light inside to spill onto the stone steps. Rowan followed the others up, the cold in the air settling on his coat and hair, the sound of footsteps echoing faintly off the walls.
When they reached the top, the man with the lantern passed them into the care of another figure — smaller, robed, their voice lower but carrying just as clearly.
"In here, please," they said, guiding them toward a set of tall wooden doors.
Rowan stepped through with the rest, the air inside warmer, carrying the faint scent of parchment and wax. The doors closed behind them with a soft, final sound.