The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels, a warm compartment with quite comfortable seats, the flickering views of winter nature outside the window, a personally conjured thermos of hot chocolate prudently taken from the Hogwarts house-elves—what else is needed for a calm and measured trip home?
Only now did I realize how much I missed this complete solitude at Hogwarts. There, one way or another, you are among other students. Yes, undoubtedly, there are students on this train too, and if not for the silencing charms removing external annoying sounds, I would hear the light noise and hubbub from other kids going on vacation. I locked my compartment—I have the right.
So I rode, under the rhythmic clatter of wheels. I would like to say that I thought about something important, or at least just thought, but that would be dishonest to myself. Usual thoughts—what will be at home, what will be at school after the holidays, what will next year be like, will I find something interesting in the library? And also, I need to visit the Headmaster and find out more about the Restricted Section. It is clear that more specialized knowledge is stored there, the competent use of which requires good basic skills to prevent fatal mistakes. Usually, it's always like this—the more complex the magic in terms of execution, the more serious the consequences of stupid mistakes can be.
And there are many more such "ifs" and "shoulds" in my head.
When it finally got dark outside, the Hogwarts Express arrived in London. I took few things with me—an Alaska-type jacket, a hat, a scarf, and other trifles. Well, and the triangle backpack, in which everything important and not so important is stored. That's why I didn't have to pack—I quickly got out of the compartment even before the train stopped completely and reached the exit from the car literally a moment before stopping at the platform.
Stepping onto the platform, I was quite surprised. No, I knew that wizards use a hidden platform, or maybe even one located in another dimension or reality altogether. At least the trip route hinted at this, the imperceptibly changing landscapes, the absence of towns and villages along the route, and they should have been there, thanks to geography knowledge for that. But the most amusing thing was that when approaching London, we saw London, but the tracks themselves, tunnels, and everything else… In general, strange and incomprehensible. Maybe it's worth walking along the tracks from this platform as an experiment and seeing what happens? Possible, but not now.
Around, on the old-fashioned station platform made in the style of the turn of the century, among bright brick walls, under the vault of a high roof with many black beams and load-bearing structures of black color, many adult wizards of different ages and clothing styles bustled about. Not as colorful as in Diagon Alley, no, but the style—a mixture of everything with everything. There were citizens in quite ordinary suits and raincoats, there were those in tailcoats and frock coats, over which they wore robes with fur collars and other decorations. In the clothes of ladies and dames, only one trend could be traced—say "No!" to open or revealing outfits. Only a couple stood out with strict trouser suits and no less strict robes.
In this crowd of meeters, I reasonably did not meet a single adult familiar to me, and a couple of moments later students poured out of the train. Noisy joyful meetings, joyful smiles, or strict approving nods. One question—where to go? Again, I know that the magical platform has the number "nine and three-quarters," and the passage to it is hidden in a column between the ninth and tenth platforms from the Muggle side—I overheard this. Good. And where is the exit? And as luck would have it, no Muggle-borns or half-bloods known to me are visible anywhere who could at least theoretically live in the ordinary world. Maybe I should have gone with Justin and the guys after all? They offered.
"What, Granger," Malfoy's voice sounded from behind, and I hurried to turn around, meeting the gaze of both him and his eternal companions in the person of Crabbe and Goyle. "Got lost?"
"And good health to you, sirs…"
This phrase was enough to load them for a whole second, after which Malfoy grimaced and moved straight ahead, as if not seeing me. How was it in the book? Without taking the wand out of the holster, I moved my hand with it a little, supplying magic to the wand forcibly. Naturally, magic poured out of it in accordance with the movements.
"Protego Muris…" I whispered very quietly, because experiments clearly show that this is enough.
An invisible wall appeared between me and the advancing "threat" in the person of three guys who decided to shove me with their shoulders, expressing their "pah". Draco flew into this wall, accelerating himself with arrogance, and a moment later his comrades followed him.
"What the…" Malfoy grabbed his nose, clearly injured along with his pride. Actually, like his comrades.
Remembering the experience of the last skirmish, as well as the ability of local wizards to learn about the last spells used from the wand, I sent a pulse of neutral energy through my magical instrument, immediately trying to absorb everything back. Honestly? It's a little painful—the body of a local wizard doesn't know how to absorb and store energy specifically. Although it would be more correct to say that it knows how, but in such small quantities that it can be neglected. However, such a move should work and hardly anything remained on the wand, for not for nothing does the clarity of removing "spell casts" from the wand depend on the time since their application.
"It seems you should see a doctor. Sudden nosebleeds are suspicious," I extended a hand to help the guys up, but Malfoy slapped it away, rising.
"You…"
All this time I couldn't help but see a couple standing out among many, approaching us quite swiftly, but at the same time importantly and majestically. Draco couldn't see—they were approaching from behind. A stately middle-aged man, in a black suit of an old cut and in a robe with fur. His distinctive features in this crowd of wizards were platinum hair below the shoulders and a black cane. Next to him literally floated a lady of indeterminate age, almost the same light blonde of truly beautiful appearance, who with her image forced at least a dozen men of different ages on the platform to turn after her.
Draco was already about to issue some next nastiness, or stupidity, or both at the same time, but the man sharply and quite smartly put the handle of the cane on the guy's shoulder.
"Draco," the man spoke dryly, clearly the guy's father. "It is not worth being rude to someone who offered you help."
The younger Malfoy, along with his comrades, sharply stepped aside, letting the older generation pass, although an incredible desire to speak out in my address was read in Draco's eyes.
"And you," Malfoy Senior looked at me, expressing with his face and gaze a whole range of emotions, restrained and not so much, "I presume, are that newcomer about whom there are rumors?"
In this person, ingrained disdain for the likes of me, my origin, and other similar things could be read not without difficulty. And he tried to express light curiosity with slight benevolence. Good. But his wife, and the fact that the spectacular blonde is indeed the wife, was even better. If not for the elf shard, I would never in my life have seen something more behind the ice mask with mandatory elements of arrogance and contempt. I bet this lady went through very harsh educational drilling in childhood to tame a hot-tempered and even explosive character. But it's not me who is such an expert in people—in the elf's life there were a couple of familiar elves of a similar type and only much greater life experience allowed them to completely hide their character from people.
"Maybe that one, maybe not," I smiled politely, not intending to tell about myself in response to such a vague and general question. "Draco, should I hope that you will introduce us, or will you continue to shoot lightning at the floor with your eyes?"
I didn't say anything special, no matter how you look, but this allowed observing the reaction of the others. With Crabbe and Goyle, everything is clear—they are slow-witted, though not stupid. Malfoy Senior looked at his son expectantly, like: "Indeed, show some manners." But Lady Malfoy instantly harbored a tiny, childish resentment against me, because I touched a nerve regarding her son. True, her face didn't change. Nostalgia for these ice masks came from the elf shard, but left just as quickly—to the abyss with such things! Without need, not a foot in politics and high society. I even hope they won't let me there.
"Father, Mother," Draco spoke. "My classmate from Hufflepuff, Hector Granger. My father, Lucius Malfoy, and mother—Narcissa Malfoy."
Introduced briefly, I would even say, in the minimum form permissible by etiquette.
"A pleasure, sir. Lady," I nodded.
"I heard," Lucius smirked slightly, and I got a persistent feeling of déjà vu, "that you are talented in Transfiguration, and even in Potions."
Quickly scrolling through all possible sources of Lucius's information in my thoughts, I compared it with some knowledge about the Malfoys, photos from Hogwarts albums of past years.
"Oh, come on," I mirrored Malfoy Senior's slight smile. "I am sure Professor Snape exaggerates my talents. Although this is strange, because he is not inclined to exaggerate virtues. Unlike shortcomings."
"To some extent, you are right. Well," Malfoy Senior nodded and smirked. "You are surely in a hurry to meet your parents."
It wasn't a question, but a statement.
"Just as for such a busy person as you, it is not fitting to linger here excessively. All the best, sir, lady, classmates," I nodded, and receiving a barely indicated nod, turned around and walked away.
My attention was attracted by a couple of law enforcement officers in red robes, and I headed towards one of them.
"Excuse me, sir," I addressed a middle-aged man. "Could you tell me where the exit to the Muggle part is?"
"And why do you need it?"
"I am Muggle-born, but due to some circumstances, until this day I traveled to Hogwarts only by Floo."
The wizard in the red robe looked at me carefully, assessing me for a couple of seconds.
"There," he nodded sparsely at one of the brick columns. "Need to pass through that column."
"Okay, got it, thanks."
Approaching the indicated column, I wanted to put my hand on it, but it went through. Well, means this is the way. Just as I wanted to step forward, I felt a small and childishly nasty clot of magic flying at me. With a volitional effort, I localized it, detached it, and returned it to the sender. Looking over my shoulder, I didn't see a possible opponent and just shrugging my shoulders, took a step through the intangible barrier, and here I am standing in the middle of a rather gray station. King's Cross, if the inscription on the wall is to be believed. Ordinary people in winter clothes scurried around, and I headed for the exit, following the signs.
Leaving the station building and going out to a well-lit parking lot, I noticed our car standing in a prominent place. Even though it got dark outside long ago, the city, and especially the capital of England, is quite bright thanks to the abundance of street lighting. Father got out of the driver's seat and waved to me. I didn't make him wait and approached quickly.
"Hi," I smiled.
"Oh, how you've matured!" Father patted me on the shoulders. "And not even half a year has passed."
"Good nutrition, healthy sleep, and physical exercises," I shrugged.
"Come on, get in quickly."
"And Hermione?" opening the back door of the SUV, I threw the backpack there and sat down myself.
"Did she come too?" Father was surprised, sitting in the driver's seat.
"Wasn't she supposed to?"
"You know better. You study at the same school."
"We are in different Houses and both very busy. Rarely communicate."
"Hmm… Sad. Let's wait then. We agreed on your visits back in the summer, and usually Hermione writes herself whether she will come or not."
"Okay."
Before we could start a conversation, we both noticed a somewhat disheveled Hermione running out of the station under the light of lanterns, starting to look around quickly.
"And here is your sister," Father smiled, looking in the rearview mirror.
"Could have said that she was coming too. Although… Could have said it myself."
Hermione sighed with relief and walked quickly towards the car. Father got out to meet her too. Joyful meeting, hugs, Hermione immediately started telling something, and ten seconds later she was already sitting next to me in the back seat.
"Hector, why didn't you say you were going home too?" she looked at me with a slight reproach while Father drove out of the parking lot.
"You didn't say either, Mione. I thought you decided to stay with friends."
My sister looked at me like I was an idiot.
"You'd better tell," Father interrupted our failed dialogue. "How is your Hogwarts? How is magic?"
"Oh, everything is just fine…" Hermione spilled like a nightingale, and I decided to withdraw from the conversation, looking out the window at the colored lights of the evening city preparing for the holiday.
Soon we left the borders of London, and halfway to Crawley, Hermione ran out of enthusiasm, and she quieted down.
"And what will you tell?" Father looked at me in the rearview mirror.
"Prefer to tell you and Mom simultaneously, so as not to repeat myself."
"Hmm! Smart."
Quite quickly we arrived home. Still, Hogwarts lacks this… Ordinariness, perhaps? Ordinary good private house, ordinary Christmas decorations, ordinary snow, and I am sure that at home there will be ordinary bustle, English-warm, "cozy". Funny word, by the way.
At home, Mom met us, busy in the kitchen. Receiving my portion of hugs and joy for my maturation, I was sent to my room, like Hermione. Even though it's almost a week until Christmas, preparations are already evident—soft yellow lights of garlands, aromas of herbs and fruits. On the way to my room, I couldn't help but notice the living room, where here and there were white and red decorations, a decorated Christmas tree, and classic Christmas stockings hung on the fireplace.
Entering the room, I examined this rather modest dwelling. Boards covered with incomprehensible symbols were in place, as, in fact, everything else. Looking into the wardrobe to change, I saw the same clothes that were bought for me to grow into. Now they fit me just right, although I still feel a little thin. I think it's like anorexia, only in reverse. I wonder how long I will seem thin to myself?
Dressed in home clothes, I went down to dinner. satisfying the first hunger, we all proceeded to pick at plates with cutlery, slow eating, and conversations.
"Tell us what's new and interesting," Mom inquired.
Hermione began to tell again, but in rather general phrases, and no longer about studies, but about friends, how great it is to learn all sorts of new things, and the like. About new subjects this year, about how interesting it is to learn them.
"And why are you silent?" Mom smiled at me.
"Hermione copes well with the description of school life. There is a small difference, of course."
"So tell," Mom took a cup of tea from the table.
"Well, what to tell…" I leaned back in my chair. "Our House is friendly, I joined the team easily. Everyone treats each other friendly and tolerantly, but without intrusiveness. We train in magic, play games. Studies do not cause difficulties, everything is clear and accessible, although sometimes there is too much water in the text of textbooks and other literature."
"And what about Quidditch?" asked Father, and Mom nodded in agreement.
"A very dangerous sport," Hermione shook her head.
"Books are also dangerous, sis," I smiled, causing reciprocal smiles from parents, but indignation from Hermione. "You read about some very complex magic, warnings are not given in the book, you make a tiny mistake, and you can lie down for a month with consequences. Or get an irreparable injury. Or kill someone."
"No way! Everything will be written in the book, what and how to do."
"Yeah? And never made a mistake?"
Hermione blushed slightly and looked away. Did I guess?
"Oh, and in what?" I leaned towards my sister. "Come on, tell."
"Indeed," Mom egged her on. "You didn't tell us about any failures."
"There were no failures!" Hermione pouted but quickly pulled herself together. "Just imagined the consequences of some mistakes."
"Yeah?" once again I expressed doubt in her words, and the same doubt was read on the faces of parents, but decided to close the topic.
"So what about Quidditch?" the question already asked sounded again.
"Hmm… Handball on flying brooms, and with two dodgeballs flying here and there. At a relatively low height and with the possibility of breaking something."
"Sounds terrible," Mom was quietly indignant, and Hermione nodded actively, agreeing.
"You have medical education, and perceive everything within medical norms for an ordinary person," I shrugged.
"Do wizards differ?" Father asked a reasonable question.
"Hermione," I turned to my sister. "Have you ever… I don't know, cut your finger?"
"Happened."
"Healed quickly?"
"Well… Hard to say," sis pondered, adjusting a strand of unruly chestnut hair. "Don't know, have nothing to compare with."
"Well, roughly?"
"The wound closed very quickly, and the cut… A couple of days."
"That's fast," Father summed up. "Of course, depends on the depth of the cut."
"Quite deep. I almost cut off the fingertip then."
"And didn't say anything," Mom shook her head reproachfully.
"Th-ere," I drawled, and took a cup of tea from the table, taking a sip. "If you really want to, you can independently, on magic and desire alone, heal a very large range of injuries on yourself overnight. And there is also medicine. There bones are regrown overnight. Even a whole arm, under certain conditions."
"Wow!" parents were surprised in unison, but only Father continued. "Phenomenal, simply."
"Exactly!"
"And that's what I'm talking about. Except that it will hurt at the moment of injury, but what is pain if not just a signal?"
On this, today's conversations came to an end, and I went to my room. Tired, would like to sleep.
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