Time flew by, and in what felt like the blink of an eye, August 30th arrived.
Roger reluctantly set aside his research notes on advanced communication charms, packed his bags, and made his way to King's Cross Station.
Even on an ordinary day, King's Cross was one of London's busiest transport hubs, thronged with commuters rushing in every direction. Today, however, the stretch between Platforms Nine and Ten stood out conspicuously.
It was packed with Hogwarts first-years and their parents, all trying—and mostly failing—to blend in with the Muggle crowd.
They were impossible to miss. Towering stacks of trunks teetered on trolleys, owl cages hooted indignantly, and an assortment of pets—owls, toads, cats, even the occasional rat—added to the chaos.
Some witches and wizards drew even more attention with their attire: heavy winter cloaks worn in the height of summer heat, or garish mismatched robes paired with Muggle trousers and jumpers, standing out like beacons among the suits and casual wear.
Roger found it baffling.
It was practically the twenty-first century. The wizarding world was full of half-bloods and Muggle-borns who interacted with Muggle society daily—yet so many pure-bloods remained utterly disconnected, as if the non-magical world were an alien planet.
How had centuries of coexistence produced such willful ignorance?
He himself was pushing a trolley laden with luggage, an owl cage balanced carefully in one hand. Inside perched Victor, the sleek barn owl he'd purchased in Diagon Alley, who regarded the bustling station with calm indifference.
The trunk was the same old leather one left by the Old Dark Wizard, sturdy but outdated. Roger had taken matters into his own hands, charming four small, discreet wheels onto the base to turn it into a rolling suitcase.
Such a simple, practical modification seemed never to have occurred to most pure-bloods; they relied almost exclusively on magic for everything, rarely bothering with manual ingenuity.
Carrying an owl in public still made him uneasy. He drew curious stares from Muggles all along the concourse—some amused, others puzzled—probably wondering why anyone would keep a large bird of prey as a pet in the city.
Honestly, Roger agreed it was absurd. With so many spells at their disposal, why hadn't wizards developed a proper communication system? Owls were unreliable in bad weather, slow over long distances, and notoriously indiscreet.
In the few seconds it took to weave through the crowd, several ideas sparked in his mind.
The ley-line magic studied at the Old Wizard's school could harness natural magical currents to transmit messages instantly across vast distances. Or why not adapt the Ministry's Trace monitoring system?
In the canon timeline, after Voldemort seized control, it pinpointed individuals to exact rooms—surely that precision could be repurposed for secure, real-time messaging.
"Once I'm at school," Roger thought firmly, "I really need to research this. Muggles already have mobile phones. Wizards can't keep relying on owls forever…"
"Sor… sorry…"
A timid voice interrupted his reverie.
Roger turned—and immediately recognized the boy with the messy black hair, round glasses, and faint lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.
Harry Potter.
Flanking him was the large, boisterous Weasley family, red hair unmistakable even in the crowd.
Roger's stomach tightened. Ever since witnessing the ferocious duel between his Old Teacher and the parasitic remnant of Lord Voldemort in Quirrell's body, he'd resolved to stay as far from the "Boy-Who-Lived" as possible.
Even in his weakened, half-dead state, Voldemort had been terrifyingly vicious. Harry seemed to attract the Dark Lord like a magnet—protected by Lily's sacrificial love, able to touch and survive what would destroy anyone else.
But Roger? No ancient blood protection, no prophecy shielding him. Getting too close to Harry was like stepping willingly into a vortex of mortal danger.
He turned sharply, quickened his pace, and headed straight for the apparently solid brick barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. Without hesitation, he pushed his trolley forward and walked through.
The world shifted. A rush of noise enveloped him: excited chatter, hooting owls, the hiss of steam. Before him stretched the scarlet Hogwarts Express, billowing white clouds from its chimney like a slumbering dragon along endless iron tracks.
The platform teemed with parents bidding tearful goodbyes and students clambering aboard, trunks banging against compartments.
While Harry was still wrestling his heavy trunk through a nearby door—helped (or hindered) by the Weasleys—Roger slipped through the crowd to the rear carriages and found an empty compartment.
To his mild surprise, it wasn't entirely empty. A thin boy sat by the window, nose buried in A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, clearly another first-year.
"Hello," Roger said, sliding his trunk onto the rack. "I'm Roger Lewis, first-year."
The boy looked up politely. "Wayne Hopkins, also first-year."
A brief exchange revealed Wayne came from a half-blood family—his mother a Muggle, his father a wizard.
Roger had just finished stowing his things when the compartment door slid open with a soft whoosh. A girl with exceptionally bushy brown hair stood in the doorway, chin tilted upward in a mix of confidence and determination.
"Can I sit here?" she asked.
Roger's heart gave an uneasy lurch. He had a very bad feeling about this. Wayne, however, sprang up eagerly to help lift her trunk.
Roger suppressed an inward grumble. When I was hauling my own massive trunk in here, you sat like a statue. Now you're Mr. Helpful?
Once everything was stowed and the girl had settled, she launched right in. "Hello! My name is Hermione Granger, first-year. It's nice to meet you both!"
"Wayne Hopkins, first-year!" Wayne replied brightly.
"Roger Lewis," Roger said, quickly shutting the door behind her to preserve some privacy.
The two of them were already chatting away.
Hermione spotted the book in Wayne's lap.
"Are you reading this too?" Her eyes lit up, words spilling out in an enthusiastic torrent. "I've already memorized the whole thing at home. Transfiguration is really difficult, though—I've tried so many times without success. But I have learned this one: Lumos!"
She drew her wand with a flourish and flicked it lightly. A steady, silver-white light bloomed at the tip, bright and controlled.
Not to be outdone, Wayne pulled out his own wand. "I can do it too!" He mimicked the motion, producing a similar glowing orb.
The twin lights illuminated their excited faces. Hermione and Wayne grinned at each other, an instant bond forming over shared enthusiasm.
Then both turned expectantly to Roger.
"Uh… I haven't learned that yet," he said with a forced chuckle and a shrug. On one level, he had zero interest in a primary-school magic talent show. On another, he certainly couldn't demonstrate by casting Imperio or turning them into rats.
"That's all right!" Hermione said immediately, clearly pegging him as Muggle-born like herself. She straightened a little, as if taking charge. "I can teach you. I mean, we can all learn together!"
She turned back to Wayne. "You must come from a wizarding family, right? Do you already know lots of spells?"
"Not really," Wayne admitted awkwardly. "My mum isn't a witch. After my magic showed, I did a couple of accidental things, but I can't explain the theory…"
"Magic is truly wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed, eyes sparkling.
Just as she was warming to the topic, the compartment door slid open again with a clatter. All three heads turned.
A thin, small boy stood in the doorway—messy black hair that refused to lie flat, round glasses, and that unmistakable lightning-shaped scar. Behind him loomed a tall, gangly red-haired boy with freckles, peering in curiously.
Roger sighed inwardly. He'd only wanted to avoid trouble. But trouble, it seemed, had legs of its own—and it had come straight to him.
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