Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Fred and George were soon called away by Lee Jordan, who seemed to have gotten his hands on something new—his bulging pockets were even twitching.

Hermione and Ginny didn't return to their original compartment and instead took seats here. Hermione was listening closely as Ron recounted the earlier chaos at the train station.

She'd arrived early and hadn't known that the entrance to Platform Nine had been sealed, and now she was reacting with startled gasps.

She could hardly imagine anything worse than being late on the very first day of term.

"But why would the platform be sealed?"

"Good question. I'd like to know that myself," Ron muttered, rubbing his forehead. Like Harry, he'd slammed full-force into the barrier.

If not for the trolley softening the impact, he might've ended up with a scar to match Harry's.

"It was probably a Ministry screw-up. The school wouldn't expel you over that."

"Obviously they wouldn't expel us. We made it onto the train."

"But have you ever thought about what you'd do if you hadn't?" Hermione asked suddenly.

The question caught everyone's attention.

"Go home and try again tomorrow," Ginny offered first, sneaking another glance at Harry.

If everyone went back, maybe Harry would return to the Burrow too. She thought it quietly, not daring to meet his eyes.

"Have Dad drive us," Ron said, his eyes lighting up. "I've been dying to try the flying feature on that car."

Mr. Weasley owned a Ford Anglia with all kinds of magical tweaks—like expanded interior space and a flight charm.

Fred and George had flown it to Little Whinging over the summer to break Harry out of the Dursleys' attic.

Ron had been itching to drive it himself ever since.

"Uh… the Knight Bus?" Harry added softly. He only knew about it because Harold had told him.

"Oh, honestly—I'd rather be a whole day late than ride the Knight Bus to school," Ron grimaced. "Harold, surely there's another way?"

"There is," Harold said. "You can ask the Ministry to arrange a Portkey to Hogsmeade. Or just use the Floo Network. If you explain what happened, they won't say no."

"That's a good one," Ron said brightly.

Definitely the most practical solution.

"Wait—none of you thought to write a letter to the professors?" Hermione looked at them in disbelief, then glanced pointedly at Hedwig in her cage.

"Harry, you have an owl."

"I… I forgot," Harry said, sheepishly. He honestly hadn't thought of that.

They all returned to brainstorming excitedly. If something like this happened again, at least they'd be ready for it.

By midday, the plump trolley witch passed by. Harry rushed to buy a mountain of sweets—more than last year—until the table was practically buried.

He loved these treats. Since they weren't available at school, he always stocked up when he had the chance.

Of course, that wasn't lunch. Mrs. Weasley had packed them ham sandwiches, and Harold even got one. They were surprisingly tasty.

"You're lucky—Mum didn't pack pickled beef today," Ron said. He clearly wasn't a fan of that particular option.

Harold also pulled out the bottles of butterbeer he'd bought from the Leaky Cauldron. He'd considered getting a hot meal, but the thought of the whole train car smelling of garlic had quickly put him off.

The butterbeer was an instant hit—far more popular than pumpkin juice. The three bottles vanished quickly between the five of them, and with sandwiches and cauldron cakes for dessert, it made for a fairly satisfying lunch.

Afterward, they passed time playing wizard chess and Exploding Snap.

Harold hadn't been interested at first, but after losing two games in a row to Ron, he found himself getting a bit too into it.

Outside, the sky was getting darker, and the temperature in the carriage was dropping fast.

Through the window, they could already make out the shadowy horizon—Hogwarts Castle perched high on its cliff, its turrets and towers silhouetted against the gloom.

The soft glow of lanterns lit up the dim carriage.

"We're almost there," Hermione said. She remembered that the train hadn't taken much longer to arrive once the lights came on last year.

"In five minutes, the Hogwarts Express will arrive at the station. Please leave your luggage on board…"

The familiar announcement echoed through the car, and Harry and the others rushed to clear the table and throw on their school robes.

The train came to a halt, and they joined the crowd jostling its way onto the platform.

"First-years! First-years, over here!" came Hagrid's booming voice.

Harry instinctively started following Ginny toward Hagrid, only to meet the curious eyes of the wide-eyed new students—and Hagrid's puzzled expression.

"Harry, wrong way," Harold grabbed his arm and yanked him back. "You're in second year now. No more boats."

"Sorry—I forgot." Harry ducked his head and ran back to Ron. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"I didn't expect you to sprint off like that," Ron said. "You moved faster than a Snitch."

After parting with the first-years, they followed the older students along a narrow, muddy path that led to a row of over a hundred carriages—or rather, carriage cabins.

"Looks like we're taking those to the castle," Hermione said, watching some upper-year students climb aboard.

Each carriage fit four. Once they were all seated, the carriage began to jolt forward, moving smoothly.

"That's so weird—they're moving on their own," Harry marveled.

"Must be magic," Hermione replied. "Just like the boats last year. I mean, hardly any of us knew how to row, right?"

Harry nodded. That did make sense.

The carriages passed through the grand wrought-iron gates and trundled up a winding hill toward the castle.

Eventually, the carriage came to a halt. Harold was the first to step down and immediately spotted the Whomping Willow nearby.

Under the moonlight, it looked peaceful—its leaves rustled faintly, like it was stretching after a nap.

Harold was struck by a sudden thought.

If Harry and Ron hadn't made it onto the train this morning… weren't they supposed to fly the enchanted Ford Anglia and crash it straight into the Whomping Willow?

How many branches would've snapped off? Maybe even a chunk of the trunk…

If Harold had just been there, waiting nearby to collect the debris…

No. No, stop thinking like that.

He felt a stab of heartbreak and stood there, lost in thought, until Professor McGonagall's voice called them forward.

Only then did he tear himself away from the Whomping Willow—glancing back one, two, three times—before finally stepping into the castle.

(End of Chapter)