A Breeze of Power
While Percy was off on his peculiar adventure searching for Neville's runaway toad, Harry had stayed behind, talking with Ron —as he liked to be called— about the wizarding world.
Although Harry had already had some contact with magic, he didn't really know how wizards lived their everyday lives. Ron, on the other hand, seemed delighted to explain everything in great detail.
According to his story, magical children learned a few basic things about magic at home, but like everyone else, they received their wands right before entering Hogwarts. In Ron's case, however, he hadn't gotten a new one—he had inherited his older brother's.
"Yes, and this rat… well, she used to belong to my brother Percy," Ron began, raising his voice slightly, as if proud of the tale. "Actually, he had another one before, but one day a completely strange wizard appeared at our house. He was so terrifying that even my dad got scared. The man took Percy's rat without saying much. You should've seen it—it was really creepy. For a moment, I thought You-Know-Who himself had come to kill us all. But no, he only wanted Percy's rat. I don't know what he wanted it for, but a few days later he gave Percy a baby rat—probably one he found in some field nearby. And now she's mine. Her name's Scabbers… well, Scabbers the Second, but I don't think the second part is really necessary."
Ron took the rat out of his pocket. She was brown, plump, and looked well cared for. She settled herself on the table and began to munch on some seeds contentedly.
Harry watched her curiously. The animal looked back at him while chewing and then rolled onto her back on the table, completely relaxed.
"She wants you to pet her," said Ron with a grin. "Be careful; she's a professional manipulator. She acts cute just to get food."
Harry let out a quiet laugh and gently scratched the rat's belly. The creature wriggled happily and then sat up, clearly expecting a treat.
"See? Told you," Ron said before handing her a small sweet, which Scabbers devoured eagerly.
"Oh, right. I've been practicing a spell my brother Fred taught me. Want me to show you?" Ron said enthusiastically.
"Sure," replied Harry, intrigued.
Ron took out his wand, a bit worn and chipped at the tip, and raised it over the rat. However, just as he was about to wave it, the compartment door burst open.
A girl with thick, bushy brown hair and slightly flushed cheeks rushed in. When she saw the two boys sitting there, she froze, realizing she had walked into the wrong compartment. She was about to turn around and leave in embarrassment, but then her eyes landed on Ron, who still had his wand raised.
"Are you about to do a spell? Can I see it?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.
"Eh… ah, yeah," Ron stammered, still confused by the sudden interruption. Then, nervously, he turned back to his task.
Harry watched the girl curiously. She looked familiar, though he couldn't quite remember from where. Still, he decided not to think too hard about it and turned his eyes back to Ron.
"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow," Ron recited solemnly. But nothing happened. The rat remained sprawled on the table, chewing calmly.
Ron shrugged. "Well, maybe my brother tricked me. After all, it's Fred."
"Are you sure that's a real spell?" the girl asked, crossing her arms. "Doesn't seem very effective, does it? I tried a few simple ones myself before coming here, just to practice, and they worked. No one in my family is a witch or wizard, so when my letter came, it was a complete surprise—but a very nice one! From what I've read, Hogwarts is the best school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. I've already learned almost all the first-year books by heart. I hope that'll be enough. Oh, by the way, I'm Hermione Granger. And you are?"
Her stream of words came so quickly that Harry and Ron were momentarily stunned into silence.
"Uh… I'm Ron Weasley," muttered Ron awkwardly, introducing himself as best he could.
At that moment, Harry remembered that "special training" Arthur and Luther had once given him and Percy about how to behave in front of a lady. He had found it ridiculous at the time—especially after overhearing them whisper that it was a foolproof way to be a "heartbreaker." Luckily, Percy was the one who actually took it seriously.
"I'm Harry Potter," he said simply, polite but without the gallant bow he knew his brother would have made without hesitation.
"You're really him?" Hermione asked, a mix of surprise and excitement in her voice. For a moment, she seemed to recall something, and her eyes lit up. "You're the boy from Diagon Alley! The one who walks without watching where he's going."
Harry remembered it too. "Ah… well, yeah," he admitted, a little embarrassed.
"Boiled snails…" she murmured, astonished. "I know all about you, of course. You're mentioned in several books—Defense Against the Dark Arts, A History of Magic, Great Magical Events of the 21st Century… You're the Boy Who Lived."
"Yes," replied Harry with a forced smile. "And that's not even counting the number of children's stories they made up about me. My brother always laughs whenever he finds one."
"Oh, right," said Hermione, suddenly remembering something. "You should probably get changed; we'll be arriving soon."
And just as quickly as she had appeared, she left the compartment. She was like a small whirlwind of words that swept through and vanished in a matter of seconds.
"Whatever house I end up in, I hope she's not in it," muttered Ron, staring at the door where the girl had disappeared.
Harry was about to reply when the door swung open again. For a moment, he thought it might be his brother Percy—but it wasn't.
It was the pale, blond-haired boy they had seen earlier at Madam Malkin's shop, accompanied by two boys with broad builds—almost as large as Dudley. The three of them entered the compartment with an air of superiority, as if they already owned the train.
The blond boy's gaze immediately found Harry. His eyes, which at first showed mere curiosity, quickly shifted to anger… and then to open, burning hatred.
"You're Harry Potter?" he asked with disdain, his voice dripping with venom. In his mind, pieces fell into place that he didn't want to accept: this was the same boy he had seen with that woman his father called a traitor to wizardkind—someone even worse than blood traitors. And now he realized it was Harry Potter. That made his fury boil even more.
"Yes," replied Harry, his eyes narrowing, his tone so serious that the air seemed to tighten for a moment.
"I'm Draco Malfoy," the boy said, as if his name should carry importance. There was arrogance in his voice, and open hostility he didn't bother to hide.
Hearing the name, Ron—who had been watching the scene with growing discomfort—coughed to disguise a laugh that escaped him.
Draco noticed instantly. The hatred that had been directed at Harry shifted toward Ron, who felt the tension rise.
"Find my name funny, do you?" Draco asked coldly. "Ah, of course, I know who you are. My father told me about the Weasleys—poor folk who can barely feed themselves."
His eyes swept over Ron's patched robes and bright red hair with barely concealed disgust.
Then he turned back to Harry.
"A traitor to magic standing beside a traitor to blood," he sneered. "You know, Potter, there are far more powerful families in the wizarding world than you could imagine. Aligning yourself with them"—he gestured toward Ron with a look of contempt—"will only speed up your downfall. Just like that woman you call your mother. Now I know she isn't your real one. I wonder if she'll end up like your true parents, following their same path."
His gaze darkened, and his voice slithered into a venomous whisper. "And I'm sure you'll end up the same."
The words hit like blows. Ron's face turned red with rage, his fists clenching as he refused to let anyone insult his new friend. Harry, though his body trembled with anger, still managed to think clearly.
"You'd better leave," he said calmly, his voice low and firm, not a trace of fear in it. Even without magic, he knew those three were no match for him.
"Leave? We're not really in the mood, are we, boys?" Draco said with a twisted grin.
The two boys behind him smirked maliciously, cracking their knuckles as they stepped forward menacingly.
"We've eaten everything we brought," said the first, eyeing the pile of sweets on the table. "You lot seem to have plenty, so we'll just take it all."
Harry said nothing. He simply stared at them, then reached for the small satchel that always hung at his waist. From it, he pulled out a book and opened it calmly. He didn't need to read it; he already knew what to do. The way his magic worked required the book to be opened… and then closed. It was almost like a ritual—a way to channel his power without relying on a wand.
Draco scoffed. "What's this, Potter? Going to give us a reading lesson?"
Slowly, Harry lifted his other hand—the one not holding the book—and pointed it at them.
"Blizzard," he said quietly.
A fierce gust of wind exploded through the compartment. The air whipped violently, scattering candy wrappers and rattling the glass before flinging the three intruders backward. The wind hurled them out of the compartment with brutal force, slamming them into the corridor wall.
The impact echoed loudly. All three collapsed in a heap, dazed. Draco, who had been standing behind his two companions, ended up crushed beneath their weight, groaning in pain as he struggled to move.
At that precise moment, Percy returned from his "lost toad adventure." He had stayed behind a few minutes longer to make sure Neville didn't accidentally strangle Trevor with affection, which explained his delay.
When he arrived, the first thing he saw was a trio of boys flying out of the compartment. He raised an eyebrow curiously and peeked inside. Harry stood there, book open in hand, wearing a perfectly controlled expression of anger.
"Wow… the little Harry causing trouble again," Percy remarked with a teasing grin.
Harry shot him a sharp glare, but Percy already knew what to do in such situations. Since he didn't have his sword on hand, he opted for his favorite tactic in moments like this: a swift, tactical retreat.
Meanwhile, Ron remained frozen, mouth agape and eyes wide. Just a few minutes ago, he had been proudly trying to demonstrate a spell that didn't even work—and now he had witnessed Harry effortlessly cast what looked like a third or fourth-tier spell.
And he had done it without a wand.
Only with a book.