One month later, outside King's Cross Station, London, UK.
Grindelwald was dressed with impeccable formality today—a black double-breasted wool overcoat, paired with a matching shirt and a hand-tailored vest, silver buttons, and knee-high boots.
Standing beside him was the little Dark Lord, dressed in nearly identical fashion. One glance was enough to tell they were father and son...
No, wait—with that age gap, most people would assume grandfather and grandson.
It's worth mentioning that Kyle had not received an admission letter from Hogwarts—only a single letter from Dumbledore.
Between the lines, the message was crystal clear: You've had your fun gallivanting abroad. Time to roll back here.
Though Dumbledore hadn't said it outright, that was the gist.
Presumably, this was because, over the two-month summer break, Kyle had sent Dumbledore exactly two letters.
The first came shortly after arriving in France.
The second was a reply after Dumbledore mailed him a birthday gift.
That was it. Just two.
Why no more contact?
Distance was one excuse—owls struggled to cross such vast stretches.
But the real reason? Kyle simply forgot.
So Dumbledore was brimming with resentment.
"Old man, you really don't want to go see Mom?"
Grindelwald shook his head. "No. It's getting late. The train leaves at eleven, right? You should get going."
"Then… goodbye, old man! I'll write to you."
Kyle dragged his trunk past Grindelwald and headed into the station.
He didn't have much luggage. School supplies and such had been purchased back in February and left at Hogwarts.
He soon reached the barrier between platforms nine and ten, where a small girl stood frozen in place, pushing a trolley and looking utterly lost.
Atop her mountain of luggage sat an owl cage—she had to be a Hogwarts first-year.
Beside her were her equally bewildered parents.
Dressed in full Muggle attire, the family was clearly new to the wizarding world and had no idea how to reach Platform 9¾.
Kyle pulled his trunk over. "Hello. I take it you could use some help?"
The family of three, still scanning for the platform entrance, stopped and turned toward the voice.
"Er—yes," said the middle-aged man with thick brown hair, glancing at Kyle's trunk. He didn't see an owl cage like theirs.
That made it hard to place the boy's identity.
Still, he ventured, "We don't know how to get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters…"
Kyle's gaze shifted to the girl behind the man—her bushy hair sticking out in all directions like a baby beaver.
"Your daughter's a Hogwarts first-year, I presume?"
The man nodded. "Yes. I'm Roy Granger. This is my wife, Monica, and my daughter, Hermione." Mr. Granger introduced them.
Kyle was mildly surprised to run into one-third of the Golden Trio here. He shook Mr. Granger's hand. "Kyle Dumbledore."
At the surname, Hermione let out a small gasp. Kyle was used to that reaction by now.
The Grangers, however, had no idea what the name signified.
"Good heavens! What's your relation to Headmaster Dumbledore?" The shy Hermione peeked out from behind her father, eyes fixed intently on Kyle.
Kyle: …
You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you. He's my mom—no, wait, my dad…
Actually, that's not quite right either.
Do I have two dads?
"It's… complicated…" Kyle glanced up at the platform clock. To Mr. Granger: "The train's about to leave. We should go."
"To get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, just walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten," Kyle told the little beaver.
Then, pulling his trunk, he led the way toward the ticket barrier.
Watching Kyle vanish into solid wall, the Grangers rubbed their eyes in disbelief.
Hermione waved goodbye to her parents, then charged her trolley straight at the barrier.
The instant she passed through, the world blurred—then snapped into focus.
A scarlet steam engine stood beside a platform packed with passengers. A sign on the train read: Hogwarts Express, 11 o'clock.
Hermione glanced back. Where the barrier had been now stood a wrought-iron archway labeled: Platform 9¾.
Steam from the engine billowed over the chattering crowd. Cats of every color wove between legs.
Amid the buzz of voices and the clatter of heavy luggage, owls hooted shrilly to one another.
The first few carriages were already crammed with students—some leaning out windows to talk to family, others horsing around in their seats.
Kyle stood by the entrance, waiting for her.
After Hermione caught up, Kyle took her luggage and forged ahead.
Years of physical training made it easy for him to part the crowd, carving a wide path for Hermione.
Near the rear of the train, they found an empty compartment. Kyle stowed both trunks in the corner.
"Thank you, upperclassman."
"Uh—what?" Kyle thought he'd misheard the title.
Glancing down at the little girl—who barely reached his shoulder—he realized it was a height thing.
Eleven-year-old Hermione was maybe 1.3 to 1.4 meters tall.
Thanks to years of taijutsu training and proper nutrition, Kyle was nearly as tall as Captain Levi.
"No, no—I'm not an upperclassman. I'm a first-year too."
"Huh? A first-year?" Staring up at the boy who towered a full head over her, Hermione couldn't believe he was only eleven.
Kyle sat by the window. The little girl across from him kept staring.
Finally, Hermione couldn't hold back:
"Um… since you're from the Dumbledore family, you must know a lot of magic, right?"
Kyle nodded in acknowledgment.
The little girl's eyes went wide.
"Do students from wizarding families usually know a lot of spells already? I only learned a few simple ones before term starts—will I be way behind the other first-years?"
Seeing the nervous beaver, Kyle couldn't help but smile.
"To my knowledge, even pure-blood kids usually haven't mastered more than a handful of spells before starting school."
He shrugged. "I'm a special case. Dumbledore, you know."
Hermione nodded in sudden understanding, then asked uncertainly, "So I really won't fall behind?"
"I'd bet most first-years haven't even cracked their textbooks."
"That's a relief! I was so worried—I memorized all the set books. I hope that helps."
Kyle's mouth twitched. Memorized every textbook…
What kind of demon is this?
Even cramming for the postgraduate entrance exam in my past life wasn't this intense.
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