Chapter 4: The Scarlet Express
King's Cross Station was a chaos of noise, steam, and people running. Professor Flitwick, with his small suitcase in his hand, led Timothy through the frenzied crowd of the morning rush hour.
"We're almost there, Mr. Hunter," Flitwick said cheerfully. "Ah, here it is! The most elegant entry point in all of London."
They stopped in front of a solid-looking brick barrier between platforms nine and ten. There was nothing to indicate that he was special. For Timothy, it was the final confirmation. Magic in this world was not announced with fanfare; It was a whispered secret, a glitch in the matrix that only those in the know could see.
"Just walk with confidence," Flitwick instructed. "Or, if you prefer, run a little. It's better for first-timers not to hesitate."
Timothy didn't hesitate. He grabbed the cart with its trunk and Leo's cage, and walked straight to the wall. There was a split second of a strange cold feeling, like being immersed in icy water, and then the noise of the station disappeared, replaced by a new one.
Platform Nine and Three Quarters was bustling with life. A majestic scarlet steam engine, with the sign "Hogwarts Express" in front, snorted steam on the track. Hundreds of teenagers and their families milled around, saying goodbye, laughing and crying.
Timothy stopped, watching the scene. It was real. The image he had seen countless times in his previous life was there, tangible, noisy, and smelling of coal and magic. It was the portal to his new life.
"Well, here we part, Mr. Hunter," said Flitwick beside him. "Your books will give you a foundation, but your real learning begins now. And one last piece of advice from an old Ravenclaw: a brilliant mind is a treasure, but an open heart is a universe. Don't forget to cultivate both."
Timothy, for the first time, felt a twinge of genuine appreciation for the diminutive professor. He had given her the key to her future without a hint of condescension. "Thank you, professor. For everything."
Flitwick gave him one last radiant smile, and with a little greeting he was lost in the crowd.
Timothy got on the train. He passed compartments that were already filled with fifteen-year-olds shouting, hugging, and comparing wands. The noise was overwhelming, and he felt that familiar twinge of alienation. He was not one of them. He was an observer, a ghost with the memory of twenty-two years of another life.
He ignored the curious glances and kept walking until he found what he was looking for: an empty compartment near the end of the train. He went in, slid the glass door, lowered the blind, and latched the door.
At last. Silence.
He didn't waste a second. He did not look out the window at the English landscape that was beginning to pass by. For him, the real landscape was in his trunk. He opened it and took out his new treasure: The Rule Book of Spells (Third Degree), A History of Magic , and Transfiguration Theory for Beginners.
He opened A History of Magic. And he began to read.
It was not the casual reading of a student. It was a voracious absorption. His "Talent," combined with the mature mind of an adult and a newly awakened obsession with this new physics system, worked at an astonishing speed. The pages turned in a constant whisper. I wasn't memorizing dates; He was absorbing the chronology, the politics, the power structure of his new world. He found the text terribly dry, biased, and full of glaring gaps, but it was a necessary context. He finished the book in just over an hour.
He put it aside and picked up The Regulation Book of Spells. This was where his heart really started beating the fastest.
This was not history. This was mechanical.
As he read the description of the Levitation Charm, Wingardium Leviosa, his mind didn't focus on the word. He focused on intention. He could sense the logic behind it, the concept of imposing one's will on the gravity of an object. It was not a "trick"; it was a conceptual formula. A new law of physics that he had just learned. He turned the page, his hunger grew.
Halfway through the trip, the sound of a cart rumbling and a gentle voice interrupted his concentration. "Anything in the cart, dear ones?"
Timothy looked up. A smiling, dimpled witch was looking at him from the door. He simply shook his head, his eyes already turning to the page. I didn't need chocolate frogs or flavored dragees. He had something much better.
He ignored the sounds of the train: the laughter in the hallway, the occasional knock on his door by running students, the distant explosion of what he assumed was a joke firecracker. They were distractions. Irrelevant background noise.
He was completely immersed, a scientist who had just been given the key to a new reality, an architect who had just been given the blueprints for the universe. And I wasn't going to waste a single second.
…..
The train began to slow down, its melancholy whistle echoing through the dark valleys. A voice echoed through the carriages: "We will arrive at Hogsmeade station in five minutes. Please leave your luggage on the train; will be transported to school separately."
Timothy closed his book, his mind buzzing with new information. I had absorbed nearly half of the freshman curriculum in a single trip. He put on his black robe, feeling the strange and unknown weight of the cloth on his shoulders. It was a disguise. The uniform of his new life.
The train finally came to a halt with a jolt. The doors opened, and a wave of excited teenagers poured onto the dark platform. The air was cold and smelled of pine and rain. Above the sea of heads, a voice boomed, so familiar to Timothy that he almost smiled.
"First year! The freshmen, over here! Come on, don't be shy!"
It was Hagrid, the giant ranger, holding a swaying lamp, his huge silhouette silhouetted against the night sky. Timothy joined the group of fifteen-year-olds who swarmed nervously around the giant, feeling strangely at home among the frightened newcomers. His calmness contrasted sharply with the anxiety of others.
"Four per boat, no more," Hagrid ordered, leading them down a narrow, dark path to the shore of a vast, black lake. The water was as still as a mirror, reflecting the stars. On the other side, on top of a cliff, stood Hogwarts Castle. It was exactly as I remembered it from his previous life, but more real, more imposing. Its towers scratched the night sky, and its windows shone like golden eyes.
By a twist of fate, or perhaps by the very hand of the narrative of the universe, Timothy ended up in a small boat that was rocking with three people he had already seen on the platform. There was the skinny boy with the glasses, a tall, freckled redhead who seemed about to vomit from nerves, and the girl with thick brown hair who was already reciting facts about the Giant Squid that inhabited the lake.
It was here, in the privacy of the small boat, under the moonlight, that Timothy had his first real shock.
He looked at the boy with the glasses. It was unmistakably Harry Potter. The lightning-shaped scar, barely visible under her tousled hair, was the proof. But he wasn't the slim little eleven-year-old kid from books and movies. He was a teenager. A young man her own age, with a tired, cautious expression that seemed too old for her face.
For an instant, Timothy's mind map shattered. 'This is not in the book.' The certainty that had been his anchor since he received the letter was shaken. Panic, a cold and unknown emotion, threatened to surface.
But his mind, trained to adapt, readjusted with astonishing speed. 'Of course. Flitwick. The educational reform. The age of entry changed. The entire timeline is four years off. Interesting.' The panic receded, replaced by a renewed and feverish curiosity. The game was the same, only the board was a little different.
"Hello," said the red-haired boy, his voice a little trembling. "I'm Ron Weasley."
"Hermione Granger," the girl said, not taking her eyes off a book she was trying to read by the light of the boat's lamp.
"Harry Potter," said the boy with the glasses in a low voice.
Timothy nodded, playing his Muggle-born role. "Timothy Hunter. A pleasure."
The conversation that followed was awkward, as it always is between nervous strangers. Timothy, however, used it as a tool. He faked his own amazement at the sight of the castle, shared his "surprise" at the existence of magic, and, most importantly, asked questions.
"So what they say on the train is true?" he asked, his tone one of carefully calculated innocence. "About... you know... Who-you-know?"
Ron shuddered. Harry simply nodded. Hermione, always the source of information, gave him a quick rundown of Voldemort's story.
Timothy listened, nodding at the right moments, feigning surprise. But inside, he was filing. Confirming data. Checking the timeline. Everything fit with the new variable of age. The story was the same. Only that the characters were more mature, their problems and their fears, he realized, would probably be more complex.
And that, Timothy thought, as the boat glided through the black water toward the castle lights, made it all much, much more interesting.
…..
Hogwarts' massive oak gates opened on their own, revealing an entrance hall so vast that it could have housed an entire house. Torches of fire crackled in their supports, casting a dancing light on the stone walls. An imposing marble staircase led to the upper floors. And in front, a tall, stern-looking woman, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, was waiting for them. He wore emerald green robes and an expression that did not admit of nonsense.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said, her voice crisp and authoritative. "In a few moments, they will pass through these doors and join their peers. But before they take their seats, they will be selected for their homes."
While McGonagall explained the function of the four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—and the importance of the House Cup, Timothy didn't quite listen to her. I was watching. He was analyzing the magic of the castle. It was not the elemental chaos of nature; it was a woven, intentional magic. He could feel the layers of protective enchantments, the concealment spells, the reinforcing runes etched into the stone itself. It was a fortress, a work of art of arcane engineering.
The group was led to the Great Hall. If Diagon Alley had been a sensory overload, this was a symphony. Hundreds of older students were already seated at four long tables, their faces lit up by thousands of candles floating in the air. But it was the ceiling that captured everyone's attention. It was a perfect night sky, identical to the one they had seen outside, with clouds and stars moving slowly.
"It's an enchantment to make it look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered, her voice filled with wonder. "I read it in Hogwarts: A Story."
As they waited for the Selection Ceremony to begin, the conversation with the trio continued in whispers. Hermione, true to her nature, gave them a detailed lecture on the founders and values of each house. Timothy listened intently, pretending to learn, while inside he was evaluating and ranking each of them. 'Gryffindor. Gryffindor. Gryffindor. Predictable. The script remains.'
Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of the freshmen and, on top of it, a threadbare, patched, and dirty wizard's hat. A silence fell over the room. And then, the hat twisted. A tear near the wing opened like a mouth, and he began to sing.
Timothy listened to the song, a story of the four houses and a call for unity. It was both cheesy and deeply moving. He saw Ron being called and sorted into Gryffindor almost instantly, much to his relief. He saw Hermione, muttering to herself, have a long, tense "argument" with the hat before she finally yelled "GRYFFINDOR!" He saw a pale, blond boy named Draco Malfoy being sent to Slytherin before the hat even brushed his hair. Everything was happening exactly as it "should." The game followed the rules he knew.
The list of names went on. Each time a student was selected, the corresponding table erupted in cheers. The anticipation in the group of the unselected was palpable. Timothy, however, remained calm. I already knew where I belonged.
Professor McGonagall read the list, her clear voice echoing through the Great Hall. Tension increased as fewer names remained. Finally, he arrived at his.
"Hunter, Timothy!"
A momentary silence fell as all eyes fell on him. He stepped forward, stepping out of the crowd. He felt Harry, Ron, and Hermione's gazes on him. His time as an observer, as a ghost in another's story, was over.
Now, it was his turn to be tried. To be classified. To take their place on the board. As he walked to the stool, a single, clear certainty filled his mind.
The game had just begun.