I Like the Money-Giving Fool
"That was a threat," Hermione said sharply from behind Owen.
She was furious—truly furious.
Even when the snot-nosed neighbor kid had wiped his runny nose across her favorite textbook, she hadn't been this angry.
"When we get to Hogwarts, I'm telling the professors everything that happened on the train!"
"Suit yourself," Owen replied with an indifferent shrug. He dug into his pocket and pulled out two candies.
He handed one to Harry and the other to Ron.
"Let's be friends!"
"Uh…"
Harry stared blankly at the candy in Owen's palm.
Wait—hadn't he bought this candy?
"Harry. Harry Potter," he said, forcing a polite smile as he accepted it.
The taste was sweet with a bitter aftertaste, leaving his heart just as conflicted.
So… the wizarding world wasn't full of good people.
There were kids like Dudley here too.
A new belief quietly rooted itself in Harry's mind.
"Ron Weasley," Ron said, taking his piece uncertainly.
"My name is Owen. Owen Sanchez." Owen grinned at the two of them. "Now that you've eaten my candy, we're friends. If you need anything at school, come find me in Slytherin—"
He paused.
Slytherin?
In a normal Harry Potter story, that was definitely not the "white wizard" route he intended for his second playthrough.
"Ahem. Anyway, we're all first-years—we'll see each other often."
Owen chuckled awkwardly and turned to leave.
As he passed Hermione—standing rigidly at the cubicle door like a furious doorman—Owen's lips curled.
Not bad. With that fierce expression, she could make a fine doorman.
He teased, "Don't forget my Galleon, Miss Granger. I'm very poor."
"Of course, feel free to keep betting," he continued in an obnoxiously old-fashioned tone. "I like young people willing to donate their money."
Hermione's face darkened from red to nearly black.
If she were certain she could beat him, she might have leapt onto him and bitten him.
After all—this was Hermione.
In her first year, she had set Professor Snape's robes on fire.
In her second year, she stole ingredients from his private stores to brew Polyjuice Potion.
In her third year, she broke Ministry rules with the Time-Turner.
In her fourth, she trapped Rita Skeeter in a glass jar.
In her fifth, she co-founded a secret student militia—Dumbledore's Army.
Ha! Did he really think this little witch was some harmless pushover?
Owen had no doubt the older Hermione would cause him problems again.
After all, in his first playthrough, the dark Hermione had been his mortal enemy.
It was thanks to her that Voldemort's forces crumbled.
She helped Harry escape countless times.
Even Owen himself—
Oh right. How had he died, again?
Hmm.
It seems—maybe—probably—possibly—because of that blasted Gryffindor swordsman.
Neville.
That brat actually used the Shattering Charm to attack him from behind.
Owen's anger surged at the memory. He sped up, marched back into the compartment, and stuffed all his snacks into Neville's arms.
He was, after all, a veteran villain who once organized Death Eaters.
He understood the importance of minimizing enemies and maximizing allies.
Whether he planned to pursue his unfinished business or not, being on good terms with Harry and Neville was always wise. Who knew—one day he might even drag them into chaos with him.
Hehehe.
Just imagining that scene was exhilarating.
---
Outside the window, the Hogwarts Express raced past meadows dotted with cattle and sheep.
The scents of grass, forests, and wildflowers drifted in through the window cracks—air tinged faintly with magic.
But Neville looked far from happy.
Clutching the mountain of snacks on his lap, he sat hunched and miserable.
Every time he dared glance Owen's way, a terrified look—like a mouse seeing a cat—flashed across his face.
This torment lasted until dusk.
Only when deep purple clouds swallowed the last sliver of sunlight and the train slowed did it finally end.
Hogsmeade Station was small, dark, and pathetically run-down.
Owen could guess with his toes that this shabby place was definitely the Ministry's responsibility.
If Hogwarts ran it, they never would've treated students so poorly.
"First years! First years, this way!"
Hagrid's familiar booming voice rang out.
Owen felt a strange sense of relief.
Yes.
A real Hagrid—a man.
Not a "male mom."
Pushing through the crowd, Owen quickly reached him.
And then came the Hogwarts tradition:
the first-years' journey across the Black Lake by boat.
It was said the four founders crossed the lake when choosing the site for Hogwarts.
Though honestly—why hadn't they just used magic?
Ravenclaw chose the location, Gryffindor built the halls, Slytherin laid the foundations, and Hufflepuff made sure everyone else worked together.
Every year, new students had to follow the tradition.
History education, maybe.
But aside from Hermione, Owen doubted any of the first-years understood its significance.
What a waste.
Hagrid led them along a steep, narrow path—while the older students took a wide, straight road in the opposite direction.
A few dozen steps later, the path opened onto the Black Lake, with Hogwarts Castle towering above the opposite cliffside.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, gesturing to the small vessels.
Harry and Ron immediately boarded. Under Hermione's glare, Owen happily joined them.
The boats glided across the water and slipped behind a curtain of ivy into a hidden opening in the cliff.
Hagrid, holding a lantern, led them through a dark tunnel beneath the castle.
They reached an underground harbor, then climbed a pebbled incline until they emerged onto a dew-covered lawn.
Ahead stood the massive oak doors of Hogwarts.
Carved upon its surface were scenes of the four founders—ancient, traditional, and proudly worn by time.
Everyone knew that Hogwarts paintings moved.
Though murals used a different kind of magic, the carvings here also shifted slightly—jerky and faint, but alive nonetheless.
"Is everyone here?" Hagrid bellowed.
No one answered.
The first-years looked pale, exhausted, and nearly frozen from the long trip.
"Alright then!" Hagrid said awkwardly.
He raised his fist and knocked three times on the castle door.
A traditional British gesture—echoing a centuries-old parliamentary custom.
Perhaps Hogwarts had adopted it to symbolize that every new student must knock upon the doors of knowledge.
Hmm.
Once he got home, Owen would definitely write to Rowling and ask her.