The Scottish Highlands were quiet in the blue predawn haze, the snow lying in smooth untouched drifts all along the narrow road that curved past the manor.
Harry stood alone in the road.
He had risen before anyone else in the house—before Wanda, before America, before Sirius. He had dressed in warm trousers, a heavy jumper, and his traveling cloak. The air was so cold it burned in his lungs.
In his right hand, he held his wand.
He took a steadying breath, then thrust it high overhead.
The moment the tip rose above his head, the magic flared outward in an invisible wave. He felt it in his bones—a tingle of power reaching far beyond the hidden valleys of Scotland.
And then—
BANG!
A purple triple-decker bus materialized out of nowhere, its headlights blazing like the eyes of some great animal. The lanterns rattled and swung, casting eerie golden flickers across the snow.
The force of its sudden arrival sent a blast of wind whipping Harry's cloak against his legs.
He didn't even flinch.
The Night Bus settled with a huffing sigh, and the door swung open with a clang.
A conductor hopped down, landing neatly in a drift of snow. He was tall and angular, with a mop of sandy hair escaping from beneath his uniform cap.
He eyed Harry up and down, one brow quirking.
"Evenin'," he said, though it was barely six in the morning.
"Evening," Harry replied politely, lowering his wand.
The conductor gave him a second, longer look—he always did. Harry was used to it. He was too tall for a boy of nine, too strong in the shoulders, and there was something about his eyes—an oldness that didn't belong in a child's face.
"Where to?" the conductor asked briskly.
"Montpelier Park, London."
"Long trip, that."
"I know."
"That'll be twelve sickles, seein' as it's cross-country," the conductor said.
Harry counted the coins into his palm, then handed them over without complaint.
As he did, he glanced curiously at the man.
"Why do you always come out to collect the money first?"
The conductor huffed a laugh. "Because, lad—when the Night Bus goes, it goes. More than a few passengers've been left behind with a face full of dust because they forgot to pay in advance. Better to get it settled up before we take off."
That actually made sense.
"Thank you," Harry said sincerely, then climbed the narrow steps up into the Night Bus.
Inside, the bus was warm and already bustling despite the hour. Beds were stacked along the walls, some occupied by sleeping witches and wizards wrapped in blankets. Others sat on benches bolted to the floor, murmuring over mugs of steaming tea.
Harry squeezed past a group of elderly witches playing Exploding Snap, careful not to knock over the pile of suitcases tottering beside them.
He picked out an empty lower bunk near a window and set down his satchel.
A Hogwarts student in a green-trimmed cloak—Slytherin, from the badge—peered at him over the top of a battered Transfiguration textbook.
"Long trip?" the boy asked, sounding bored.
"Very," Harry replied.
The boy nodded and went back to reading.
The conductor's voice echoed down the aisle.
"Hold on tight!"
A moment later—
CRACK!
The world outside blurred into streaks of white and grey as the Night Bus lurched forward. It felt like being squeezed through the eye of a needle. The beds rattled violently, and someone a few rows back shrieked in surprise.
Harry braced himself against the mattress and closed his eyes. He had taken the Night Bus often enough that the speed didn't bother him, though it still made his stomach lurch uncomfortably.
They jumped again and again, stopping for various wizards, mostly students—CRACK!—and fields gave way to winding suburban streets. Another jump—and the rows of brick houses melted into the tidy avenues of north London.
Finally, with a last juddering THUMP, the bus screeched to a halt.
The conductor leaned into the aisle.
"Montpelier Park!" he bellowed. "All off who's gettin' off!"
Harry stood, stretching the stiffness out of his back. He took a moment to adjust his cloak and hoist his satchel over his shoulder.
Then he descended the steps and stepped onto the pavement.
Montpelier Park was quiet, the air damp and grey with early morning mist.
On a wooden bench near the hedge, Hermione sat bundled in a wool coat, her hands tucked into her sleeves. Beside her stood her mother, who was staring at the purple bus with her mouth slightly open.
Hermione's eyes widened as Harry approached.
"You—" She pointed at the Night Bus. "You came in that?"
"Yes," Harry said calmly. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to come all the way from Scotland."
Hermione's mother finally found her voice.
"It just…appeared." She swallowed. "With a bang."
"That's how it works," Harry explained, as though this were perfectly normal.
Hermione eyed the bus warily. "Does it always…move like that?"
"You haven't seen anything yet." He gestured toward the door. "Come on. I've booked us a bed."
Hermione looked at her mother, who gave a tentative nod, though she was still watching the bus as if it might explode.
Harry offered his hand.
Hermione took it, her palm warm against his.
Inside, the bus was even more crowded than before. Hogwarts students in house scarves clustered around the bunks, chattering excitedly. Two witches in violet robes sipped tea near the front. A man in traveling leathers was snoring with his boots propped up on a trunk.
Hermione clung to Harry's arm as he led her through the aisle.
"Is it always so…busy?" she whispered.
"Holiday rush," he said. "Everyone's going somewhere."
They reached the bed he'd reserved, a lower bunk with blankets folded neatly at the foot.
"Here," Harry said. "Sit."
Hermione perched gingerly on the edge.
The conductor bustled past.
"Two to Diagon Alley!" Harry called.
"Right you are!" The conductor flicked his wand, and a slip of parchment appeared in the air before vanishing in a puff of green smoke.
Hermione looked up at Harry, her eyes huge.
"I'm not sure I like this."
"It'll be fine." He sat down beside her, trying to look reassuring. "Just hold onto something."
CRACK!
The bus shot forward so fast the world outside turned into a smear. Hermione shrieked and latched onto his arm with both hands.
"Harry!" she gasped. "We're going to die!"
"We're not going to die," Harry promised, though he was gritting his teeth against the lurch in his stomach.
They careened around an invisible corner, beds rattling, teacups skidding across the floor. Hermione buried her face in his shoulder and refused to look.
CRACK!
Another jump. The buildings outside melted into the crooked rooftops and chimneys of Charring cross road.
With a final shuddering jolt, the Night Bus stopped.
Hermione let go of him and sat back, her hair wild around her flushed face.
"I am never getting in this thing again," she said with quiet finality.
Harry tried not to laugh.
He helped her down, ignoring the curious stares of other passengers.
As they stepped onto the cobbled street, Hermione turned to him, her voice wobbly but determined.
"All right," she said. "Next time, we're walking."
Harry drew the hood of his cloak up over his dark hair, tugging it low so it shadowed his face.
Hermione stopped short on the worn cobbles in front of the Leaky Cauldron.
"Why are you doing that?" she asked, puzzled.
He glanced back over his shoulder, only the edge of a smile visible beneath the hood.
"It's…a bit of a secret," he said lightly. "I promise I'll tell you someday."
Hermione folded her arms. "You know, you're very mysterious for someone who's only nine."
"And you're very nosy for someone who's also nine," he teased.
She sniffed but couldn't hide her grin.
They slipped into the Leaky Cauldron. Though the pub was dim and smoky, the warmth from the roaring hearth made Hermione's cheeks flush pink. She looked around wide-eyed as witches and wizards hunched over tankards or bent to whisper behind copies of the Daily Prophet.
Tom, the toothless barman, nodded at them in greeting.
Harry led her past the bar, through the narrow stone corridor, and out into the small brick courtyard.
"Ready?" he asked, pulling his wand from the inside pocket of his cloak.
Hermione nodded, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.
Harry tapped the bricks—three up, two across—and stood back as the wall began to tremble and shift.
With a low grinding sound, the bricks slid apart, folding themselves into an archway that yawned open to reveal the hidden street beyond.
Hermione let out a soft gasp, her eyes shining.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," she whispered.
"You get used to everything eventually," Harry said, though he still felt a thrill in his chest every time he saw it, too.
They stepped together into Diagon Alley, and Hermione immediately pressed close to his side as the street erupted in a swirl of color and noise.
Bright shopfronts glowed in the low winter sunlight. A witch in emerald robes levitated a crate of shimmering potion vials down the steps of an apothecary. An owl hooted indignantly as it was shoved into a cage by a harassed-looking clerk.
Hermione looked from stall to stall, her mouth falling open.
"Harry," she breathed, "it's— it's like another world."
"It is," he said simply.
First, they wandered past Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, where a row of mannequins twirled in deep green dress robes.
Then Flourish and Blotts, where a small crowd had gathered to see the new display of Wandering with Werewolfs by Gilderoy Lockhart.
Hermione wrinkled her nose at Lockhart's smug grin on the book cover. "He looks rather full of himself."
"You have no idea," Harry muttered, and she giggled.
They spent nearly an hour in the bookstore.
Hermione had brought her own money, clutched carefully in a little fabric purse. She moved from shelf to shelf, running her fingertips reverently over the spines—A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Magical Theory.
"I could spend all day in here," she murmured.
"I think you already have," Harry teased.
When she finally chose three books—one on basic charms, one about magical creatures, and a thick introduction to wizarding history—they queued up at the counter.
Hermione glanced up anxiously as she fumbled with her Muggle coins.
"Do you think they'll take these?" she asked in a low voice.
Harry shook his head. "It's easier if we change them."
He took her by the elbow, steering her firmly out into the street and down the white marble steps of Gringotts.
Inside, Hermione looked almost as if she might faint.
Dozens of goblins bustled about—some scribbling in ledgers, some weighing great heaps of rubies and galleons on brass scales.
"Don't stare," Harry whispered.
Hermione swallowed hard. "They look…very serious."
"They are."
A goblin teller eyed them with a cool, assessing stare as Harry stepped forward to change the Muggle money.
When they came back out into the weak winter sunlight, Hermione was gripping her small sack of gleaming galleons like it might vanish if she let go.
After the bookstore, they stopped at the magical sweet shop.
Harry insisted on buying a paper bag of Chocolate Frogs and a few Sugar Quills for Hermione to try.
They ate ice cream—Honeydukes' Winter Fudge flavor—while sitting on a low stone wall.
Hermione kept her new books balanced on her knees, her eyes still roaming over the bustling alley as though she couldn't take in enough at once.
When they passed a jewelry stall tucked into a crooked alleyway, Harry paused.
Displayed on a little velvet tray was a delicate silver bracelet, threaded with tiny charms— a star, a quill, a little open book.
Hermione's eyes went round.
"It's beautiful," she murmured.
Without hesitating, Harry turned to the witch behind the counter.
"How much?"
"Five sickles."
He paid her, then turned back to Hermione and held it out.
"It's not much," he said, suddenly feeling shy, "but…for you."
Her mouth opened.
"Harry," she whispered, "you didn't have to."
"I know." He shrugged one shoulder. "But I wanted to."
Very carefully, she slipped it over her wrist.
"Thank you," she said softly, and for a moment she looked like she might cry.
Afterward, Harry bought himself a new pair of sturdy dragon-hide boots.
"They have a warming charm," he explained, tugging them on and stamping his feet experimentally. "So I won't freeze when I'm out in the Highlands."
Hermione laughed. "Magic has a charm for everything, doesn't it?"
"Pretty much."
By the time they finally made it back to the Leaky Cauldron, the sun had dipped behind the rooftops, and the windows glowed with lamplight.
Hermione looked exhausted but radiant, her cheeks pink, her hair full of wind and static.
They slipped into a quiet corner booth.
Tom brought them a massive lunch—platters of roast chicken, buttered carrots, steaming rolls, and mugs of pumpkin juice.
Hermione rested her chin in her hand, smiling at him across the table.
"Today was…" She shook her head. "I don't have the words."
"Better than football?" he teased.
"Much," she said firmly.
They ate in companionable quiet.
When the last crumbs were gone, and the plates vanished with a pop, Hermione laid her new books carefully in her satchel.
"Thank you for today," she said again, voice very serious. "I don't think I've ever been this happy."
Harry looked at her—really looked—and thought that maybe he hadn't either.
"You're welcome," he said simply.
And he meant it.
But as Harry and Hermione gathered their things, neither noticed the figure seated alone near the low-beamed window at the back of the Leaky Cauldron.
The witch sat there, wrapped in a long enchanted cloak the color of yellow and black, her hood pulled up to shadow her face.
She had been watching them since the moment they stepped inside.