September 1, 1991
King's Cross Station buzzed with the morning rush as Sean and his parents arrived at ten-thirty. Sean pushed his cart, loaded with his trunk and Kulkan's charmed cage, toward the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten.
Ministry officials in discreet cloaks lingered nearby, casting subtle charms to keep Muggle eyes from noticing the odd stream of owl cages and robed families.
Their presence ensured young wizards could slip through to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters without a hitch.
With time to spare before the Hogwarts Express departed, Sean paused by the pillar, chatting with Adrian and Margaret. Christmas holidays were months away, and the weight of parting hung heavy, even if he'd see them soon enough.
The station's clamor—clattering trains, chattering crowds—faded as they shared quiet words, savoring their last moments together.
Sean's eyes caught a flash of red hair as a lively family approached the barrier.
The Weasleys, he guessed, recognizing their trademark ginger locks from Diagon Alley tales. One by one, they vanished through the pillar.
Then a skinny boy with messy black hair, round glasses, and striking green eyes followed, his nervous glance betraying his newness to this world. Sean knew him instantly—Harry Potter. Time was up.
"It's almost time," Sean said, checking his cart. "I'm going in."
Adrian glanced at his watch, his face calm but warm. "Be careful on the train, and listen to the Hogwarts professors."
"Write to us often," Margaret added, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Sean hugged them tightly, breathing in the familiar comfort of home.
"I'll write," he promised, then grinned cheekily. "You two should enjoy the alone time. I wouldn't mind a little brother or sister."
Before they could react, Sean pushed his cart toward the barrier, their laughter and playful scolding echoing behind him. The pillar's magic tingled as he passed through, emerging onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
The Hogwarts Express loomed ahead, its scarlet engine gleaming under plumes of steam. Owls hooted, students shouted, and trunks clattered as families said their goodbyes.
Spotting an empty carriage near the train's end, Sean hauled his luggage aboard, stowing it with a practiced flick of his wand. Kulkan, coiled in her cage, flicked her tongue lazily, unimpressed by the journey. Settling by the window, Sean pulled out A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, its pages worn from weeks of study.
He'd memorized spells and theories from his textbooks, but without a professor's guidance, practicing at home had been tricky. His self-taught Transfiguration attempts had flopped spectacularly, leaving him eager to crack the subject at Hogwarts.
Maybe it was his focus, or the carriage's tucked-away spot, but no one joined him as the train whistled and lurched forward. Sean didn't mind.
At eleven, his mind felt sharper, older, shaped by his panel and ambitions. Quiet suited him—he wasn't here to chase friends or fame. Staying out of Harry Potter's clash with You-Know-Who was the plan. Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff would be perfect: study hard, stay low, become nobody's target.
The train picked up speed, countryside blurring past the window in a patchwork of green hills and golden fields.
A witch with a snack trolley rattled by, her cart brimming with Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and fizzing Pumpkin Pasties that sparkled with enchanted sugar.
Young wizards darted through the corridors, their laughter and chatter filling the air as the journey brought Hogwarts closer.
A few students peeked into Sean's carriage, curious about the new face. But the sight of his open book—Transfiguration, no less—sent them scurrying.
To most eleven-year-olds, textbooks were scarier than a Blast-Ended Skrewt.
"So you're here!" a sharp voice snapped, slicing through the carriage's quiet.
Sean looked up, his eyebrows rising at Miles Bulstrode, who stood in the doorway, his face twisted with anger.
The pure-blood's robes were crisp, but his scowl screamed spoiled brat.
"Looking for me on purpose, huh?" Sean said coolly, closing his book with a deliberate thud. "What's this about?"
Miles's eyes flashed. "That pocket watch! Give it back, and I'll forget what happened before. If not, you'll pay, you Squib-born nobody! You really think you're a Bulstrode?"
The words were harsh, laced with the pure-blood sneer Sean knew too well. But he stayed calm, reading Miles like an open book.
This wasn't some grand scheme from Barnabas or Gideon—it was just a kid's tantrum, fueled by possessiveness over a trinket he thought was his.
The pocket watch, a gleaming magical artifact, was no small prize. Sean liked it, and he wasn't about to hand it over.
He leaned back, his tone dry. "Can't give it to you. Grandfather gave it to me. You know that."
Miles's face darkened, his hand twitching toward his wand.
Sean's mind raced, piecing it together. The Bulstrodes, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had wealth and history to rival the Malfoys, if not their bank vault.
A family like that had plenty of magical heirlooms—why this watch? Gideon's "apology" was a calculated move, likely meant to spark rivalry between Sean and Miles, with a dash of family reconciliation on the side.
Classic pure-blood politics, using kids as pawns.
Sean had no intention of playing along, but he wasn't giving up the watch either. Its faint magical hum hinted at powers he hadn't yet unlocked, and he wasn't about to let Miles's whining ruin that.
Miles, undeterred, yanked out his wand, aiming it at Sean with a glare that screamed overconfidence.
Pure-bloods like him were born bold, thinking their name gave them the upper hand. He probably figured he could scare Sean—a "Squib-born" nobody—into submission without breaking a sweat. A quick spell, no injuries, and the watch would be his.
No one would care about a minor scuffle, right?
But Sean was faster. His ebony wand was already in hand, its tip glowing with a flick of his wrist. "Petrificus Totalus!" he snapped.
A grayish-white light shot from his wand, hitting Miles square in the chest.
His body stiffened, arms locking to his sides as he toppled like a statue, crashing to the carriage floor with a dull thud. Kulkan hissed softly from her cage, as if amused by the commotion.
The spell's flash drew eyes. Heads poked out of nearby carriages, and soon a group of older students hurried over, their wands raised.
A Gryffindor prefect with a stern frown knelt beside Miles, muttering "Finite Incantatem." The counter-spell dissolved the petrification, and Miles gasped, scrambling to his feet, his face red with fury.
"You filthy Squib-born!" he shouted, raising his wand again. "I'll teach you a lesson!"
The prefect grabbed Miles's arm, yanking him back. "Enough!" she barked, but Miles's eyes darted past her, widening as someone else approached.
He froze, swallowing his next words, and shrank back like a scolded puppy.
A tall, broad-shouldered boy with a confident stride stepped into the carriage.
"What's going on here, Miles?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.
Miles's bravado vanished. "Oh, Oliver, I—uh—nothing," he mumbled, shoving his wand into his robes.
Sean stayed quiet, his wand still in hand, watching the scene unfold with a faint smirk.