# Platform 9¾ - September 1st
The morning rush of King's Cross was its usual brand of controlled chaos: trains shrieking, whistles blowing, and an endless shuffle of commuters trying not to spill their coffees while simultaneously checking their phones, dodging trolleys, and pretending they weren't secretly panicking about being late to whatever Very Important Thing awaited them at their destination.
But tucked inside the chaos was something extraordinary—families with owls in cages, cats swishing their tails in wicker baskets, trunks clattering on trolleys loaded with cauldrons and spell books, and kids buzzing with the kind of anticipation that had nothing to do with catching the 10:15 to Edinburgh.
The Parker-Watson-Leeds-Stacy-Hardy crew—because after six weeks of magical training they had officially evolved from "random collection of confused families" to "organized convoy of semi-prepared magical parents and overly-excited children"—huddled near the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10. The parents had instinctively clustered together like some kind of support group for people whose biggest worry had shifted from "will my kid remember to eat lunch" to "will my kid accidentally turn their classmates into ferrets."
Meanwhile, the kids were doing their best impression of "organized chaos" while their luggage formed a small mountain range of trunks, bags, and magical supplies that looked like they were preparing for either a semester at boarding school or a quest to defeat a dragon. Possibly both.
Ben Parker checked his watch for the seventh time in three minutes, like he was timing a NASA launch rather than watching his nephew prepare to walk through what appeared to be a perfectly solid brick wall.
"Alright, everyone, listen up," Ben announced in his best responsible-adult voice, though the slight tremor in it suggested he was about as confident as the rest of them. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Direct entry through what appears to be a solid wall. Walk confidently. Do not hesitate. Do not stop. And under no circumstances should you scream 'I'm about to die!' while going through."
"Noted," Ned said solemnly, nodding like he was about to step onto the Millennium Falcon rather than through a magical barrier. Felix the Pygmy Puff bobbed happily on his shoulder, flickering bright green like a traffic signal that had gotten way too excited about its job.
May arched a brow, hands on her hips in that universal aunt pose that meant business. "This magical world of yours seems to think head trauma is a rite of passage. First flying lessons where you fall off brooms, now walking face-first into walls?"
"It's not trauma," Harry corrected, his hoodie pulled up so his emerald eyes gleamed from beneath the shadow of his fringe. Despite being the youngest of the group, his voice carried a weight that made everyone listen. "It's initiation. If you're not confident enough to walk through, you're not ready for what's waiting on the other side."
The words hung in the air with more gravity than they should've coming from a nine-year-old. May and Ben exchanged one of those parental looks, the unspoken *that kid is terrifyingly wise and also slightly concerning* passing between them like a shared secret.
"Or," Peter cut in, bouncing slightly on his toes while his brown hair stuck out in approximately seventeen different directions despite May's earlier attempts to tame it with both water and threats, "or, the wall has like… velocity thresholds. What if you go too slow and bounce off like a really embarrassing trampolineincident? Or too fast and you end up in, I don't know, Platform Ten-and-a-Half? Or worse, half of you gets through and the other half is stuck explaining to Muggle commuters why your torso is embedded in a brick wall, and then the Ministry has to do memory modifications, and—"
"Peter," Gwen interrupted, tugging her trunk handle with the weary patience of someone who had endured six solid weeks of his spirals and had developed the zen-like ability to cut them off before they reached critical mass. "We practiced this. Confidence, momentum, wall. That's it. It's not rocket science."
"Actually," Peter said, pointing his wandless finger at her like he was defending a doctoral thesis in front of a panel of very skeptical professors, "I bet if we measured magical barrier entry speed against Newtonian physics principles and applied some basic kinetic energy calculations, we'd find some absolutely fascinating correlations between magical permeability and—"
"Peter," MJ interrupted without bothering to look up from her sketchbook. She was leaning against her trunk with the casual elegance of someone who had mastered the art of looking effortlessly cool while surrounded by complete chaos. Her copper-red hair caught the morning sunlight streaming through the station's glass ceiling as she sketched the Victorian architecture of King's Cross with quick, confident strokes. "You're doing it again. Overthinking. It's a wall. You walk through it. Done."
"It's never just a wall with you people," Peter insisted, gesturing broadly at the magical families around them. "It's a magical wall. That means there are hidden mechanics, probably ancient runes carved into the infrastructure, possibly complex warding matrices that have been maintained for decades—"
"Translation," Felicia said smoothly, adjusting her platinum-blonde hair in the reflection of a passing luggage cart while somehow managing to look like she belonged on the cover of a magazine rather than standing in a train station surrounded by magical chaos, "you're psyching yourself out. Look around, Parker—everyone else is just strolling through like it's the queue for Starbucks. Nobody's sprinting. Nobody's taking measurements. Nobody's muttering about 'warding matrices' like they're about to write a research paper."
She gestured at a nearby family where two older kids were casually pushing their trolleys toward the barrier while their parents waved goodbye. The kids hit the wall and simply... disappeared, like walking through water.
"See?" Felicia continued. "Casual. Confident. No dramatic mathematical calculations required."
Ned grinned, reaching up to pat Felix, who had turned a smug shade of yellow that definitely meant he was enjoying the entertainment. "Yeah, man, even Felix thinks you're being dramatic. Right, Felix?"
The Pygmy Puff chirped once and flickered through a rapid sequence of colors that somehow managed to convey both agreement and mild exasperation. In Felix-language, it definitely translated to *Peter, chill out before you give yourself an aneurysm.*
Peter frowned, looking genuinely offended. "Oh, so now I'm being outnumbered by a magical puffball? Great. This is my life now. Outvoted by a creature that's essentially a sentient stress ball."
Felix squeaked indignantly and turned bright red, which Ned had learned meant he was deeply offended by the "stress ball" comment.
"He's not just a stress ball," Ned said defensively. "Felix is a highly intelligent magical creature with complex emotional responses and—"
"And an attitude problem," Felicia added with a smirk.
Harry, who had been quietly scanning the steady flow of magical families moving through the barrier like it was the most natural thing in the world, suddenly looked up with that mischievous grin that always meant he was about to either solve a problem or create a much more interesting one.
"Want me to go first, Peter?" he offered casually. "You know, prove the physics are fine and there's no risk of spontaneous wall-related combustion?"
Peter's brown eyes widened in alarm. "Uh, no? Absolutely not? You're nine. If something goes catastrophically wrong, you don't have the body mass for impact resistance. I mean, statistically speaking, I've got a much better shot at surviving the potential concussion, plus I heal faster, and—"
"Wow," Gwen snorted, shaking her head. "Only you could make bravery sound like a peer-reviewed scientific experiment. 'The Comparative Analysis of Head Trauma Survival Rates in Magical Barrier Penetration: A Study.'"
"That would actually be a fascinating paper," Peter said, completely missing her sarcasm. "We could get real data on magical barrier safety protocols—"
"Parker," Felicia interrupted, her voice dripping with amusement, "you're not doing this for science. You're doing this because you want to be the first one through. You want the headline: 'Local Genius Boy Successfully Penetrates Magical Barrier, Survives to Brag About It.' Classic Parker move."
"Hey!" Peter protested, pointing at her with the kind of righteous indignation that only teenagers could muster. "That's completely unfair and totally inaccurate. I'm not doing this for headlines or bragging rights. I'm doing this for the advancement of human knowledge and the practical application of scientific methodology to magical phenomena, which is completely different—"
"Science?" MJ offered dryly, not looking up from her sketch but somehow managing to convey an entire eye-roll in her tone.
"Yes! Thank you, MJ!" Peter said, completely missing the fact that she was making fun of him. "Someone around here appreciates the value of empirical observation and data collection."
MJ did look up then, just long enough to give him a look that clearly said *you're an idiot, but you're our idiot,* before going back to shading in a particularly intricate roof tile.
Ned puffed up importantly, patting Felix like a coach psyching up his star player before the big game. "Alright, guys, I've got an idea. Team strategy: we pair up for moral support. Less chance of someone chickening out halfway through or getting distracted by architectural details." He pointed at Felicia with the confidence of someone making a very strategic decision. "I'm calling dibs on Felicia."
Felicia raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening into something that was equal parts flattered and amused. "Obviously. Who wouldn't want to be paired with me? I'm excellent moral support, and I look great doing it."
"Plus if something goes wrong, you can probably sweet-talk your way out of it," Ned added pragmatically.
"True. I'm very persuasive."
Gwen rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smile. "Fine, I'll go with Peter. That way when he starts calculating wall density and structural integrity mid-stride, I can physically shove him through before he can abort mission and start taking measurements."
"That's... actually pretty insulting," Peter muttered, but he didn't argue because, honestly, it was probably a solid strategy.
"It's not insulting if it's accurate," Gwen pointed out. "And we both know it's accurate."
"Rude but fair," Peter conceded.
That left MJ glancing over at Harry, who just shrugged with that casual confidence that somehow made everyone else feel more settled.
"What about you?" MJ asked. "Want to pair up with the artistically inclined weirdo?"
Harry's grin softened into something genuinely warm. "I'm not going through this year, remember? I'll hang back and make sure nobody actually does splat against the bricks. Quality control."
"Right, because you're nine going on forty," MJ said, but her tone was fond rather than mocking. "The responsible one in a group of teenagers. How does that even work?"
"Better than fifteen going on pretentious tortured artist," Harry shot back, grinning just enough to show it was friendly fire rather than actual meanness.
MJ blinked at him, then burst into laughter—a bright, genuine sound that made May glance over with a *what are those kids plotting now* expression.
"Okay, that was actually pretty good," MJ admitted, snapping her sketchbook shut with a dramatic flourish. "I walked right into that one."
"You did," Harry agreed cheerfully. "But don't worry, your tortured artist aesthetic is very convincing. Very authentic angst."
"I don't have angst," MJ protested. "I have artistic depth and emotional complexity."
"Same thing, different vocabulary," Felicia chimed in.
Meanwhile, the parents had formed their own loose protective circle around the kids, like some kind of half-baked magical Secret Service unit that wasn't entirely sure what they were protecting against but was determined to look competent while figuring it out. Their expressions carried the same cocktail of pride, anxiety, and barely-contained awe that seemed to be the default state for parents navigating the magical world.
George Stacy adjusted his jacket with military precision, looking crisp and efficient in that way that made even a subway turnstile seem like a potential interrogation suspect. His cop instincts were clearly trying to process the logistics of magical transportation and finding the whole thing slightly concerning from a security standpoint.
"Right," he said, his tone carrying that NYPD authority that could make even magical logistics sound like routine police procedure. "The plan is: we all approach the barrier together as a unit. We get the kids safely through and settled on the train. We say our goodbyes without excessive emotional displays that might embarrass anyone. Then we spend the next ten months pretending not to panic while secretly checking for owl mail every five minutes and researching whether magical boarding schools have adequate safety protocols."
"Remarkably accurate assessment," Walter Hardy said dryly, his eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced wariness of someone who had spent years expecting trouble and usually finding it. "Though I want it on record that if any of their letters so much as mention dragons, giant spiders, or 'exciting educational opportunities' that involve potentially deadly creatures, I reserve the right to actively panic and possibly stage an intervention."
Felicia rolled her eyes with the exaggerated patience of a teenager whose parent was being embarrassingly overprotective in public. "Dad, it's a boarding school, not a dungeon crawl or a survival reality show. How dangerous could a magical education possibly be?"
Walter gave her the kind of long, measured stare that fathers had been perfecting for generations, the one that translated universally as *you have absolutely no idea how dangerous the world can be and that terrifies me more than I can express.*
"Famous last words, sweetheart. That's exactly what every parent says right before their kid writes home about narrowly escaping death during what was supposed to be a routine Potions lesson."
"You're being dramatic," Felicia said, but there was affection in her voice.
"I'm being realistic. There's a difference."
Meanwhile, Phillip Watson had somehow managed to sneak his notebook past Madelyn's earlier confiscation attempt and was now scribbling furiously while muttering under his breath like a man conducting a TED Talk for an audience of one.
"Absolutely fascinating," Phillip murmured, his pen moving so fast it was practically vibrating. "The barrier's seamless integration into preexisting municipal infrastructure suggests decades, possibly centuries, of magical-mundane cooperation agreements. The implications for urban planning and architectural concealment are staggering. The energy requirements alone would necessitate—"
"Philip," Madelyn cut in smoothly, plucking the notebook out of his hands with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been married to an academic for twenty years and had mastered the art of preventing public lectures. Her tone was velvet wrapped around steel, the kind of diplomatic voice that could make both world leaders and teenagers stop talking and pay attention. "Platform first. Dissertation later."
"But the preliminary theoretical framework is practically writing itself," Phillip protested, making a half-hearted grab for his notebook. "The intersection of magical concealment charms with modern engineering principles could revolutionize our understanding of—"
"Later, honey," Madelyn smiled, tucking the notebook into her purse like contraband. "Right now, we focus on getting our daughter safely onto the magical train. Academic breakthroughs can wait thirty minutes."
George Leeds, meanwhile, was practically bouncing on his toes with barely contained dad-energy, his engineer's brain clearly working overtime to process the logistics of what they were witnessing.
"But seriously though," George said, gesturing at the barrier like it was the most interesting puzzle he'd encountered in years, "the engineering behind this is incredible! A whole hidden platform seamlessly integrated into a functioning public train station? The structural modifications alone would require permits, inspections, probably a complete renovation of the foundation systems—"
"George," Helen Leeds interrupted gently, slipping her hand onto his arm with the practiced grace of a woman who had long ago learned the art of redirecting her husband's enthusiasm before it reached lecture-level intensity. "Engineering analysis later. Child on magical train now. Priorities."
Helen's expression softened as she glanced at Ned, who was practically glowing with excitement while Felix cycled through what appeared to be a celebratory light show on his shoulder.
"You know," Helen said, shaking her head with a mixture of wonder and mild panic, "six months ago, our biggest worry was whether you'd remember to pack your lunch or forget your homework. Now it's whether you're emotionally prepared for something called 'Care of Magical Creatures' and whether your pet Pygmy Puff is going to get you into trouble for being too enthusiastic about everything."
"I am totally ready," Ned declared with the confidence of someone who had never met a challenge he didn't think he could handle with enough optimism and snack foods. He puffed out his chest proudly while Felix squeaked in agreement, cycling through electric blue, which was clearly his color for *confidence and determination.* "I've been preparing for this my whole life. Well, okay, for the last six weeks, but those were a really intensive six weeks."
"Felix agrees," Ned translated solemnly, as though he were channeling important information from a magical consultant. "He says I've got a natural gift for magical creature management and that Hogwarts won't know what hit them."
"You've got a natural gift for spoiling magical creatures," Helen corrected with a fond smile. "That Pygmy Puff has you better trained than most people train their dogs. He's essentially running a one-Puff con operation."
"Felix prefers the term 'strategic partnership,'" Ned corrected with wounded dignity. "He provides excellent magical creature insights and tactical advice in exchange for premium snacks and optimal shoulder-perching privileges. It's a very professional relationship."
"Like when he 'advised' you to pack three extra bags of treats 'just in case'?" MJ asked with a smirk, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
"Exactly," Ned said without missing a beat. "That's just good planning. Felix has excellent foresight."
MJ laughed and turned to Gwen, who was checking her trunk handle for the fifth time while mentally reviewing what appeared to be a comprehensive packing list. "Please tell me you haven't color-coded your class schedule already."
"Of course I have," Gwen said, not even pretending to be embarrassed about her organizational tendencies. "Color-coding is the foundation of academic success. Green for Herbology, blue for Transfiguration, red for Defense Against the Dark Arts, purple for Potions, yellow for Charms—"
"What about brown for 'subjects that might result in accidental death'?" Peter interrupted.
"That would be most of them, so it's not a very useful category," Gwen replied matter-of-factly. "I prefer to think of it as 'subjects requiring extra safety protocols and backup plans.'"
"Which is all of them," Felicia pointed out.
"Exactly. Hence the extensive preparation." Gwen hefted her bag, which was clearly packed with enough supplies to survive a siege. "Organization is ninety percent of magical education success. The other ten percent is not setting your eyebrows on fire during practical spellwork."
"Guess that rules Peter out of academic excellence," Felicia teased, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Peter clutched his messenger bag dramatically, looking deeply offended. "Hey! My eyebrows are completely intact, thank you very much. And they're going to stay that way because I believe in proper safety protocols and measured risk assessment."
"You mean excessive worrying and overthinking," MJ clarified.
"I prefer 'comprehensive preparation and cautious optimism,'" Peter corrected.
Harry, who had been leaning against a support column with his usual quiet confidence, watching the chaos unfold around him with those steady emerald eyes, finally spoke up.
"You'll all be fine," he said simply. The words carried a weight of certainty that somehow made everyone's shoulders relax slightly. It was that big-brother energy he radiated, even though he was younger than most of them. "Magic school is supposed to be challenging, but you're not supposed to die from it. That would be bad for enrollment numbers."
"Very practical reasoning," MJ said approvingly.
"Besides," Harry continued, his grin taking on that mischievous edge that always meant he was about to say something that would shift the entire energy of the conversation, "when I get my Hogwarts letter in two years, you'll all already be the experienced pros. I'll be the rookie who needs help finding the bathroom."
Peter elbowed him lightly, grinning. "Yeah, and by then we'll have all the good secrets figured out. You'll have to earn your way into our exclusive 'survived magical education' club."
"Rookie who could still bench-press most of you," Harry fired back smoothly, that confident grin flashing.
"Okay, fair point," Peter conceded, raising his hands in surrender. "But I'll have magical training by then. That's got to count for something."
"Magic doesn't make you less scrawny, Parker," Felicia pointed out.
"Rude but probably accurate," Peter sighed.
Just then, a familiar figure swept toward their group with the kind of dramatic entrance that made everyone in a fifty-foot radius automatically turn to look. Aurora Sinclair didn't walk into spaces so much as claim them through sheer force of personality and impeccable timing. Her robes were a swirl of midnight blue trimmed with silver that managed to look both traditionally magical and perfectly appropriate for a public train station—a combination that probably required more skill than most people realized.
Even her cane, which she carried more for dramatic effect than actual support, tapped against the floor with the rhythm of ceremony rather than necessity.
"Ah," Aurora said, her voice carrying that warm authority that made everyone automatically straighten up and pay attention, "my favorite constellation of young prodigies. Are we ready for the final transition into your magical academic careers?"
The kids immediately perked up, like students when their favorite teacher walked into the room.
Peter practically bounced on his toes, his grin wide enough to split his face. "More than ready, Professor Sinclair. This is it. The big leagues. Actual Hogwarts, with actual magical classes and actual centuries of magical knowledge just waiting to be absorbed and analyzed and—"
"Breathe, Parker," Felicia interrupted. "You're going to hyperventilate before you even get through the barrier."
"I'm not hyperventilating, I'm enthusiastically anticipating," Peter corrected. "There's a difference. And I've been working on my introduction approach for new classmates."
Felicia raised an eyebrow with the kind of expression that suggested she was already mentally preparing for secondhand embarrassment. "Oh no. What's your 'introduction approach'?"
Peter cleared his throat importantly. "I was thinking something along the lines of: 'Greetings, fellow magical scholars, I come bearing extensive knowledge of advanced physics principles and a comprehensive collection of science-based humor. Let's be friends and revolutionize magical education together.'"
The silence that followed was so complete that even Felix stopped his color-cycling to stare.
"Please don't do that," Gwen said flatly, looking like she was already planning to pretend she didn't know him.
"Oh, absolutely let him do that," MJ said with wicked delight, closing her sketchbook with a snap. "It'll be like performance art. Really avant-garde social experimentation."
"I think it's nice," Ned offered supportively. "Friendly and informative."
"It's something," Harry said diplomatically.
Aurora's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Perhaps a simple 'hello' might be more... accessible for initial introductions, Mr. Parker. You can work up to the comprehensive scientific discourse once you've established basic social connections."
"But where's the efficiency in that?" Peter asked, genuinely puzzled. "Why waste time with small talk when you could immediately establish your areas of expertise and intellectual interests?"
"Because most people find it overwhelming," Gwen explained patiently, "and some of us would like to make friends without having to explain why our friend is giving impromptu lectures to strangers."
"I don't give lectures," Peter protested. "I share interesting information enthusiastically."
"Same thing, different marketing," Felicia said.
"I'm definitely ready," MJ announced, clearly deciding to redirect the conversation before Peter could defend his social interaction strategies further. "There's something very... poetic about stepping through a brick wall into a completely new chapter of your life. It's like a metaphor made literal."
"Everything's a metaphor with you," Ned said fondly.
"Because everything is a metaphor," MJ replied. "Art is about finding the deeper meaning in everyday experiences and—"
"And you're doing the thing where you sound like a pretentious art student," Felicia interrupted with a grin.
"I am a pretentious art student," MJ said proudly. "It's part of my charm."
"So ready it's not even funny," Ned blurted, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to contribute to the conversation. Felix responded to his excitement by cycling through what looked like a miniature rainbow fireworks display. "I've been packed for three days. I reorganized my trunk twice. I have backup snacks, extra quills, and I practiced my 'confident magical student' walk in the mirror."
"You practiced walking?" Gwen asked, looking concerned.
"Just the confident part," Ned clarified. "You know, shoulders back, purposeful stride, like I belong in a magical castle and definitely know what I'm doing."
"That's... actually pretty smart," Peter said approvingly. "Confidence is ninety percent of successful social integration."
"I thought organization was ninety percent of success," Felicia said.
"Different types of success require different percentages of different skills," Gwen said seriously, as though she had actually calculated this.
"Obviously ready," Felicia declared, her voice carrying that effortless confidence that made it sound like the universe itself had personally arranged this moment for her convenience. "I was born ready for Hogwarts. This is just destiny finally catching up with my schedule."
"Modest as always," MJ said dryly.
"Confidence is attractive," Felicia replied smoothly. "False modesty is just fishing for compliments."
Harry, still leaning against his column but now smiling at the familiar chaos of his friends, spoke quietly but with that steadiness that always made everyone listen.
"Ready," he said simply. The word carried more weight than any of the others, because for him, this moment wasn't just about watching his friends leave for school. It was about marking time until his own adventure began, about being the anchor point they could look back to, and about preparing himself for what would come in two years when it was his turn to walk through that barrier.
Aurora's smile widened into something radiant and theatrical, as though this entire scene had been choreographed specifically for her personal sense of dramatic timing.
"Then let us make history, my darlings," she declared, raising her arms slightly as if bestowing a blessing on the moment. "The barrier awaits, and Hogwarts is calling your names."
They began moving forward, a somewhat messy cluster of backpacks, nervous energy, and excitement that should have looked completely disorganized but somehow, after months of training together, moved with the rhythm of a group that had learned to function as a unit.
Of course, Peter couldn't help himself. His brain was buzzing too loudly for silence.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he said, his words tumbling out as fast as his feet carried him toward the barrier. "The barrier has to operate on some kind of selective permeability charm system, right? I mean, think about the complexity involved—how does it differentiate between authorized magical persons and random Muggles who might accidentally stumble into it? Is it based on magical signature recognition? Intent-based scanning? Maybe some kind of bio-arcane feedback loop that can detect—"
"Peter," everyone chorused in perfect harmony, their timing so precise it could have been rehearsed.
"I'm just saying it's a fascinating example of practical magical engineering!" Peter continued, completely undeterred by the group intervention. "The intersection of magical theory and applied enchantment work is—"
"Everything's fascinating to you," MJ interrupted, but her tone was fond rather than annoyed.
"Because everything IS fascinating!" Peter shot back, gesturing wildly with both hands while somehow managing to keep walking in a straight line. "The universe is full of incredible phenomena and miraculous intersections of science and magic, and nobody ever takes the time to properly appreciate the—"
And then—
They hit the barrier.
For a split second, Peter's enthusiastic lecture cut off mid-sentence, like someone had pressed pause on his perpetual monologue. The air around them shifted, becoming thick and tingly, like the moment before a thunderstorm. The world tilted sideways.
The sensation was indescribable—like walking through cool water, or stepping into a cloud, or maybe like the moment when you're falling asleep and suddenly feel like you're floating. For just an instant, everything went silver-bright and impossibly soft.
Then they stumbled through onto Platform 9¾, and the real magic began.
---
Meanwhile, approximately three minutes behind schedule—which in Weasley time meant they were practically early—another family was making their characteristically chaotic entrance into King's Cross Station.
"Move, move, move!" Molly Weasley called out, her voice carrying the kind of authority that could organize a small army while simultaneously keeping track of six children, four trunks, three owls, and one very irritated cat. "We're cutting it close, and I will not have my boys miss the train because someone—" she shot a pointed look at the twins, "—decided they needed to 'test' their trunk locks one more time!"
"It was important scientific research, Mum," Fred protested, dragging his trunk behind him while trying to look innocent, which was approximately as convincing as a dragon claiming to be vegetarian.
"We had to make sure our supplies were properly secured," George added with the kind of earnest expression that fooled absolutely no one who had spent more than five minutes with the Weasley twins. "You wouldn't want our educational materials to spill out all over the train, would you?"
"Educational materials," Charlie snorted, adjusting his Prefect badge while effortlessly maneuvering his own trunk through the crowd. At seventeen, he had the easy confidence of someone who had survived six years of Hogwarts and lived to tell about it. "Is that what we're calling dungbombs and Whizzing Worms now?"
"Those are for Defense Against Boredom," Fred said solemnly.
"A very serious subject," George agreed.
Percy, walking with the rigid posture of someone who took his third-year status very seriously, looked scandalized. "You can't bring dungbombs to school! They're probably against seventeen different school regulations, and definitely violate the Educational Decree on Appropriate Student Conduct—"
"Percy," nine-year-old Ron interrupted, struggling slightly with his own trunk while trying to keep up with the family's rapid pace, "nobody cares about your stupid decrees."
"They're not stupid, they're important guidelines for maintaining academic standards and—"
"Boys!" Molly's voice cut through the bickering with the precision of a well-aimed hex. "Platform first, arguments later. And Fred, George, if I find out you've packed anything that explodes, glows, or makes suspicious noises, you'll be writing lines until Christmas."
"Define 'suspicious,'" Fred said thoughtfully.
"Everything you two do is suspicious," eight-year-old Ginny piped up, grinning as she easily kept pace despite being the smallest. "That's your whole thing."
"Ginny's got a point," Charlie said, ruffling her red hair as they approached the barrier area. "You two have elevated suspicious behavior to an art form."
The twins exchanged one of their patented looks—the kind of wordless communication that had been striking terror into the hearts of parents and teachers for eleven years.
"We prefer 'creatively proactive,'" they said in unison, which somehow made it even more ominous.
"Right," Molly said, checking her watch and doing rapid mental calculations. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, everyone knows the drill. Charlie, you go first with Percy—"
"Actually, Mum," Charlie interrupted, pointing toward the barrier where they could see the tail end of another large group disappearing through the wall, "looks like we're not the only ones running late today. Might be easier to just follow the crowd."
"Are those the American families Aurora mentioned?" Percy asked, adjusting his glasses to get a better look. "The ones with the magical training program?"
"Probably," Molly said, herding her children toward the barrier. "Well, no matter—through we go. Fred, George, I mean it about the mysterious packages in your trunks."
"We have no idea what you're talking about," Fred said, which was basically a confession.
"Absolutely innocent," George added, which made it worse.
Ron looked up at Charlie hopefully. "Before I get to Hogwarts, will you teach me how to get away with stuff like they do?"
"Ronald Weasley!" Molly gasped.
Charlie grinned. "First rule of getting away with things, Ron—don't announce your intentions in front of Mum."
---
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