September 1st.
Morning light was like a surgeon's scalpel, slicing open London's mist with perfect precision, slipping through the window frame, and casting bright spots onto the floor.
The instant the light touched the foot of his bed, Alan's eyelids lifted on cue.
There was no trace of groggy haze in his pupils—only the crystalline clarity of an icy lake. His mind had already completed its self-check before he opened his eyes; every process was running flawlessly.
Inside his Mind Palace—a vast structure built of logic for its girders and memory for its stones—every light blazed bright. At the palace's center, a holographic sand table displayed the operation plan titled "Hogwarts: First Day", running final simulations at millisecond speed.
The timeline was stretched and magnified, each node marked with execution instructions accurate to the very second.
Alan rose. Not a single motion in his body was wasted, each transition smooth as the workings of precision machinery.
Wash. Dress.
Then luggage.
For most, packing was a battle with chaos and limited space. For him, it was an exercise in spatial geometry and applied material mechanics.
His eyes swept across the bed—heavy textbooks, rolls of parchment, bottles of ink and potion ingredients, neatly folded wizard robes.
To the average eye, it was disorderly clutter.
Within his Mind Palace, each item instantly transformed into a three-dimensional model annotated with exact dimensions, mass, and material properties.
The optimal packing algorithm launched.
Countless combinations were generated, tested, filtered, discarded. At 0.03 seconds, the final solution locked in.
He began.
Every book slid into gaps at precise angles, every robe folded to an exact thickness. His hands, steady and efficient, placed each object into pre-determined coordinates. The trunk gradually filled, each item nested seamlessly against the next, not a millimeter wasted. This was not packing—it was architecture.
When he snapped the lid shut, the entire process had taken exactly seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, matching the plan to the second.
10:30 a.m., King's Cross Station.
Beneath the old iron dome, the mingled roar of voices, station announcements, and train whistles surged in waves. The air smelled of diesel, dust, and cheap hot dogs.
Alan's father, Robert, stared fixedly at the brick wall between Platforms Nine and Ten with a look equal parts absurdity and unease.
The wall was made of weathered red brick, its seams filled with black mortar, looking solid enough to withstand a battering ram.
"This is it?"
Robert's Adam's apple bobbed as his voice wavered, heavy with doubt in the reality before him.
"Yes."
Alan's reply was calm and unshaken. He pushed the heavy trolley, his gaze analyzing the wall like it was the statement of a geometry problem. His mind raced, cross-checking the intelligence Senior Penelope Clearwater had provided with a simplified physical model he had constructed.
"Based on current data, there are two threshold conditions for successful traversal."
His tone was clear and level, like a lecture at a research seminar.
"First: initial velocity. A constant speed of no less than three meters per second must be maintained. Any hesitation or deceleration before impact, and the laws of the physical world will reassert themselves. The result: collision."
"Second: cognitive override. This is a psychological variable. The traveler's consciousness must establish, ahead of the body, an absolute belief model that 'the wall is immaterial.' Any doubt—even at the subconscious level—will cause the reality-distortion field to collapse."
He paused, shifting his gaze from the cold wall to his family—his father Robert's bewildered face, his mother Carla's fists clenched with nerves, and his little sister Lilia peeking out from behind their mother, eyes wide with both fear and curiosity.
The tight lines of his face softened. He summoned a precisely calculated smile—one engineered to soothe.
"Watch me."
He said no more.
Bending his knees slightly, he adjusted his breathing, drawing in oxygen to fuel the imminent explosion of muscle groups. A purely physical preparation.
In the next instant, the muscles in his legs coiled tight, releasing a burst of power that surged from the ground, through his core, into his arms.
The heavy trolley, under his push, accelerated smoothly from rest to speed without a single hitch.
Boy and trolley became one. A single unit, a projectile with a calculated trajectory, locked on its target.
Alan's eyes fixed on the wall ahead. It loomed larger and larger in his vision.
But in his mind, it was nothing more than a denser layer of air, easily parted.
There was no final shout.
No unnecessary expression.
He charged straight toward the wall with an unyielding resolve.
There was no imagined crash.
No bone-shattering wail.
Not even the slightest ripple of air.
Alan, along with his fully loaded luggage trolley, was silently and seamlessly swallowed by the solid wall, vanishing between Platform Nine and Ten.
As if he had never existed.
Robert, Carla, and Lilia's breathing froze. The scene before their eyes shattered the physical common sense they had built over decades.
After a brief deathly silence came the courage born of survival. They exchanged a glance, then, imitating Alan, summoned their nerve and in turn dashed toward the wall, disappearing on the spot.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Completely different from the outside world of age and decay.
This was a world wrapped in thick white steam, bursting with life.
The air was warm and damp, carrying the distinctive scent of burning coal. The scarlet steam engine, like a slumbering beast, rested by the platform, rumbling in a steady, powerful rhythm. The platform was crowded with people—parents shouting reminders, children squealing in excitement, owls hooting, trolley wheels clattering—all weaving together into a lively symphony.
Alan ignored the clamor.
His Mind Palace was swiftly collecting and analyzing environmental data, but his expression did not change.
He skillfully located the luggage carriage and handed his massive trunk to a uniformed attendant.
Then, he turned and said goodbye to his family.
A hug—simple, firm.
"Take care of yourself." Carla's eyes grew red.
"Write if anything happens." Robert patted his shoulder. His tone was stiff, but it could not hide his concern.
Alan nodded, offering no emotional words. Such words could not be quantified, and lacked efficiency.
He did not, like other first-years, glance back every few steps to wave reluctantly at his family, nor did he cast curious eyes upon everything around him. To him, such emotional fluctuations were meaningless energy consumption.
He turned and boarded the train directly.
He quickly passed through several noisy compartments, accurately locating an empty one.
He placed his backpack neatly on the luggage rack, then sat down upright.
No sooner had he settled than a deep, elegant cry sounded outside the window.
A black shadow cut through the steam, darted precisely through the half-open window, folded its wings, and landed steadily on his shoulder.
It was a raven.
Its form was more slender and graceful than its kind, its feathers black as ink, reflecting a cold metallic sheen under the dim compartment light.
This was his pet—Night Raven.