Chapter 1
"Clang, clang, clang…"
The rhythmic sound of metal clashing jolted Adam awake. He groggily surveyed his surroundings, then instinctively reached for his chest.
No blood, no bullet holes, no searing pain. Was he not dead? Impossible—he vividly remembered being shot three times and falling into a river. Unless a miracle had occurred, there was no way he'd still be alive.
And where the hell was he?
As a private detective who had just faced death, Adam's professional instincts and survival drive kicked in, forcing his foggy brain to clear and assess the situation.
As his mind sharpened and began processing sensory input, his first sensation was overwhelming weakness. The second was a throat so dry it felt like it was on fire—as if he'd fallen into a desert instead of a river after being shot.
Struggling to sit up, he grabbed a table knife from the cluttered dining table with a trembling left hand and began to carefully observe his surroundings.
Judging by the scenery flashing past the window and the metallic clanging, he was on a train, alone in a small compartment.
Probably no immediate danger, he thought, about to set the knife down when a sudden, piercing whistle startled him.
"Woo-woo—"
After the initial shock, Adam realized something was off.
A steam train? He wasn't an expert on trains, but in 2019, few trains still made that kind of whistle.
Dear God, had he drifted down the river into the Industrial Age?
To confirm his suspicions, Adam mustered his limited strength to rummage through the chaotic mess on the table.
Soon, he pulled out an English newspaper from beneath a pile of documents—or rather, a *moving* English newspaper.
"September 1, 1991, The Daily Prophet?"
The shock was so overwhelming that Adam didn't even notice how effortlessly he read the English text, despite being utterly hopeless at the language in his previous life.
The headline was even more staggering—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had begun its new term.
A large black-and-white photo dominated the front page, featuring a kind-looking, white-bearded old man standing in front of a towering, ancient castle.
Harry Potter? The wizarding world? Adam felt like he'd been hit over the head, staring blankly at the newspaper.
The flood of information overloaded his brain, but one thing was certain: he had died and somehow crossed over into the magical world of Harry Potter. He was likely on the train to Hogwarts.
Just then, a sharp pain shot through his right palm.
He groaned and raised his hand, noticing something writhing beneath the skin, as if it were about to burst through.
The pain intensified, accompanied by a torrent of chaotic information flooding his mind like a tidal wave.
"Ah—" The unbearable mental and physical torment forced a cry from his lips.
In the moment before he lost consciousness, he saw it—a grotesque, irregular orb emerging from his palm, the very thing that had caused his death in his previous life.
Adam's hoarse throat soon lost the ability to scream, and darkness swallowed him whole.
…
Balk Sarah reclined on a single sofa in his office, likely the most comfortable seat on the entire Hogwarts Express.
The magical comfort of the sofa far surpassed the cushioned seats in the compartments, let alone the hard wooden benches in the public cars.
Of course, such luxury was reserved for the train conductor.
Old Balk had worked on this train for over thirty years, treating it like his second wife.
"About half an hour left. Maybe I can have a drink," Balk muttered to himself, shifting the pipe in his mouth.
*Knock, knock, knock!*
Urgent knocking shattered his hopes for a drink. He sat up from the soft sofa and called out gruffly, "Come in."
A young man with brown hair rushed in, panting. "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Balk…"
"For Merlin's sake, Bowman, call me Conductor," Balk interrupted, annoyed. "And stop being so frantic. It makes us look unprofessional to the passengers."
"Of course, sir—er, Conductor," Bowman replied, patting his chest respectfully.
Catching his breath, the young train attendant continued, "Conductor, you need to see this. The weather's abnormal—it's snowing."
"Snowing?" Balk repeated, incredulous. "Have you been drinking, Bowman? It's only late August. Snow's impossible."
Though skeptical, he didn't think Bowman would lie unless he wanted to lose his job.
Balk snapped his fingers, and the half-drawn curtains in his office rose instantly. Reluctantly leaving his comfortable sofa, he approached the window to get a better look.
Outside, the sky was ominously dark, with tiny snowflakes swirling in the wind. Based on his experience with winter runs, a fierce blizzard was imminent.
"How is this possible?"
Shock and confusion spread across the sixty-five-year-old conductor's face. In his thirty-plus years on the job, he'd seen plenty of bad weather—hurricanes, heavy rain, mudslides—but a violent blizzard in late August or early September?
Balk quickly regained his composure, his mind racing to formulate a plan.
"We're about half an hour from New Ravenscar Station, correct?"
Bowman flipped through his notebook and nodded. "Yes, Conductor. Twenty-four minutes, to be exact, assuming we don't slow down."
Balk removed his pipe, exhaling a cloud of smoke that swiftly formed into numbers in front of him: 17:22.
"Tell Shovel to reduce the train's speed and switch the magical engine to the low-temperature setting. Have Miss Rebecca and the train guards inform the passengers that if the snow worsens, we'll stop at New Ravenscar Station for a while.
"Get Dylan to send a telegram to headquarters with a report on the situation. Oh, and send one to Hogwarts, too—let them know their students will be delayed…"
Bowman scribbled down the conductor's orders. As he turned to relay them, Balk added, "Oh, and make sure the Hogwarts prefects keep an eye on the students. Don't let them run wild."
"Yes, Conductor. I'll inform them," Bowman replied.
After Bowman left, Balk let out a long sigh, his expression growing graver as he watched the intensifying snowstorm outside. "This damned weather. Why today, of all days?"