Jake stared at the trolley, his mind momentarily wiped clean by the sheer, unexpected normality of the question. "Anything off the trolley, dear?" was a phrase from his world, from train journeys to Brighton or Manchester. Yet, the trolley itself was anything but normal. It was a technicolour explosion of treats he recognised instantly from the books.
There were stacks of Pumpkin Pasties, wobbling piles of Cauldron Cakes, and boxes of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. He saw the distinctive packaging of Chocolate Frogs, liquorice wands, and fist-sized balls of what had to be Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.
His psychology-trained mind, still reeling from the existential whiplash of his situation, latched onto this concrete, manageable task: buying sweets. It was a tiny piece of normal in a sea of impossible.
"Er, yeah. Sure," he stammered, scrambling for the pouch of coins he'd left on the seat. He fumbled it open, the strange currency still feeling like prop money in his hand. "Could I get... one of those?" He pointed at a Chocolate Frog. "And, uh, a box of the beans?"
"Of course, dear," the woman chirped, handing him the items. "That'll be four Sickles and two Knuts."
Jake blinked, staring at the silver and bronze coins in his palm, trying to work out the conversion rate. He decided to just trust her, clumsily picking out the required amount and dropping them into her outstretched hand. She gave him a final, beaming smile and rattled off down the corridor, her call of "Anything off the trolley?" echoing behind her.
He was left in silence, holding his purchases. He carefully unwrapped the Chocolate Frog first. The frog itself was a solid, hefty piece of milk chocolate that gave a surprisingly vigorous twitch in his hand before going still. He took a bite, the rich, sweet taste flooding his senses. It was just good chocolate. No magical flavour, just simple, delicious chocolate. It was another grounding sensation.
He looked at the collectable card that had come with it. It was a thick, pentagonal piece of cardboard. The moving portrait showed a stern-looking wizard with a long, silver beard tucked into his belt. Albus Dumbledore. The name was as familiar to him as his own. He read the brief biography on the back, a summary of a life he now had to accept as historical fact.
He set the card aside and tentatively opened the box of Bertie Bott's. He knew the risks. He shook one bean into his palm. It was a cheerful, sunny yellow. He popped it in his mouth and chewed.
For a glorious second, it was lemon. Then, the flavour curdled on his tongue, shifting into something acrid and deeply unpleasant. Earwax. He grimaced, swallowing hard and chasing it with another large bite of chocolate frog. Okay, so the legends were true. He sealed the box, deciding to save the rest for a moment when he was feeling particularly brave or foolish.
As the afternoon wore on, the sky outside began to darken, shifting from a bright blue to a deep, bruised purple. The rolling green hills were replaced by wilder moors and dense, foreboding forests. An announcement echoed through the train, instructing students to change into their school robes. Jake did so, the plain black fabric feeling strangely formal and anonymous. He was no longer just Jake; he was a Hogwarts student, one of many.
He spent the rest of the journey staring out of the window, watching the landscape grow more dramatic, his mind a quiet hum of nervous energy. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by a profound and stomach-churning anticipation. This was it. He was really doing this.
The train began to slow, its rhythmic clatter giving way to a long, grinding squeal of brakes. A voice, magically amplified, boomed through the carriages: "We will be arriving at Hogsmeade Station in five minutes. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately."
Jake took a deep breath, stuffing his wand into an inner pocket of his new robes. He left his suitcase and satchel, feeling a pang of anxiety at leaving his only worldly possessions behind, but he trusted the instructions. He joined a throng of other students pouring out into the narrow corridor as the train finally shuddered to a halt.
He was swept along with the tide of black-robed children onto a tiny, dark platform. The air was crisp and cold, smelling of pine and damp earth. Above them, a single lamp cast a pale, flickering light. And towering over the crowd, holding a lantern that seemed to swallow the darkness, was a giant of a man.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" a booming voice called out. It was Hagrid, looking exactly as Jake had pictured him—a mountain of a man with a wild, tangled beard and a warm, kind smile that crinkled the corners of his beetle-black eyes. "C'mon, follow me! Any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now!"
Jake, feeling both ridiculously old and terrifyingly young amongst the other nervous eleven-year-olds, shuffled forward and joined the small, trembling group huddled around the half-giant.
"Right then," Hagrid said, his voice rumbling like a friendly earthquake. "This way to the boats! C'mon now, follow me."
He led them down a steep, narrow path, the lantern swinging in his hand. The path opened up suddenly at the edge of a vast, black lake, its surface as smooth and dark as polished glass. On the far side, perched atop a high mountain, was Hogwarts.
The sight stole the breath from his lungs. It was more real, more magnificent than any picture or film could ever convey. Its windows were ablaze with golden light, and its many turrets and towers reached up to scrape the stars, which glittered in the clear, moonless sky. It wasn't just a building; it was a promise.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of small boats bobbing gently by the shore.
Jake found himself sharing a boat with three other first years—a pale, nervous-looking boy who was clutching his robes so tightly his knuckles were white, and two girls who were whispering excitedly to each other, pointing up at the castle. Jake remained silent, his gaze fixed on the approaching castle as the boat began to move, gliding silently across the water as if pulled by an invisible string. This was a moment he knew he would never forget, the first true taste of a world he had only ever dreamed of. The magic wasn't just in the wands and the spells; it was in the air he was breathing, in the water beneath him, in the impossible, beautiful sight of the castle that was soon to be his home.
The boats carried them to a dark cavern under the cliff face, an underground harbour lit by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the damp rock walls. They clambered out onto a gravelly shore, a huddle of small figures dwarfed by the immense scale of the place. Hagrid led them through a passage in the rock and up a long, winding flight of stone steps.
They emerged at last onto a smooth, damp lawn right in the shadow of the castle. As they walked towards a set of enormous oak front doors, Jake could finally appreciate the true size of Hogwarts. It wasn't just big; it was colossal, a monument of stone and magic that made him feel utterly insignificant.
Hagrid raised a fist the size of a dustbin lid and knocked three times on the wooden doors. They swung open instantly, not with a creak, but with a deep, resonant hum of ancient magic. Standing there was a tall, severe-looking witch in emerald-green robes. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her expression was so stern it looked as though it had been carved from granite. Professor McGonagall.
"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here," she said, her voice crisp and clear.
She pulled the doors wide, and they followed her into the Entrance Hall. Jake's jaw went slack. The ceiling was so high it was lost in shadow, and the stone walls were lit by flaming torches just like the ones in the cavern. A magnificent marble staircase directly opposite them led to the upper floors. The sound of hundreds of voices drifted from a set of double doors to the right, the chatter of the rest of the school already seated for the feast.
Professor McGonagall led them not towards the voices, but to a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, a nervous energy crackling between them.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be Sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room."
She went on to explain the four Houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—and the points system, but Jake barely heard the words. His mind was racing. He knew all this, but hearing it for real, from her, was different. This was the moment of truth. Where would he fit in? He wasn't brave like a Gryffindor or particularly cunning like a Slytherin. He was observant, analytical... maybe Ravenclaw? The thought of being in Hufflepuff, the house of the loyal and kind, felt comforting, but he wasn't sure he qualified.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting," she concluded, her eyes lingering for a moment on the nervous boy from Jake's boat, whose robes were slightly askew. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."
She left the chamber. A frantic, low-level babble immediately broke out. Jake stayed silent, observing. He could see the different archetypes forming already: the loud, boastful boy who was claiming he knew for a fact he'd be in Gryffindor; the quiet, studious-looking girl who was already whispering spells under her breath; the pale, blond boy who was sneering at the others with an air of superiority.
Suddenly, several people screamed. Jake flinched, looking up to see a group of about twenty pearly-white, semi-transparent figures gliding through the back wall. They were ghosts, chatting amongst themselves as they drifted through the throng of terrified first-years. A portly ghost wearing a ruff—the Fat Friar—gave a cheerful wave.
"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" he said merrily. "My old House, you know."
Before anyone could properly react, the door opened again. Professor McGonagall had returned. "Move along now," she said. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."