The Mystery of the Phoenix Egg

The train station was bustling with people. Locomotives whistled, and travelers weighed down with heavy luggage shuffled into lines by their designated doors. My parents trailed a few steps behind me, with Dad pushing my overloaded trolley. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some of the less preoccupied passersby raising their eyebrows at the copper cauldron on my cart. Others let out quiet gasps of admiration when they spotted the gorgeous, coppery-gold barn owl perched obediently on top of my massive leather trunk, which held everything I needed for my first year. (For once, I had never been more thankful for people’s tendency to mind their own business.)

"I told you! I told you!" came a triumphant voice from in front of me.

It was my sister, Sara. She’d spent nearly the entire summer refusing to look at me, let alone speak to me, but now she was smugly pointing at something above her.

That something was the big numbers marking the platforms.

"See? I told you," Sara repeated, jabbing her finger at the enormous "9" first. "I told you there’s no such thing as Platform 9 and Three-Quarters. Look!" She gestured dramatically between the big "9" and "10," her finger tracing the empty space in between.

And she wasn’t wrong. There was nothing there, just an unmarked brick wall separating the platforms.

Mom and Dad had stopped and were glancing around, looking as lost as I felt. Sara moved closer to me and whispered, "Well, this should be fun. Let’s see how you’re gonna get to your magic school now.”

She tried to hide it, but I could see the little flicker of glee in her expression. Ever since Professor Xavier had shown up at our house to explain why strange things kept happening around me and announced that I was, in fact, a witch, Sara had barely spoken to me. When Mom and Dad weren’t around, she’d call me a freak, a mistake.

It hurt. A lot.

But I didn’t blame her. I knew it was just an act. Deep down, I knew she wanted to come, too. And I also knew she couldn’t.

I didn’t answer her obvious provocation and instead started scanning the platform. Everything looked perfectly normal .

"It’s all just one big, elaborate prank," Sara went on, her voice dripping with fake sympathy.

That awful knot in my stomach was starting to tighten. What if she was right?

Out of sheer desperation, I considered pulling out my wand and tapping it against the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10. But then I pictured the scene—being escorted off the platform in a straitjacket, or worse, getting arrested for damaging public property when sparks started flying out of my wand.

No, that wasn’t an option.

A few steps behind me, Sara and my parents stood watching. I could feel their eyes on me—confused ones from Mom and Dad, and something slightly smug from Sara.

I racked my brain, trying to remember if Professor Xavier had mentioned anything about a special way to get onto the platform.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with anything, and panic was starting to creep in.

Just as my chest began to tighten, a loud, exasperated man’s voice cut through the noise and pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not interested in your experiments? At school, blow yourself up all you want—they’ve got insurance for that sort of thing. But when your Franken-twinkies try to eat you again, don’t expect me to drive you to Saint Von Doom’s Hospital!”

I turned toward the voice and spotted a man lecturing what had to be his son. The boy was dragging a cart just like mine, piled high with oddly shaped trunks and cages.

He was… unusual.

For one, he was tall, but it wasn’t just his height—it was how he was tall. His arms and legs were too long, almost cartoonishly stretched, and his hands, gripping the cart’s handlebar, were massive compared to the rest of him.

And then there was his hair. A wild, dark blue jungle sprouted from his head, thick but it looked like the boy try to at least brush them. It was clearly the source of his dad’s frustration, judging by the way the man kept gesturing at it like it personally offended him.

I watched them as they slowly moved closer to the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. I caught a glimpse of a shiny copper cauldron in the boy’s cart, one just like the one on top of mine. It felt like a shot in the dark, but my imagination was running out.

The father didn’t stop his lecture, but the distance between them and the barrier was shrinking quickly, so I found the courage to speak up.

“Excuse me...” I interrupted, scrambling to find the right words to explain what I needed. I tried to make it sound neutral enough that the wizard would understand without accidentally revealing that I was trying to keep our little magical world a secret from the non-magical ones. “I, uh, you know, I’m trying to—um, it crossed my mind that maybe…”

Thankfully, the blue-haired boy rescued me from my desperation. He seemed grateful for the distraction and looked behind me, noticing my parents. He immediately understood my problem.

“You’re going to Hogwarts for the first time, right?” he asked, not as a question but more as a statement, his sharp gaze glinting behind the glasses perched on his nose.

“Don’t worry, girl in distress. Let Hank show you the way,” he said with a grin.

At that moment, his father sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t show off, Hank.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” the father apologized. “It’s just… if you need to get to the platform, you walk through the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. If I understand it well, your parents aren’t wizards, so you’ll have to take them by the hand to get them through too.”

“Ah, okay. Thank you so much,” I said, bowing slightly to show my gratitude.

Father and son say their goodbyes to me. Hank doesn't look too happy that his dad took his big moment, but he still turns around to wave at me before he and his father walk through the barrier, which I can't see because, like magic, a group of tourists once again blocks my view.

I follow them. I go back to my parents, explain the situation, and slowly guide them through the barrier. It's funny to watch them shake with fear as I lead them toward the solid wall. Dad shuts his eyes, and Mom nearly pulls away from me. Lastly, I lead Sara. She reluctantly grabs my hand, but as soon as we pass the final part of the solid barrier, she yanks her hand out of mine, as if I were some slimy, disgusting creature.

The platform is huge. The train station gleams with a brilliantly polished red locomotive, and from its black chimney, white clouds of steam rise. Around us, people are still running around, but this time, many more of them are wearing strange robes, the kind I've seen in Diagon Alley.

The whistle blows loudly, the first signal for families to hurry up and say their goodbyes before their kids leave for almost four months. My parents are admiring the local architecture, so I turn my attention back to Sara.

I know she's angry, and maybe this won't help, but I'm secretly hoping that the threat of such a long separation might soften her up, and we can make up before I leave. We used to be very close before.

"I'll send you a letter through Prometheus, I'll write about everything I see there..." I tried to address my sister, but she wouldn’t let me finish.

"I don't want any of your letters, and I definitely don't want to know what you do in that freak school."

"I'm not a freak, Sara..." I defend myself. Her words hurt, but not as much anymore; I've gotten used to it.

"Yes, you are, and it's about time you go where you belong, among the other freaks. That school of yours exists just to keep you under control so that we normal people can live in peace and quiet." Sara keeps going, not even noticing my weak protest.

I glance over toward where my parents are standing. She never talks to me like this in front of them. They're too far away to hear us, but they've stopped paying attention to their surroundings and are slowly walking back to us.

"If it were up to me, they'd keep you there forever!" Sara says her last words just as my dad beams a bright smile at me.

Mom rushes over and starts adjusting my coat and scarf, like she always does, even though I’m old enough to do it myself.

"Alright, Jeanie," she says softly as she double-checks that everything is tucked in and nothing’s sticking out. "Study hard, don’t skip meals, don’t stay up too late, and write to us regularly! Every week! And don’t forget, Professor Xavier explained how to contact him if needed, so if we don’t hear from you, we’ll contact him." Her words are full of love, even with the slight threat in her tone at the end, but there’s something else there I haven’t seen before—uncertainty? Fear?

"Alright, Mom, don't worry," I reply, a little annoyed... She's repeated all of this at least a hundred times.

"Yeah, Ely, leave the girl alone, she's grown up!" Dad adds, taking my side as he playfully ruffles my hair, messing up half of Mom's anxious work in the process.

"John!" Mom scolds him, but only half-seriously.

"Take care, Jeanie," Mom smiles at me one last time, kissing my cheek and hugging me. "I'm sorry, but we have to go, Sara has a performance."

Dad also gives me one smile, bends down, and scoops me up into his arms.

"So, how's my little girl feeling?" he asks, pressing a kiss into my hair.

"It's awesome, Dad!" I reply in his strong embrace, but he doesn't fall for it.

"You can do this, Jeanie. You're going to do great things. I know you can," he says as he kneels down on one knee, holding me tightly by the arms on both sides.

The whistle blows again, just one more time, and the train will leave the platform, carrying the life I knew far behind me.

Dad stands up and holds me close one more time.

Mom and Sara are already by the stone wall.

"John, we really have to go!" Mom calls out to Dad. He smiles at me one last time and walks toward them. They all easily pass through the stone wall, clearly not needing an escort for the return.

I’m alone. But not for long.

In that moment, I feel a strong, warm hand on my shoulder. I quickly turn around and look into the familiar face of Hank.

"Hey, Hank," I greet him.

"Ah, not only beautiful but also intelligent!" he teases with a grin. "Do you need help with that suitcase for the train?" Without waiting for an answer, he bends down to grab it, but it slips out of his hands, and he almost falls. I quickly take my own suitcase and call out to him.

"Come on, or we’ll miss it! We need to find our compartment. If you want, you can carry the cauldron!" I say, starting to move ahead.

"As you wish, Jean," Hank chuckles, grabbing his things in one hand and my cauldron in the other as he hurries to follow me.

"Sorry, I still haven’t introduced myself properly," I say as he catches up. "My name is Jean, Jean Grey."

"Ah, a pleasure to meet you, Miss Grey," he says, smiling. "I’m Hank McCoy. I’m the son of Norton McCoy, and I assume you're from a Muggle family?" His tone is confident, almost like he already knows the answer.

"So, Hank," I ask, curious, "what did you do to get such a cool mohawk?"

"Ah, are you talking about my amazing natural curls?" he grins.

"No, I mean the color, Hank. Do wizards get blue hair?" I ask.

"No, not usually," Hank replies with a laugh. "Though, if a wizard had a child with a fairy or a nymph, maybe. Or, if a woman drank some special potion during pregnancy..." He trails off, lost in thought. My raised eyebrow pulls him back to reality.

"Okay, okay, you’ve got me," he says, realizing he’s said too much. "The color of my hair comes from a long, complicated experiment with Swooping Evil droppings and how they affect memory. I thought if I mixed it with crushed bezoar and the saliva of a hellhound... well, let's just say it didn’t work out the way I thought it would."

I don’t know what Swooping Evil , bezoar, or hellhound are, but I don’t get a chance to ask more because the line moves, and we push our way through the crowd of students toward the train.

The carriage we boarded was nearly full, with only one compartment still having plenty of room. Hank opened the sliding door and asked the people inside if we could join. The girl and the dark-haired boy ignored him, but the extremely handsome blonde boy gave him a nod of approval.

I let Hank toss my suitcase up into the luggage rack above our heads, and we sat down across from each other on the opposite seats. Hank sat next to the girl, who didn't seem to notice his arrival, still staring out the window with a bored expression, while I sat next to the handsome blonde. He gave me a faint smile.

The atmosphere in the compartment wasn’t exactly the cheeriest—it had that kind of weight that makes you want to curl up and stay quiet—but it seemed to have no power over Hank, who immediately began talking once he had arranged his things.

“So, how excited are you for Hogwarts? Your first year! I remember mine, full of anticipation…”

“You’re not a first-year,” the boy who had invited us inside asked, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“No, I’m in my second year,” Hank replied with a grin.

“I thought this compartment was just for first-years,” the dark-haired boy said, puzzled.

“Well, usually first-years sit here, but you can sit wherever you like. I don’t get off on having power over the uninitiated,” Hank explained, laughing.

The boy gave Hank another once-over, his gaze briefly lingering on his blue hair before turning dismissively back to the window.

I ignored his snobbish behavior and asked, “Tell me more about Hogwarts. What’s it like? What are the best subjects? And what about the professors? Are they strict? Anyone I should avoid? And what about the grounds…?”

“Wait, wait, not so fast,” Hank laughed at my natural curiosity. “What do you already know?”

“Almost nothing,” I admitted. “I know I’ll study there for seven years, I know what the subjects are, but I have no clue how things actually work at Hogwarts.”

“Well, Hogwarts…” Hank started, his eyes lighting up. “It’s the best wizarding school in the world! It’s a massive, ancient castle, completely steeped in magic. I don’t think anyone alive could claim to know all its secrets.”

He sparked my imagination, adding, “In the summer, you’ll definitely appreciate the lake, but you’ll have to be careful because you never know if something swimming around in there decides to come up for a snack.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, alarmed, but his lips curled into a teasing grin.

“I’m just messing with you. But seriously, the lake is home to all sorts of creatures, so it’s good to keep your wits about you.”

“As for the subjects, I really like Potions, and Professor Sage is pretty amazing…” Hank trailed off, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Hank…”

“Which probably doesn't interest you... But honestly, you don’t need to worry about the teachers. They’re all nice, some are strict, but fair. Well, except for Professor Darkholme, of course.” Hank said this so casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, but to me, it definitely wasn’t. Before I could ask, the dark-haired boy spoke up again.

“Got a problem with something?” he growled at Hank. Hank raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

“Professor Darkholme is one of the greatest witches of her time, and you shouldn’t dare slander her name,” the boy added, his voice sharp.

“She can be whatever kind of great witch she wants, but she favors her own house and belittles the other students,” Hank shot back.

“Her house?” I asked, genuinely curious and hoping to defuse the growing tension.

“Yeah, in Hogwarts, students are sorted into four houses, and each has its own head of house. No surprise that Darkholme runs Slytherin,” Hank explained, though his gaze remained fiercely fixed on the other boy.

Ah, yes, I remembered now—Professor Xavier had mentioned the houses. What was the name of his house again?

“The best house in the whole school,” the boy sneered. “I’d say I hope to get into it, but that’s as clear as day.”

“What about you? What house are you in?” the blonde boy asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from the conflict, though he didn’t seem thrilled by the situation either.

“Ah, I’m from Ravenclaw,” Hank said proudly, standing a little straighter. “The house where those of wit and learning, Will always find their kind.”

He recited this last part with such pride, I almost couldn’t help but smile, though the tension in the air remained thick.

At that moment, I noticed for the first time the girl who had been silently staring out of the window. She was quite a pretty girl with pale, flawless skin. Her light brown hair was braided into two neat pigtails. While the unpleasant boy had dark eyes, almost black like the deepest night, hers were blue like the second blonde boy. However, while his were like a summer sky—clear, sparkling, and deep as the sea—hers were sharp, bright, and as impenetrable as a frozen lake. Perhaps it was because of the round glasses perched on her uneven nose that added to this impression.

But the contemptuous sound she made when Hank mentioned his House wasn’t flattering either.

Hank noticed her mockery immediately and snapped at her, “What’s your problem?”

“Oh, no, Ravenclaw’s perfectly fine, I’d say it’s a nice consolation prize. You could’ve done a lot worse,” the girl replied, finally turning from the window to face us.

“Worse?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

“Well, you could have ended up in Hufflepuff or, heaven forbid, Gryffindor,” the dark-haired boy spoke up, and both of them sneered as they shared a laugh.

“In Ravenclaw? Xavier himself studied there!” I said, remembering the name of the House head. Their attitude didn’t sit well with me.

“So what?” the girl shot back. “My dad says Xavier is the worst thing to ever happen to Hogwarts.”

“Xavier is a great man,” Hank countered.

The tension, which had already been thick, seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.

“Well, still better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” Hank muttered and shot a significant wink at the blonde boy, who to his surprise didn’t smile back but instead replied flatly.

“My whole family went to Slytherin,” he said.

"What? You seemed pretty normal to me..." Hank said, slightly bewildered.

The blond boy offered a reluctant smirk. “Well, maybe I’ll break the tradition.”

“Your father would kill you if you ended up anywhere else,” the girl said casually, as though she didn’t take his words seriously. Still, for just a moment, a flicker of uncertainty seemed to pass behind her thick glasses. Or maybe I just imagined it.

“I didn’t expect that from you,” the dark-haired boy said, shaking his head. “And where else would you belong, if not in Slytherin?”

The blond boy shrank under their disdainful gazes before finally muttering, “I don’t know… I’m not saying it won’t happen. Just that… it could.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re joking,” the brunette shot back sharply.

“Imagine that,” the dark-haired boy snickered, his mouth full of bright, sharp teeth. “If you ended up in Gryffindor, your father would disown you.” He laughed, nudging the girl beside him, who joined in, though not as loudly.

Their smug laughter was cut short by the blond boy’s next words. “I wouldn’t really mind that.”

“What?!” they both blurted out in unison, as if they hoped they had misheard him.

“I said, I wouldn’t mind ending up in Gryffindor,” he repeated, this time with a bit more confidence.

The dark-haired boy’s face twisted into a faint smirk as he finally processed the blond boy’s shocking declaration. “Well, if you care more about brawn than brains…”

“And where would you want to end up? Since you have neither brains nor brawn?” I snapped at him.

The boy with the dark eyes widened them in disbelief, clearly not used to being spoken to like that. His hand darted into his sleeve, and I suddenly realized with a jolt of fear that he was reaching for his wand.

“I’ll show you—” he hissed through clenched teeth, but before he could do anything, the girl beside him placed her hand firmly on his arm and hissed, glancing toward the door. “Watch out.”

My gaze followed hers.

Through the glass of the compartment door, I saw an older, plump witch wheeling a trolley into view.

“Let it go, Seb. Don’t get yourself into trouble over people who aren’t worth it,” the girl said softly but firmly.

The door slid open, and the witch peeked inside with a cheerful smile.

“Anything from the trolley, dears? Got all sorts—sweet, savory? Something to drink?” she asked, her tone jolly, cutting through the awkward silence that had settled over the compartment.

Nobody spoke at first, and then the blonde boy managed to mumble, “No, thank you. Maybe later.”

“Really? Well, as you like, dears. I’ll be back around later, or you can find me up front in the dining car,” she said kindly before moving on.

Hank, blonde boy, and I mumbled polite thank-yous. The brunette girl gave a small nod. The boy with the dark eyes adjusted his jacket, completely ignoring the witch.

As the door slid shut behind her, I turned my gaze back to him indignantly. He stared at the door for a moment longer, clearly debating whether to do something. But the girl’s hand remained on his arm, a silent anchor holding him back.

Finally, with an irritable huff, he shook her hand off—not too gently—grabbed his coat, suitcase and stood up. 

"Come on, Emma, let's find somewhere else to sit." he announced sharply before storming out of the compartment.

Emma stood up obediently, grabbing her suitcase—white, new, and obviously expensive, just like the rest of her outfit.

"Warren?" She paused in the doorway, turning back to look at the other boy, who hadn’t moved from his seat.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said defiantly, though he didn’t lift his eyes to meet hers.

Emma raised an eyebrow, then simply said, "Fine, stay here with these losers if you want. Do whatever you like."

With that, she slammed the door behind her and went off to find her friend.

"Well, that was lovely," I said, breaking the silence.

"You’ve got some charming friends," Hank added.

"Do you know them well?" I asked.

"Yeah, our families have been connected for years. We’ve known each other since we were kids. But I don’t know if you’d call us friends. People like me don’t have friends—just allies," he said bitterly.

He sounded so jaded that, once again, I found myself silently grateful for my loving family.

"And who were they, then?"

"Sebastian Shaw and Emma Frost," Warren replied.

"Oh no," Hank gasped.

"What does it matter who they are?" I turned to him, confused.

"Well, you see, in the magical world, we kind of… split people into groups. There are the pure-bloods, half-bloods like me, and Muggle-borns like you. We’re, uh, a bit… old-fashioned about it," Hank explained.

"Shaw and Frost belong to some of the oldest wizarding families. The kind that believe the fact there’s no Muggle-born blood in their lineage makes them better than the rest of us. Most of them would prefer if Muggle-borns weren’t allowed at Hogwarts at all. And they really don’t like mixed marriages. It’s like they can’t grasp that the magical world wouldn’t survive without them. There just aren’t enough pure-blood families left..." He trailed off, staring at Warren in disbelief.

"And you’re one of them, aren’t you?" I directed my question to Warren when Hank remained silent.

The blond boy inhaled nervously. "Yes. I’m Warren Worthington III."

"Well, isn’t that just fantastic," Hank muttered, shaking his head.

"Look, I’m still a bit lost," I interrupted. "So, what?"

Warren turned his gaze directly to me, his blue eyes suddenly colder. "The Worthingtons are… well, we’re not just pure-bloods. We’re something like… wizarding aristocracy."

"Aristocracy?" I repeated, the word so ridiculous I nearly laughed. "So what, you’ve got titles and castles? Do you get woken up every morning by a butler asking, ‘Would you like scrambled eggs, sir?’"

“We do have a castle,” Warren nodded simply. “And no, it’s not just about titles. It’s about power. A family like mine can decide other people’s fates. Like who gets a job at the Ministry, who’s allowed to trade with whom… we can even bend the laws to suit us. That’s just how it works in this world.”

“That’s… disgusting,” I blurted out without thinking.

“I agree,” Warren said with a nod. “But you don’t get to choose your family.”

Hank scoffed. “Sure, your family sounds awful. But that doesn’t mean you have to be like them.”

Warren gave a bitter smile. “Doesn’t it? I’m a Worthington. Whether I want to be or not, I’ll always be one of them.”

“And what about Shaw and Frost? Are they pure-blood aristocrats too?” I asked.

Warren glanced at me and nodded. “Shaw Senior is one of the richest wizards in the world. Same with Emma’s father...” He hesitated. “Neither of them has much reason to talk to people like you . And certainly not you specifically, since you’re Muggle-born.”

“Oh, great,” I sighed. “What a brilliant start. So everyone’s going to hate me just because I was born into the wrong family?”

“Not everyone,” Hank said gently, resting a hand on my shoulder. “But yeah, some people will.”

We were quiet for a moment before I finally found the words again.

“And what about you?” I asked Warren with a teasing smile. “Is the great and powerful Worthington going to be our friend—or just our ally? Or am I too far beneath you since I’m just some Muggle-born witch?”

Warren paused, looking a bit startled, but then he caught the joke in my tone. A small smile tugged at his handsome face. “I don’t know. Maybe both. But be careful around Shaw and Frost. They don’t see people. They only see tools to get what they want.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered. “Something to really look forward to.”

Hank chuckled. “Welcome to the wizarding world.”

Through the window, fields and meadows blurred by. We’d left the city far behind, and now, outside the window, golden fields with bundles of hay came and went, green forests followed, and just as I peeked out for a second, we passed a heather patch glowing with the last purple flowers. Some trees were already dressed in their autumn coats, and here and there the scenery changed to a typical English village with unsuspecting people who had no idea that a bright red locomotive carrying a whole bunch of wizards was speeding past them.

We talked for a while about all sorts of things. I asked them everything about the wizarding world, and both of them were trying to outdo each other on who could tell me more. I found out that Hank’s favorite subject was potions and that he was some kind of child genius – he’d been helping his father with his work since he was eight, and when he described what he was working on now, Warren and I were left with our jaws on the floor. Then, at one point, a huge argument broke out over some wizarding sport, I think they called it Quidditch? I wanted to ask them more about it, but the guys argued so much about which Quidditch team was the best, that I didn’t want to start that debate again. In the end, I asked about something I’d been looking forward to the most about Hogwarts.

“So, what about spells? Do you know any yet?” I turned to Hank. “You definitely do, right? How many, which ones, and can I see any? Can you do something other than just coloring your hair?” I teased him.

“Very funny, Jean. Very funny,” Hank said, eyeing me over his glasses, grinning. “Well, of course, I can. Although I admit, practical magic isn’t my strongest suit. But I can give something a try.”

He got up to reach his things, rummaged through his suitcase for a bit until he found his wand, smaller than mine, light brown, and then one of the textbooks. After closing the suitcase, he sat back down with the book on his lap.

It wasn’t supposed to be the first time I’d see any magic, but I still took a deep breath and held it in excitement as he took out his wand, ready to cast some magical formula. Warren just smirked and watched me, amused by my unrefined enthusiasm. To him, of course, it wasn’t anything special. When you see magic every day, it must get pretty boring, just like everything else.

“In first year, you won’t learn much, everyone’s just getting to know their magical potential, our magic isn’t controlled enough yet to do any proper spells.” Hank explained a bit apologetically, then with a sharp flick of his wand, he waved it and said, “Leviosa.”

The book shivered and then slowly started to lift off Hank’s lap, heading in the direction where the tip of his wand was pointing. I clapped my hands in excitement. Which, as it turned out, I shouldn’t have done, because at that moment Hank dramatically bowed, lost his concentration, and the heavy book fell from the ceiling right onto his head.

“Damn it,” Hank muttered, but Warren and I burst into uproarious laughter, which Hank eventually joined after a moment.

Once we stopped laughing and I caught my breath, I turned to Warren.

“So, do you know any spells? I mean, since you’re from a magical family, you must’ve known loads of them since you were little.”

“Actually, kids aren’t allowed to use magic,” Warren corrected me.

“What?!” I asked, surprised. “But I’ve done some spells.”

“Well, because you couldn’t control them,” Hank butted in. “Little kids, before they start at Hogwarts, are allowed to do some harmless, uncontrollable spells, but be careful, from now on, you can only cast spells in magical spaces, until you turn seventeen.”

“Ah.” I said, disappointed. I had been looking forward to showing my parents everything I would learn and secretly hoping Sara would show some interest in me again when she saw what I could do. Well, if I could.

Thinking about my sister made me a little sad, so I quickly changed the topic.

“So, you can’t do any spells? I tried again with Warren.

“Well, actually no,” he admitted, “I haven’t done any, but I think I could probably do some spells. I’ve seen Dad do a few.”

“Well, try it. You can do it here.” I encouraged him, and Hank joined in with my excitement.

“Alright, alright, okay,” Warren laughed, reaching into his pocket for his wand. His wand was made of a really nice wood, it reminded me of their walnut coffee table, and it was pretty thin compared to Hank’s sturdy one.

“I think I know how I could get rid of that blue in your hair. If you want,” he added nervously, looking at Hank.

“You don’t like the color of my hair?” Hank pretended to be horrified, but his fake shock didn’t last long. “You can try. My dad refused to do it, he said I deserved it. But if I end up bald, you better not mess with me,” he warned.

“If you want, I can set you up with some implants at Saint Von Doom’s. You know, connections,” Warren laughed confidently, pointing his wand at Hank’s blue mane.

But before he could say the spell, the door opened again.

In the doorway stood a tall boy, more like a grown-up. He had already changed into his school uniform. Besides that, he was also wearing some very red glasses.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice tinged with slight uncertainty. "I’m Scott, one girl lost her bat, and I thought maybe...”

He suddenly noticed that Warren was holding a wand.

“Ah, you're going to do some magic? I’d love to see that,” he said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, waiting to see what Warren would do.

Warren, now a little less confident than before, lifted his wand and said, “Finite Incantate!” His wand tip glowed, and a gray mist swirled from Hank’s hair, but nothing else happened.

“Well, I think you're holding the wand too stiffly,” Scott said, “And as far as I know, this spell is used just to stop ongoing spells, but it won’t fix anything that’s already been done. But this might work…” Scott said, pulling out his own wand. Unlike Warren’s, Scott’s wand was much longer and black.

“Reparifarge,” he said, clearly and firmly. His wand glowed, and this time, a small pop sounded, and the same type of mist floated up. Hank’s hair had turned back to its propably original dark chestnut color.

“Thank you,” Hank said, sounding slightly flustered, as he looked at his reflection in the window.

“No problem. I’ve only tried simpler spells so far, but they've always worked for me,” Scott said with a smile. “Anyway, I’d better go. If you see any bats, we’re sitting at the front of the first carriage.”

“Got it,” they said in unison, and the door closed behind Scott.

“Yeah, because you’re obviously perfect, right?” Warren sighed when he was sure the tall boy couldn’t hear him. “Who does he think he is? ‘I’m Scott,’” Warren mocked, imitating the boy’s introduction. “With a name like that, does he think he's Scott Summers or something?” He grumbled.

I didn’t get the joke, but Warren looked pretty upset by the boy’s interference, so for once, I kept my usually curious mouth shut. Hank, meanwhile, was still admiring his now-normal hair in the window’s reflection.

“Reparifarge… That’s beyond the first-year curriculum… Looks like he’s studying ahead. His parents probably think their little boy is going to conquer the world…” Hank mused.

Their conversation about the spectacled boy lasted for a while, but not too long. Soon enough, we moved on to much more pleasant topics. After a while, we all changed into our school robes, and when the witch with the trolley passed by for the second time, we bought a little bit of everything and tried it together.

We had a lot of fun tasting the magical beans, which seemed to come in every flavor, both delicious and disgusting.

Time passed quickly, the way it only does when you’re having a great time. And so, as our journey neared its end, our laughter was suddenly interrupted by the screeching of the enormous train wheels.