Chapter 8
When the Dursleys finally fell asleep, and Harry was certain he wouldn’t be interrupted, he quietly pulled everything from his backpack that he had found in his father’s vault. His heart raced a little with excitement—this was the first time he had anything truly personal from his parents, and it felt like a connection to a life he had only ever dreamed of.
The first thing Harry examined was the trunk itself, which was as light as a feather and had the ability to shrink. It was far more practical than the one he had bought with Hagrid, so he decided right then and there to use it instead. The initials "J.F.P." engraved on the trunk—James Fleamont Potter—posed a small problem, though. It would be odd for other students to see a trunk with someone else’s initials on it. But the moment Harry touched them, he felt a slight prick, like a needle barely grazing his skin. To his amazement, the letters shimmered briefly before rearranging themselves into "H.J.P." His initials.
Staring at the transformed trunk, Harry’s thoughts flickered back to his father. It seemed almost magical in a way he hadn’t anticipated—not just because of the enchantments, but because this was something his father had once used daily, carried through the halls of Hogwarts, and now it was his. A tangible piece of his family's history that had lived on even after his parents' deaths.
Setting the trunk aside for now, Harry turned his attention to its contents, starting with the old textbooks. They were worn, their pages slightly yellowed with age, but Harry could feel the magic that lingered in them, a hint of the education his father had received. He ran his fingers along the margins, noticing the scribbles his father had made. There were quick notes, strange shortcuts to spells, and even the occasional joke written in the corners—playful doodles of broomsticks and creatures. Harry smiled faintly, feeling like he was getting a small window into who James Potter had been as a student, as a teenager. He promised himself that he’d come back to these, not just to learn but to feel connected to the father he never knew.
Next, Harry picked up the notebooks. One was a rough draft of what looked like schoolwork—half-completed essays, spell diagrams, and bits of ancient runes. Another was a Quidditch strategy guide, complete with flying diagrams of players on broomsticks. The notebook was filled with detailed plans, formations for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and notes on opponents. As Harry flipped through it, he could see how much passion his father had for the game, and it made him long for the day when he could take to the skies on a broom himself.
But the other two notebooks were a mystery. They were filled with strange symbols, none of which resembled any letters or runes Harry recognized from the books he’d read. The characters danced across the page, almost shimmering with enchantment. It struck Harry that they must have been written in some kind of magical code or language. More likely, they were enchanted to be readable only by the owner—his father. Could they contain secret spells? Hidden knowledge? He would need to figure out a way to unlock them, but that was a task for another day.
The rest of the items in the trunk were a curious mix. There was a quill that seemed to write insults on its own, a golden Snitch that looked like it had seen many games, and some sort of magical game Harry didn’t recognize—a set of enchanted marbles that shifted colors and shapes as they sat in his hand. But perhaps the strangest item was a small, intricate box that wouldn’t open no matter how much Harry twisted and turned it. He set it aside, resolving to deal with it later.
What caught Harry’s attention most, though, was a pair of flying goggles and a set of photographs that had been tucked between the pages of one of the notebooks. The photos were of the Marauders—his father, Sirius, Remus, and Peter Pettigrew. Even though they had been taken years ago, the figures in the pictures moved and waved as if they were still very much alive. His father’s confident grin looked so much like his own, and Sirius, with his mischievous smirk, seemed full of life. Remus looked more serious, thoughtful as ever, but there was a warmth in his eyes that Harry found comforting. And then there was Peter—Pettigrew, the traitor. Harry’s stomach twisted at the sight of him. He knew the role Peter would eventually play, but in the photograph, he looked no different from the others—just another carefree boy, happy to be part of the group.
These were the first magical photographs Harry had ever seen with his own eyes, and even though he had read about them, seeing them was different. He couldn’t stop staring. The Marauders, young and full of life, were captured in a time before everything went wrong—before betrayal, before death. They looked so happy, so free. It was hard to reconcile the joy in their faces with the tragedy that would follow.
But as Harry studied the photos, something nagged at him. His father’s vault had clearly contained things from his school years, but what about his parents' adult lives? Harry knew from the books that his parents had been killed at Godric’s Hollow, and part of the house had been destroyed. But surely not all their possessions had been lost? What about his mother’s belongings? Her notes, her memories? Could the rest of their things still be in that ruined house, untouched since that night? Or had someone gathered them, stored them away somewhere?
Harry’s mind raced with the possibilities. There had to be more. He was sure of it. His parents had led rich, full lives before Voldemort had taken everything away. There had to be more than just this trunk filled with remnants of school years.
He resolved that, at the first opportunity, he would visit Godric’s Hollow. He would see where his parents had lived, and maybe—just maybe—he’d find the missing pieces of their lives. Of his life. He would uncover their story, the parts the books hadn’t told him.
With that thought, Harry carefully packed everything back into his father’s trunk, shrinking it down and hiding it in his backpack once more. He glanced at the clock—it was late, but sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight. Too many thoughts whirled through his mind. He was on the edge of something, a discovery, a journey that was far deeper than just his first year at Hogwarts. This was a chance to reclaim his family’s legacy.
As he climbed into bed, pulling the covers over himself, Harry stared at the ceiling, imagining Godric’s Hollow, the house where his parents had once lived. The pieces of their past were waiting for him, and one way or another, he would find them.
…
As summer came to an end, Harry spent his last weeks in his new bedroom, meticulously copying his notes into the magically secured notebook he had bought in Diagon Alley. After that, he dove into his textbooks, eager to be as prepared as possible for his first year at Hogwarts. Through Hedwig, he subscribed to the Daily Prophet, which he read carefully for any information that might help him with his ultimate goal—freeing Sirius Black.
But as the start of the Hogwarts term drew closer, Harry found himself growing more curious about his aunt’s past. After all, she had reacted so strangely when Uncle Vernon mocked him about Platform 9¾. According to the books, Aunt Petunia had been there before, but her confusion had seemed genuine. It left Harry wondering—was she truly that good of an actress, or had something else been going on?
…
On the morning of September 1st, Harry was up early. His trunk was packed, and Hedwig’s cage was ready. The Dursleys drove him to King’s Cross Station, but unlike in the books, Harry wasn’t anxious about how to find Platform 9¾. He already knew the way, and he certainly didn’t plan to wait around and let the Dursleys mock him for being clueless.
Without hesitation, Harry confidently made his way toward the barrier and passed through it with ease, just as described in the book. The sight of the magical platform, bustling with students and their families, filled him with excitement and a touch of nervousness. He briefly thought about waiting for the Weasleys, replaying their first meeting exactly as it happened in the books. But after a moment’s hesitation, he decided against it. He knew he’d have plenty of opportunities to befriend Ron on the train or later in Gryffindor.
Since it was still early, Harry quickly found an empty compartment, stashed his things, and immediately changed into his school robes. Thanks to the enchanted trunk he had inherited from his father—light as a feather and able to shrink down—it was easy to maneuver inside the small space. Once settled, Harry pulled out his potions textbook and began reading, immersing himself in the material as he waited for the train to depart at eleven o’clock.
He knew this was just the beginning, but despite his knowledge of what lay ahead, he felt a sense of anticipation. Hogwarts was finally within reach.
…
Harry’s concentration on his book was broken by the familiar sound of a conversation just outside the compartment window. Recognizing it from the books, Harry cautiously leaned forward, making sure to stay hidden as he observed the Weasleys.
They were exactly as the book described: Percy, the twins Fred and George, Mrs. Weasley, and Ron, who looked noticeably younger than his older brothers but surprisingly tall for his age. Then there was Ginny... Ginny was one of the people Harry preferred not to think about. The idea that she was supposed to be his future wife and the mother of his children felt strange—almost unsettling in a way Harry couldn’t quite grasp.
He had expected that seeing Ginny in person might stir some sort of emotion in him, but nothing happened. At that moment, Ginny was just another person on the platform, a stranger. According to the books, his feelings for her wouldn’t appear until his sixth year, but Harry wasn’t sure if that relationship would survive the changes he intended to make. While the thought of having a family felt like an unreachable dream, Harry was far more focused on preventing Teddy from becoming an orphan like him. He wanted to ensure that this time, Remus and Tonks would raise their son together.
As the train began to pull out of the station, Harry waited, expecting Ron to appear any minute. But the train continued its journey, and Ron still didn’t show up. Harry felt a flicker of concern. Had his decision not to wait for the Weasleys outside the barrier somehow altered the future? Would that small change affect his entire friendship with Ron?
He sat back, trying to make sense of the situation. Everything else had followed the book so far. Could skipping that first meeting with the Weasleys really have such a big impact? Was Ron sitting in another compartment now, waiting for someone else to invite him to sit with them?
Harry frowned, realizing that even the smallest changes might have consequences. He hadn’t fully considered this before. Perhaps he would have to be more cautious moving forward.
As the train continued its journey, Harry sat back, his mind still racing with the possibilities. Could missing his first encounter with Ron really have shifted things so much? He hadn't expected such a small change to ripple out like this. The longer he waited, the more uneasy he became. No one had joined him in the compartment yet.
The passing scenery did little to distract him from the nagging feeling that something was off. Harry glanced at the door every few minutes, half-expecting Ron to finally show up. But the minutes ticked by, and still, no one came.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Harry heard the faint sound of footsteps in the corridor. His heart quickened, hoping this might be it—maybe Ron was just late. But instead of Ron, the door slid open to reveal a nervous-looking boy around the same age as Harry.
Boy face was flushed, and he looked slightly panicked. “Excuse me, have you seen a toad at all?” he asked, sounding desperate. “I’ve lost mine. His name’s Trevor.” Harry now knew that this boy was Neville Longbottom.
Harry shook his head. “No, sorry, I haven’t seen a toad.”
Neville’s face fell, and he mumbled, “Thanks anyway,” before turning and shuffling back into the corridor.
Once Neville was gone, Harry sat back in his seat, feeling the weight of the strange quiet in the compartment. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He remembered how Ron and Hermione had joined him in the books, how their friendship had been born in this very setting. Yet here he was, alone.
The train continued its journey, the rhythmic clattering of the wheels a stark contrast to the noise of students in the other compartments. Harry was used to being alone—he had spent most of his life that way—but it wasn’t what he had envisioned for his first trip to Hogwarts. Still, he reminded himself that not everything had to follow the books exactly. He could find his way with or without those exact moments.
For now, he could only wait.
…
As he sat back down, munching absentmindedly on a Chocolate Frog, Harry glanced out the window. The train continued to wind its way through the countryside, but the silence in his compartment weighed on him more than he’d expected. He had always longed for companionship, for someone to truly be there for him. In the Dursleys’ home, he had been isolated, ignored. And now, on this train filled with other students heading toward the most magical school in the world, that same isolation was creeping in again.
But then, Harry reminded himself, things didn’t have to stay this way. He could still make friends, still change things. Maybe Ron would turn up later, or maybe he’d meet Hermione in a different way. After all, the Sorting Hat would place them in houses soon, and there would be plenty of chances to form friendships once they were all under the same roof at Hogwarts.
Just as Harry was thinking about what lay ahead, the compartment door slid open yet again, this time with a familiar blond boy standing in the doorway.
Draco Malfoy.
Unlike the encounter in the books, Draco wasn’t flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He stood alone, arms crossed, his pale face fixed with a haughty expression.
Draco said, his voice dripping with disdain. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Harry said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow. In the books, Draco had introduced himself confidently, offering a handshake—one that Harry had famously refused. But now, knowing Draco’s future, Harry was wary of starting a confrontation so early.
Draco didn’t seem to notice Harry’s silence and continued, “I just wanted to let you know that my father’s taken me to see all latest films in cinema. The ones that are appropriate for our kind, of course.” He sneered, obviously referencing the conversation they’d had in Madam Malkin’s.
Without waiting for a response, Draco turned on his heel and slammed the compartment door shut behind him, clearly expecting Harry to be impressed.
Harry stared at the closed door for a moment before bursting into laughter. Of all the things to brag about, movies were the last thing Harry expected Draco to bring up. The absurdity of it—of Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most powerful pure-blood families, going to cinemas just to prove a point—was too much.
For a moment, Harry sat in stunned silence. All the anxiety that had been building up during the journey—the worry that he had altered too much, that everything was spiraling out of control—suddenly melted away. Harry found himself laughing, a sound that echoed lightly in the empty compartment. Malfoy’s attempt at one-upmanship, especially regarding something as mundane as going to the cinema, seemed so absurd in comparison to the larger concerns at hand.
Still chuckling, Harry leaned back in his seat. Malfoy’s attempt at making an impression had, in a strange way, reassured him that not everything was completely out of order. Some things, like Malfoy’s constant need to assert his superiority, remained intact.