September 1st marked the beginning of a new chapter, the first day of term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
King's Cross Station bustled with the usual chaos of Muggle commuters, their hurried footsteps echoing off the Victorian architecture. Among them moved a figure who commanded attention despite her youth, Mirabelle Beresford, resplendent in her pristine Hogwarts uniform.
Her crisp white dress shirt bore a blue tie knotted with military precision, while a tailored vest emphasized her slender frame. The pleated skirt, cut in an old-fashioned style, revealed white knee-high socks that disappeared beneath the hem. Most striking of all was her black robe, which draped across her shoulders like a cape without ever slipping, despite having no visible means of support. The enchanted garment clung to her form as if magnetized, drawing curious glances from passing Muggles who couldn't quite comprehend what they were seeing.
Around here somewhere, Mirabelle mused, consulting the parchment in her hand while surveying the station's layout. Her destination: Platform 9¾ at King's Cross Station.
She positioned herself before the solid brick barrier separating platforms nine and ten, golden eyes reflecting satisfaction at having reached her target. To Muggle perception, Platform 9¾ was an impossibility, a nonsensical designation that violated the logical order of sequential numbering. But for those blessed with magical sight, such conventional limitations held no meaning.
Without hesitation, Mirabelle approached the barrier. Her trunk rolled smoothly behind her as she passed through solid stone as if it were morning mist, emerging onto a hidden platform that thrummed with magical energy.
The scarlet Hogwarts Express stood magnificent in the morning light, its brass fittings gleaming and steam rising from its chimney in lazy spirals. Above the platform, an ornate sign proclaimed: "Hogwarts Express—Departing 11:00 AM." The air buzzed with excitement and nervous chatter as students in various stages of uniform completion embraced tearful parents and made last-minute preparations.
Cats of every conceivable color and pattern wove between the crowd, while owls hooted from their cages, creating a symphony of magical creature sounds. The mingled scents of coal smoke, autumn air, and the indefinable essence of magic itself filled Mirabelle's nostrils.
Notably absent from this touching scene were Mr. and Mrs. Beresford. They had deemed it frivolous to take time from their busy schedules for such sentimental displays, and Mirabelle herself had insisted their presence was unnecessary. Instead, she was accompanied by her faithful servant, Holger, the house-elf who served her exclusively.
The diminutive creature had rendered himself invisible through powerful concealment charms, allowing him to navigate the Muggle world undetected. His large, tennis-ball eyes remained fixed on his young mistress with unwavering devotion.
"Take care of yourself, my lady," Holger whispered, his voice barely audible above the platform's din.
"Don't grow too comfortable in your newfound freedom," Mirabelle replied coolly, accepting her remaining luggage from his gnarled hands. "Maintain the facade of loyalty to the Beresford family until the proper moment arrives."
"Of course, my lady. Without the slightest flaw in my performance."
Holger's situation was delicately complex. While he appeared to serve the entire Beresford household, his true allegiance belonged solely to Mirabelle, a secret carefully hidden from her parents. He continued his duties at the family estate with calculated inefficiency, slacking off whenever possible while maintaining the appearance of industrious service. His years of exemplary work had earned him such trust that his occasional lapses went unnoticed.
After retrieving her belongings, Mirabelle boarded the train without a backward glance. Holger vanished into the morning air with characteristic house-elf discretion, leaving no trace of his presence.
The train's interior buzzed with nervous energy as students searched for seats and reunited with friends. Mirabelle made her way toward the rear carriages, preferring isolation to the boisterous companionship of her peers. She settled into an empty compartment in the fifth car—not her preferred location at the very back, but the rear compartments were already occupied by older students.
As the Hogwarts Express lurched into motion with a tremendous hiss of steam, the London skyline gave way to rolling countryside. Green fields stretched endlessly beyond the windows, dotted with sheep and crossed by stone walls that had stood for centuries. Initially charmed by the pastoral beauty, Mirabelle soon grew restless and retrieved a recently purchased novel from her bag.
Ten pages into the story, she snapped the book shut with an irritated sigh.
Foolish mistake, she thought bitterly. Books I've already read are useless for passing time.
Her enhanced memory proved both blessing and curse. Every textbook and reference work she'd purchased in Diagon Alley had been thoroughly absorbed between then and now, their contents permanently etched into her consciousness with perfect clarity. While this gave her an enormous academic advantage, it rendered entertainment nearly impossible. Once she'd experienced a story—whether book or film—she could never again enjoy the pleasure of discovery, the thrill of unexpected plot twists, or the satisfaction of mysteries gradually revealed.
For someone who genuinely enjoyed literature and cinema, this ability felt more like a prison than a gift.
As she reluctantly returned the book to her bag, a timid knock interrupted her solitude. The compartment door slid open to reveal a round-faced boy with nervous eyes and trembling hands.
"Excuse me," he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "Is there an empty seat? Everywhere else seems to be full..."
His obvious anxiety was palpable, radiating from him in waves. This was clearly a boy already overwhelmed by the prospect of magical education, and they hadn't even reached the castle yet.
Mirabelle sighed softly and gestured toward an empty seat without speaking, then returned her attention to the passing landscape. She folded her arms and settled back, determined to find some peace in the journey's remaining hours.
"Th-thank you," the boy managed, settling gingerly into the indicated seat.
Mirabelle offered no response. Frankly, she held no interest in this unremarkable child, and he seemed equally incapable of maintaining conversation. He appeared to be gathering courage for some attempt at small talk, stealing glances in her direction, but the distinctly unapproachable aura Mirabelle projected discouraged any such efforts.
This uncomfortable silence stretched on until precisely half-past twelve, when the sharp clatter of wheels on metal announced the arrival of the lunch trolley.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?" called a plump, dimpled woman as she peered into their compartment.
Mirabelle surveyed the offered wares with a critical eye. The selection consisted primarily of confections: Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans (which she detested with particular intensity), Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, and Cauldron Cakes that would undoubtedly wreak havoc on one's digestive system. Still, hunger gnawed at her stomach, and she supposed some sustenance was preferable to none.
"Pumpkin Pasty, Pumpkin Juice, and Chocolate Frogs," she ordered.
"Right away, love."
After exchanging silver coins for her purchases, Mirabelle unwrapped the pasty and took an experimental bite. The texture proved surprisingly pleasant—flaky, buttery pastry giving way to smooth, spiced pumpkin filling. The flavors melded on her tongue: rich pumpkin enhanced by butter and warming spices that created a satisfying autumnal harmony.
Next, she opened the Pumpkin Juice and took a cautious sip. The liquid was refreshingly cool, with natural pumpkin sweetness balanced by what tasted like apple juice—clearly formulated to appeal to young palates. The slight tartness prevented the drink from becoming cloying.
Poor planning, she noted mentally. Having pumpkin in both the food and drink creates flavor monotony. The juice alone would have sufficed.
Finally, she unwrapped a Chocolate Frog, examining the realistic amphibian shape with mild amusement before taking a bite. Despite its bizarre appearance, the interior was simply high-quality chocolate that melted smoothly on her tongue, providing a welcome contrast to the pumpkin-heavy meal.
The chocolate was the right choice, she decided. A pleasant departure from the pumpkin theme.
The meal, while somewhat monotonous, left her reasonably satisfied. She dabbed her lips with a napkin and settled back to enjoy the post-meal contentment when her companion's increasingly agitated behavior shattered her peace.
The boy was frantically searching through his belongings—checking his bag, peering under seats, his movements growing more desperate by the moment. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as panic set in.
Finally, having exhausted all obvious hiding places, he turned to Mirabelle with a voice thick with emotion.
"Excuse me... have you seen my toad anywhere?"
"No idea," Mirabelle replied with arctic indifference, not bothering to look away from the window.
Can't even manage a simple pet, she thought with disgust. The boy's obvious incompetence was simultaneously pathetic and irritating.
Her cold dismissal sent him into deeper distress. He mumbled an apology and shuffled out into the corridor, beginning what would presumably be a fruitless search through the entire train.
This journey can't end soon enough, Mirabelle mused, closing her eyes and attempting to drift into sleep, the most reliable method of passing time when other entertainment proved unavailable.
Just as she was approaching the edges of slumber, the compartment door burst open once again.