There I was, in the middle of the Scottish countryside, rolling hills speeding past the window at a rapid pace. I was on the Hogwarts express, an old steam locomotive from at least a century ago, approaching Hogwarts every minute.

It had been quite the change to prepare for a magical boarding school full of unknowns from a safe life rooted in the trinity of home, school, and library all within a few blocks of walking distance.

Even acquiring a new room, my own room, was a radical change to my previous life. But now, it was barely an appetizer.

Nearly two months had passed since I knew I was a wizard, and my visit to Diagon Alley. During that time, my library visits had reduced drastically, to only visiting twice in all that time. Once for informing the librarians about my change of plans, and how I would be going a way to a boarding school. The second time for nostalgia. I didn’t even read anything. Just wandered around the library, thinking how suddenly something that was right in front of me now looks so distant and unfamiliar. How much I had changed in so little time. Then what would my life look like next year? How fleeting were my dreams and future if in so little time they would all morph into something else? No, I was still me. I wouldn’t change my core. No matter what life threw in my way, that I will preserve. To be nice, peaceful breeze. And free, always free.

The time I had used to visit the library, I used to stay in my room and read the magical books. What would have been stories in the fantasy section, were then read as facts. The cognitive dissonance of what is real and what is not, but in their essence, they were all the same. The history books were especially good at reminding me that behind the shells of magic, there are real individuals inside with the same insecurities and hopes and dreams as the next person. It helped to ground myself in the knowledge that wizards were not superhuman, they were supernatural with fascinating powers and brilliant intellect, but in their core, there was more of the same than was different.

It had been a fabulous, magical time. Each of the books had, at first, been a teacher, then a friend to introduce me into the magic of their own. The astronomy books had led me to climb on the roof at night and observe with the naked eye as the stars one by one seemed to light up. I listened to the mesmerizing patterns that could be observed and the stories that the sky would tell. How the sky would always tell the way, and would never lead you wrong if you knew how to interpret it. Literally, but also figuratively.

After I was caught on the roof two times by the headmistress Matilda, I did not dare to adventure anymore. Still, some evenings I would find myself beside the window looking at the stars and wondering if I could some day read the stars. Practically speaking, a moronic thought, but a child can dream. If yesterday magic didn’t exist, why couldn’t I read stars tomorrow?

After some difficulties in understanding the Standard Book of spells, Magical Theory came to help. Based on my understanding, magic is an enormous blanket surrounding everything. Only some species and of humans only some people, wizards, can utilize the magic that is inside them. That utilization will materialize in a mysterious phenomenon that is, however, logical to a point. Not everything is possible. And given the same parameters, the results will be highly predictable. Most of the discrepancies in results seem to be due to some of the more subjective inputs of the magic.

Spells were a utilization of magic with no external input components. In other words, spells are magic that is cast without using any ingredients or materials to help the magic complete. If such materials were needed, the magic would be a ritual.

Spells needed four main components to succeed: a wand movement, incantation, concentration, and intention. However, wands seemed to be a focus of sorts, which reduced the difficulty of magic, but in principle, were not necessary. In practice, however, the books said that only great wizards and witches were capable of wandless magic, so the requirement seems reasonable. Furthermore, even incantations were not necessary, although silent casting was also highly difficult with greatly increased failed casting and accidents.

When the factors were not met, the casting would fail. The results of the failure were highly irregular, from best-case scenarios of spell fizzling out to worst-case scenarios of lethal explosions. There seemed to be other considerations, especially in the case of rituals, where the external material needed to link with the intention without interference for a non-explosive result, but I didn’t look into it more.

The main point is that intention was a crucial part of magic. Intention was the academical term, but it was driven by desire. Strong desire and thick emotions had through time been the business card of strong witches and wizards.

Yea, I didn’t have those. Well, I doubt I would be of plentiful help to anybody even with strong magic, if I would spend most of my time in the library anyway. Well, not everybody can be great at magic. And at least I still have the gift of magic. It could have well been that I lived a non-magical life as an ordinary librarian. Nevertheless, I was disappointed. Not because of any specific need to be a great wizard, but just based on the books and all the magic they told me about. I wanted to try them all.

The first spell I cast was lumos, the wand-lighting charm, reminiscent of the first meeting with my wand. I was very nervous, and very concentrated, so it took a while to register I had successfully cast the charm when I noticed the soft glowing light at the tip of the wand. Small, soft light, as if a ten or so fireflies had gathered on the tip of my wand. Weak, unnoticeable light, but it was my light! I remember I cried that night. Cried and continued to cast the charm through the night. It was magical. Light came to be as I asked it to. I had never felt like a wizard, like that night.

Afterward, I went through all the first-year charm spells. Some of them, like the fire-making charm and smokescreen spell, led me to making colorful excuses why the room smelled of smoke. I quickly found out the magic was quite a bit weaker than what was described in the books. Probably marketing tricks from the publisher, or there was something I was missing. I was already confident that I could enforce my solitude with locking-charm, when it broke from the cleaning cabinet door, I was testing it on. It seemed no lock can the hold physical power (or determination) of a janitor. After testing the severing-charm on my bed, I was relieved to be able to fix the four-inch tear with a mending charm. In fact, if someone had been attentive, they would have noticed how much small nicks and cracks had been fixed in the orphanage, from paint scratches to chipped corners of furniture.

Transfiguration was a curious field of magic. The text in the book adamantly warned not to try transfiguration, unless in a strictly controlled setting, with an expert supervision. The feelings I received from the book, however, seemed to imply that it would be fine if I was only careful. Transfiguration seemed a much more precise field, where the magic structure would become unstable with the slightest of mishaps. The image of the intention seemed to be in a particularly important position, where the image would ultimately give the shape of the transformation.

A week before leaving to Hogwarts, I gathered my courage, and tried to transform a match into a needle in the evening. After repeating the method for a three, nay, four times, I tried the spell. I was prepared for a failure, but to my surprise, the small match slowly transformed to the old needle we had used to fix some tears in our clothing. Gently, I picked the needle to touch and look at it closer.

How fascinating. It was already absurd to create a flame the size of a lighter flame with a fire-making charm, but this was something else. I tried to puncture my sleeve with the needle, and it worked, the needle really was sharp. I didn’t try how hard the needle was, but it was far more rigid than a match, for sure.

After only a minute or so, I noticed that ripples were forming in the needle, like waves beginning to stir. I also felt some vibrations from it, so I dropped it on a table. In just a few seconds after the perturbations, the needle was transforming back to match, starting from the top.

I knew that the transformation would not be forever, but the book clearly stated that the duration of the transformation would easily be in the range of tens of minutes to even hours. My talent for magic is either awful or I am making a mistake in the casting.

After considering my previous results with magic, maybe the descriptions in the books were not exaggerations. After consultations from different books, mainly from Magical Theory, I self-diagnosed the problem.

Intention, one of the most crucial components of magic, was like a will imposed by the caster. The will to change, the will to start a fire. That will had to combat the natural trajectory of the world to make a change. If the will was not a strong, the magic would fail in its first steps. But even if the cast was successful, a weak will could not impose on the natural order for long.

I was not weak willed! I just wasn’t stupid. I was a realist; not everything in the world would go my way. I recognize that.

Sigh. I get it. I realize I that conventionally speaking, I am weak willed. Perhaps it’s the strong emotions of hate and love, I have always found unfamiliar and alien. It’s a bit of a bummer to realize that being even an average wizard would not be possible. If even the first-year spells are barely cast, what about third year? Could I even cast the last year spells in all my life?

I hope there exists a solution in Hogwarts. Otherwise...

In that bleak mood, I spent the last week of my summer vacation.

So, there I was, onboard the Hogwarts express, sitting in a compartment. I managed to hitch a ride from the headmistress to the King’s Cross station in the morning. After battling with a trolley, which had my heavy trunk, I managed to find the location where McGonagall said that the platform nine and three quarters would be. I was afraid I would be noticed, but some magic seemed to be in the air as the whole station was full of absent-minded, distracted people that walked back and forth, too distracted to ever commit to one goal.

After walking through a seemingly solid pillar, I had arrived at the correct platform. There did not seem to be any guidance for students, so I went inside the train after an arduous battle with my trunk, which was resolved after a few minutes by a kind, presumably upperclassman, who levitated my trunk to follow me up the stars. After founding an empty compartment, as a final departing gift, he lifted the trunk to the luggage space over the seats.

He was apparently a Hufflepuff prefect, whose task was to help first years and welcome them to Hogwarts. Maybe 5 minutes before the train left, a new challenger appeared.

Based on his height, he was at least a year higher. He was dragging a similarly large trunk behind him and asked if there was space for him in the compartment.

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How cunning of him. If I said no, I would seem unreasonable. After all, I was here by myself. Well, at least he didn’t seem like a total menace.

I welcomed him in politely, and with the two of us, we managed to push his trunk into the luggage space.

We made small introductions and I learned, that unlike I thought, he was similarly a first-year student. Oscar Whittling was his name, not that it told me anything. I think he was able to deduce most of my background from the old and worn-out muggle clothing I was wearing. He, on the other hand, was dressed neatly in an expensive looking dark gray suit, that I had only seen adults use. Based just on the outfit, he would be a comically serious sight, but somehow it seemed to fit him.

He seemed quite proud of his family, so I pretended to listen with a polite expression, nodding from time to time. I wasn’t categorically opposed to being proud of one's heritage, but I also wasn’t interested. After a few buds of conversations, I trimmed to distant but friendly chatter, silence creeped back in the compartment.

I didn’t mind, thought. I liked silence. Furthermore, the silence wasn’t awkward or charged, it was natural, the best kind. The silence of emptiness, all that wanted to be said was already said. So, what more can be left apart from silence?

I started reading the history books of magical England from the start. I had already read every book I got, but it wasn’t meaningless. Every time I read a book again, I was offered the same story. However, I knew the overarching story, so I could concentrate on other things: sometimes on details and sometimes on the parallel stories that the side characters went through.

For example, this time I learned that the ancient Romans, which are to thank for most of the current magical heritage in England, used to enchant their roads with guiding magics, so that in fact “All roads lead to Rome”. That piece of information was not strictly written, but needed to be deduced from the snippets of confused traders of their time.

It’s utterly fascinating how rooted the historic phrases and tidbits of the non-magical world are in the magical world. But also, how eerie and sad that they are currently divided. Or should I even feel sad? It seems that the division was an inevitability. Where once magic was an omnipotent force, it had been run down by the sheer numbers. For every wizard and witch, there were hundreds of muggles.

The numbers didn’t matter when sticks were the threat, but bullets?

Witches and wizards foresaw the inevitable trend and chose to isolate. But to what end? Wait for the inevitable end in isolation?

Well… Not that I really care. I’ll be happy if I can just read books and test different magics from time to time. It’s not my responsibility to save the wizarding world, I’m just a student.

15 minutes before the train arrived, we heard a loud announcement from a prefect that the train would arrive soon, and school robes should be put on. I shared a look with Oscar, and with the power of cooperation we managed to get the trunks down. After a few minutes, both of us were ready in our school robes, one significantly better dressed than the other. I felt a little embarrassed, but well, not much I can do about my financial situation.

It wasn’t just the neat clothing. The more I looked at him, the more he looked like the makings of a main character. The trope of an elegant main character face, with a remarkable symmetry, an elegant straight nose, almond-shaped bright-green eyes, metallic gray hair, and skin a little pale but well taken care of.

Compared to me, with my oversized robes and hat that looks to be eating my face. Sickly pale face of near vampire paleness, but with much poorer quality. Not to mention, an overall personality of a brick wall.

Yeah, I don’t think we quite fit together. He’s far too much trouble to be around.

Finally, the train slowed down and we disembarked.

I was ready to battle with the trunk, but luckily a prefect said that the school would transport all the belongings from the train. And there would be no need to worry, as for as long as the train has been going, there have been no recorded missing belongings.

Yea, recorded. That’s what they want you to think.

I wonder what’s wrong with me. The more I have gone in the magic world, the more I have become this in principle, devil’s advocate, anarchist. To be fair, I would never say those thought’s aloud. And I don’t even really believe in them.

It’s just that, in principle, it would be funny for the school to have a cartel of trunk transporters who would take the most valuable stuff, and then threaten the students to never tell anyone. Just a comedic thought experiment.

As soon as we got off the train, we heard a booming voice calling for all first-year students. There I saw the biggest man, if that ever was a man. A large, nay, a gigantic man, at least eleven feet high. For a moment, I had flashbacks of the time in the orphanage when we told each other horror stories, and one of them was about a child-eating giant. If there ever was a child-eating giant, it might just be here.

Contrary to his appearance, he was friendly. If you forgot the booming volume of his voice, it was full of kindness. And if you overlooked his frightful and hairy face that was full of shadows due to the bad lighting, you could see that glittering eyes full of happiness and welcome.

In fact, even his words were like uncle Howards, a cleaner in the orphanage, full of silliness and joy to find goodwill.

The giant introduced himself as Hagrid, the keeper of keys and grounds of Hogwarts.

So, is he a caretaker? Opens doors when they are shut for whatever reason?

Anyway, then began our ritualistic journey to Hogwarts, that was made in the steps of the forefathers, the fore founders of Hogwarts, by which the houses are named.

After an arduous journey for someone who ran probably twice in his life and actively avoids physical activities, we ended up in front of a lake. With my shoes already soaked, and probably even broken, I was fully ready to give up on the outing and adventure for just a comfortably dry bed to lie on and a book to read.

As usual, my dreams were not answered. Instead, our adventure had a new sequel, “the sail of the black lake”. All things considered, the boating was quite pleasant, if you ignore the evening was already chill, and I was already soaked. So, after the teeth-clattering, hypothermic journey, of which I only remember trying to stay alive, we arrived to the shore with Hogwarts in front of us.

As beautiful as the sight might have been, I was in no condition to enjoy it. There we went, a file of first-year students enthusiastic to learn. If someone had seen us, they probably would have though we were a queue of prisoners being transferred. I cannot count the times I had seen one of us fall in the mud when climbing the slope to the castle, and I fell down by far the most. I would say it was a cathartic experience, if not for the serious consideration I faced as “Why don’t I just lie here?”

After all good will to Hogwarts had left my body, and we finally arrived inside through a massive door, I could feel alive. I am not ashamed to admit that I cried, and in no way I was the only one. In fact, the crying was so pervasive in the group that when Professor McGonagall came to welcome us, she was shocked by what she saw.

I have quite bad recollections of that time, but I always imagined it as similar to World War 2 veterans celebrating that they were alive after months on the battlefront. Student’s leaning into each other, some crawling forwards. Etches of despair grooved into each of their faces, but still the will to live shines in their bright eyes, and open mouths shouting sounds, that have transcended the words of English. Everybody limped at the excruciatingly slow pace, with tears of happiness streaming in their faces. Some carrying those whose legs have been lost, and others guiding with voices the ones who have lost their vision….

Hold up.

…

I might have exaggerated a little bit, as I don’t recall having any disabled classmates. But it could have happened. I just don’t know. It’s possible.

After McGonagall resurrected us with a magic, by somehow drying all the clothes, cleaning us, and chased the coldness away in mere moments, I could finally get it back together again. I, for my part, was certain that the mud had already become part of me, so seeing my arms and legs clean, without any extra weight felt like a redemption. An angel had saved me!

After a few minutes, when everyone was more or less ready, we were led to massive doors leading into the Great Hall, a place of eating, but also a place of great celebrations, where we would meet all the other students. The start of the year banquet was about to start, but before we could get eating, we would be sorted to the already introduced four houses. I was quite disinterested in what house I’ll end up, as long as I can access the library.

I was more concerned about the sorting. How does it happen? And specially, if all the upperclassman are looking, I would rather it be nothing humiliating or even remarkable at all. I am most comfortable in my favorite environment, a background character.

Time waited for no one, least for me. We were guided inside the doors, into a gigantic hall. One might even call it great. Four massive tables of at least 200 feet long, all filled with students whose attention was on us. At the end, another long table. This one filled with adults, all facing the same direction, us. Thousands and thousands of candles floating in the air, that was filled with magic. In place of ceiling, cloudy skies could be seen, reminiscent of the weather just outside.

Tables were filled with golden plates and goblets, but regrettably no food could be seen. The last meal I ate was breakfast, so I beg of you, please give me food.

After a small introduction from headmaster Dumbledore, we listened to a song made and presented by a hat. Never thought I would see that.

Next, was the sorting. McGonagall was standing in front of the teachers' table with a small scroll. After informing us that the just introduced old hat would decide our houses, I was a little bit peeved.

I understand the need to showcase a sentient hat, but is that truly the just way to sort us.

Needless to say, my concerns were not answered.

Finally, I was called to the stand and there I went. I was nervous due to all the looks and the inconsistency of the sorting. Why did the decision of the house take such a varied amount of time? Some were sorted nearly instantly, but others took a minute or more. At least, I was relieved by all the cheering after each sorting, there was no bad will in and of itself. Although, the opposite tables did seem to have quite a strong rivalry going on. I would rather not take a part in that, but the moment calls.

“Ravenclaw!”

McGonagall had just touched my head with the hat, and there it went, screaming. I was a little dumbfounded at first at such a quick sorting, but I hurried to the cheering table of blue and bronze, the highlights of my robes changing to the same color as I walked.

It wasn’t so bad after all.

I took a seat at the far end, where some of my companions in misfortune from the journey to the castle were already seated. After another ten or so students, all the first-years had been sorted and the feast began. For the first few minutes, none of us firsties had any energy or interest to concentrate on anything but filling our stomachs.

There were far too many names for me to care about, so I just gave up at the starting line. If I truly needed to know the names, it would not be too late to ask, and blame on bad name memory. To be fair, I had nearly a dozen housemates, so I don’t think my conclusion was unreasonable.

I did notice, however, that Oscar was also in Ravenclaw. I gave him a polite nod to acknowledge him and keep the relations in green. Light green, to be precise. Relations cordial, but didn’t have to listen to anyone opening their heart to me about how their parents are divorcing and how no one really cares about them. No, I will not care about them.

After the feast, the fifth-year prefects of our house led us out of the Great Hall to our common room. The journey was long, at least a few minutes, dozens of turns, and three staircases, one of which was a huge open space in which stairs were moving from time to time. I would need to take a closer look at that later.

Finally, after a long circular staircase, we arrive at Ravenclaw tower, a whole tower of the castle restricted for Ravenclaws. The door had a strange, I could imagine infuriating, big bronze knocker the size of a melon that worked as the gatekeeper for the common room.

The door would only open if the riddle that the door gave was answered correctly. Yes, I could very much believe this would be infuriating, when rushing. Although, being hurried in itself is already a mistake, so the knocker might be on to something.

As an example, the prefect knocked, and we were given a riddle.

“It could be yours, but never mine; otherwise I would not be fine.”

Okay, I hate riddles, and I am already resigned to wait in front of the door for others to open it. I will not take part in this madness.

I mean, it could be anything.

Wait. Maybe… I’ll give a try.

“My friendship?” I stated, in an unsure voice. Even this one was quite a stretch.

“Clever” said the door and opened.

I was left a little proud, but mostly disappointed and fearful for my future with this devilish willful door, to say the least.

We went inside where the prefects led us to our dormitories up the tower, and further to the rooms we had been assigned. I was sharing the room with Oscar and another boy called Leon Polwhick.

I chatted a bit to construct the foundation of working cordial roommate relationship, but left the two of them to continue their exchange. I could read it in the air they would be good friends. I felt happy for them, really. I just didn’t bother.

I opened the history book to continue reading where I left of on the train. You were all I wanted.