The morning chaos at The Burrow could have shaken the rafters off Gringotts.
"MERCIFUL MERLIN, PERCY! Where are your robes and cauldron? And what is this mess of letters? Are you starting a post office?!"
"FRED, GEORGE—DON'T MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF! Those 'Fainting Fancies' are NOT going to Hogwarts! Hand over every last one before I hex your trunks open!"
"RON! It's already sunrise! If I don't see you downstairs in five minutes, I'll throw you into the pond myself, lock the cellar door, and let you study pondweed for seven years! GET. UP!"
Molly Weasley's voice carried through the halls like a thunderclap with a wand.
She raced up and down the stairs, waving her wand, folding robes mid-air, and magically sealing potion bottles while muttering a steady stream of motherly curses.
"You'll be the death of me all of you!" she cried dramatically, wiping her brow with a tea towel. Then, sniffing, she turned to a peacefully dressed boy in the living room. "You could all learn a thing or two from Peter—packed two days ago, organized, even labeled his potion ingredients…"
"Too hard-working, honestly," she added under her breath, trying not to smile.
Just then, a squeak cut through the din.
Molly turned sharply toward the hallway—and scowled.
"Scabbers!"
The plump, twitchy rat shot past the doorway. With a snap of her wand, the rodent floated back mid-squeak, frozen stiff in her grip like a criminal caught mid-escape.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" she shouted. "If you can't keep track of a rat, how will you survive seven years of school? What were you planning to do, let it mail your homework?"
From the corner, Fruit Tea sat with its tail flicking, watching smugly.
"Oh, my sweet Fruit Tea, thank you for catching the little escapee. Come here, darling—Mummy has dried fish for you~"
"Meow," said Fruit Tea, clearly pleased.
The mayhem didn't truly settle until two full hours later, when Molly triple-checked every bag, double-counted every book, and manually verified that each Weasley had their wand in hand and shoes on the correct feet.
At last, a car horn honked from outside.
Molly opened the door and ushered them out, floating Peter's trunk—especially heavy thanks to his extra potions—and calling over her shoulder, "Come on, come on, we'll miss the train!"
Waiting for them was an old blue car, parked in front of the crooked house with something approaching pride.
Arthur Weasley stood beside it, puffed up like a rooster.
"Behold! Today, children, we travel to King's Cross the Muggle way!"
"…In this?" Fred whispered.
"Don't be daft," Arthur beamed, patting the car's roof. "I've made a few modifications."
That was an understatement.
The summer project of Mr. Weasley—officially the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and unofficially the Wizarding World's biggest Muggle-tech nerd—had been this car.
With Fred, George, and Peter helping on idle afternoons, Arthur had enchanted the trunk and cabin with an Undetectable Extension Charm. The inside of the car now looked like a cozy living room on wheels, complete with plush seats and footrests.
There had been some… flying experiments. Unsuccessful ones.
The most notable incident involved Arthur nearly crashing into the barn roof and Ginny shouting, "Wheeeeee!" from the backseat. After that, flying modifications were put on hold—temporarily.
"Right, everyone in! Percy in the front, he gets motion sick! Trunks in the boot! Peter, yours might need a spell—Merlin, what did you put in there, a dragon's heart?"
Peter smirked. "Something close."
The Weasleys piled into the enchanted car like circus clowns into a tiny wagon, but thanks to magic, there was more than enough space for everyone. Fred and George took the back row, already scheming. Ginny sat snugly beside Peter, still cradling Fruit Tea, who now wore a pink ribbon Ginny had insisted made her look "ladylike and fierce."
The car rumbled to life, sputtered once like it might protest carrying eight passengers and a magical beast the size of a toddler—and then cheerfully drove off toward London.
"Next stop—Platform Nine and Three-Quarters!" Arthur declared with pride.
Peter looked out the window, the wind ruffling his hair, and smiled faintly.
He was finally going to Hogwarts.
The family wrestled their overflowing luggage into the magically expanded trunk, then noisily piled into the car. All the while, Molly's voice continued to ring through the air like a conductor directing the orchestra of chaos.
"Fred! George! If I hear one more scream, you're walking to London!"
"Percy, stop sulking. A few love letters in the bin won't end the world!"
"Ronald Weasley, if that rat escapes again, you'll be scrubbing the Burrow's chimney for a month! And get your feet off your brother!"
Ron clutched Scabbers tightly to his chest, his legs flailing as he yelped, "Fruit Tea's trying to eat him again! Mum, make her stop!"
Fruit Tea, perched elegantly on Ginny's lap, simply yawned, blinking lazily with feline disinterest.
Every other moment, one of the boys would let out a yelp as Molly twisted their ears in rapid succession, like a lioness restoring order to her pride.
Arthur, meanwhile, was completely unaffected.
He whistled cheerily, sliding into the driver's seat with a rolled-up Muggle instruction manual in one hand and a map of London in the other.
Peter sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching his father with a distinct sense of foreboding.
"Dad… do you even know how to drive?"
"Of course I do!" Arthur replied, beaming. "I've practiced for three days. It's all quite simple, really… oh, Peter, could you explain what this means? 'Clutch'? 'Release the gear'? Does this arrow mean turn left or shout 'Wingardium Leviosa'?"
Peter buried his face in his hands.
Ten minutes later, the car had moved a grand total of forty-seven meters—and reversed into the chicken coop twice.
That was enough.
Peter sighed, dragged his bewildered father out of the seat, slapped a Muggle-Repelling Charm on the roof, and took the wheel himself.
Arthur didn't mind in the slightest. In fact, he looked rather proud.
"You are truly my son! The mechanical genius of the Weasley family! I just knew it!" he exclaimed. "And don't worry—when you come home for the holidays, I'll be ready to take you on one of those… what do they call it again? Oh yes! A joyride!"
Peter didn't bother replying. He just floored the accelerator.
Thanks to the enchantments, no Muggle police stopped them on the way, and the trip passed in a blur of countryside, chatter, and occasional magical hiccups from the trunk.
By the time they reached King's Cross Station, however, the clock was already ticking toward 10:30.
They tumbled out of the car in a rush, dragging trunks and owls and cages behind them, and made their way into the station's crowded main hall. Peter had barely stepped inside before Percy grumbled from behind him.
"Too many Muggles."
"Silly child," Molly replied with a huff, "this is a Muggle station!"
From atop Arthur's shoulders, Ginny pointed ahead with gleaming eyes. "Third pillar on the left!"
The whole family veered in that direction like a parade, trolleys clattering and cats meowing.
"Percy, go on ahead—yes, very good."
"Fred, it's your turn—"
"I'm George, Mum."
"Oh—sorry, darling, I get confused—"
"Actually, I am Fred," said the twin cheekily, pecking his mother on the cheek before darting off with his trolley and vanishing through the barrier.
Peter smiled faintly, following alongside Arthur and Molly as their children disappeared one by one into the magical gateway.
He glanced around, taking in the age-worn arches and sooty beams of Britain's oldest train station. It wasn't nearly as grand as he'd imagined—faded signs, creaky pillars, and yellowing light filtering through dusty glass.
But then something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.
A small, thin figure awkwardly pushing a trolley stacked with luggage and an owl cage. The boy looked lost, blinking behind cracked glasses and wearing clothes far too large for his bony frame.
He shuffled forward uncertainly, then stopped, catching Peter's gaze.
He looked as if he wanted to speak but didn't dare.
Then, with one nervous swipe of his hand across his forehead, his messy fringe lifted—just enough.
A thin, lightning-shaped scar shimmered in the light.
Peter's eyes narrowed.
So… you're the famous Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived.
The boy from the prophecy.
The boy who—compared to Ron, the family punching bag—looked positively dazed, underfed, and utterly unprepared for the world he was about to enter.
Peter watched him carefully, one hand unconsciously brushing the wand holstered at his waist.
The game was about to begin.
"Quick, Peter, you go before Ron—oh!"
Molly turned back to wave her youngest son through the barrier, but paused when she caught sight of the scrawny boy standing hesitantly nearby. His baggy clothes and downcast gaze gave off a sense of fragile bewilderment, like someone who didn't quite belong.
Of course, his forehead was hidden again under a messy curtain of black hair, so Molly didn't recognize who he was. But still, her motherly instincts kicked in immediately.
She gave him a warm smile and waved him closer. "Dear, are you a first-year as well?"
The boy startled at being addressed, nearly tripping over his own feet before nodding. "Y-Yes, ma'am."
He fidgeted with the hem of his oversized shirt, glancing nervously around. "I'm—uh—trying to find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, but... I don't know how to get in."
Molly's expression softened even further. "No need to worry, child. See that third pillar between Platforms Nine and Ten? Just push your trolley toward it, and walk—well, run—straight through. Bit of a surprise the first time, but it's quite safe."
The boy blinked. "Run... straight into it?"
She gave a reassuring nod.
The boy swallowed hard, gripped the handle of his trolley like a knight bracing for impact, and took off with shut eyes, flinching as if he expected to crash headlong into stone—
—and vanished.
Peter, watching from a few steps back, shook his head slightly.
So that's the so-called Savior of the Wizarding World?
A boy who looked like he'd never had a decent meal or a normal conversation.
He waited half a beat before setting off himself, casually jogging at the barrier. Unlike Harry, he passed through without the drama—there was no jolt, no tug, just a brief moment of dimness—
—and then light.
The air changed instantly. Warm steam rose around him, carrying the scent of oil and iron and old magic. The space opened into a lively, bustling platform, where a brilliant red steam locomotive sat humming beside a long stretch of platform crowded with chattering students and teary-eyed parents.
Above the engine, a sign gleamed in the morning sun:
Hogwarts Express11 o'clock, September 1st
The heart of the Wizarding world—right on schedule.
Peter let the moment linger for a second, eyes scanning the crowd of robed students, the flashes of owls and cats, the swirl of laughter and last-minute hugs.
The game had finally begun.
And somewhere ahead, a boy named Harry Potter had just taken his first steps into it.