The One

First Year: Hogwarts

The day had finally arrived, and I must say I hadn't expected it to be so difficult locating a train. On the other hand, I didn't seem to be on the right platform either.

"Did you say it was 9 ¾ , sweetie?" Dad scratched his head from somewhere behind me, while I scanned the current platform we were on (number 9, with number 10 on our right), searching for any sign that pointed towards platform 9 ¾ . But no, the crowded platform was full of ordinary people, without the pointy hats and extravagant clothing I had seen at Diagon Alley little more than two months ago. Ordinary people, who were looking at me as if I was completely mad, walking around with a trolley with a trunk, frenetically searching for a platform that didn't seem to exist meanwhile stealing glances at the large clock that was ticking closer and closer to 11 a.m.

"Yes." I answered slowly, furrowing my brows as I looked down at the ticket for the millionth time. Why hadn't Professor McGonagall mentioned anything about the magic platform, and how to get there? She couldn't bloody expect me to show up at Hogwarts when I couldn't even find the train taking me there! My little heart started beating quicker and quicker in my chest as the realization that I might never go to Hogwarts hit me, and I grasped Dad's arm. "Maybe we should ask someone? There's only five minutes left, I'll miss the train!"

"You won't, honey, I promise." Dad reassured me, putting his spectacles back on his nose, as he always did when they started sliding down. Brown eyes watched me from behind the glass surface, before they turned to Mum, who seemed to be searching for something, or someone, over the heads of the travellers crowding the platform, in a rush to get on their trains.

She sunk down on her heels again and put her hand on Dad's back, leading us with her towards a bald man in a uniform, who turned to scan my trolley skeptically with his tense gaze. One look at him, and you could tell he hated his job, having to talk to hurried and grumpy people all day.

"Excuse me, sir, but where can we find platform 9 ¾ ?" Mum asked as politely as she could, smiling warmly at the man in the uniform. His eyes softened visibly. Mum had that effect on people, and I had learned some of her tricks by just watching her. The way she smiled at everyone as if seeing them was the highlight of her day, and how she held her chin high meanwhile inclining her head politely. If you think about it, manipulating people was quite easy, and it didn't always have to be something bad.

However, the man's brows furrowed and the warm expression vanished form his face as he seemed to understand what my mother said, after having admired her subtle, yet radiating beauty.

"You too? There was a boy here earlier asking for that platform as well." He sighed, now looking at the three of us as if we had lost our minds. He leaned down to reach my mother's height (in a very demeaning way) and spoke slowly as if she was slow in her mind. "There's no platform 9 ¾ . End of story."

Now, I might have said that my mother is beautiful and warm, but that is only when she wants to. In that moment, the warm expression vanished completely, instead replaced by cold curtness. She did not appreciate being belittled. Especially not by men. She set her jaw very visibly, as if to signal that she was not amused, and was just about to inform him of that verbally when Dad touched her arm slightly.

"Thank you for your help, sir." He told the bald man, and the latter nodded once before turning away to help an elderly man who seemed to have lost his glasses and couldn't read what his ticket said. I glanced at the big clock. Two minutes left. Just as I was about to start crying, I heard a word that instantly made me turn around.

"All of these muggles, running around like hens." A woman in perhaps her fifties or sixties muttered, followed by a boy who seemed my age. What striked me, however, was that she was wearing a large flamboyant hat and an emerald coat that seemed very antique for a normal woman. She was dragging the boy by his hand, and the little plump, brown-haired figure was looking around himself with a frightened and nervous expression.