The thick smoke from the steam locomotive curled lazily above the bustling crowd, blending with the sharp cries of cats weaving between people's feet. Owls hooted and flapped, some perched atop luggage stacks, others skimming past students' shoulders. Amid the cacophony of voices and clattering trunks, the scene would have seemed magical to most, but to Harry, it was little more than noisy chaos.
That great writer Albert Andrew had once described the strange, unavoidable chaos of life in words that resonated deeply with Harry. Today, his mood was far from simple joy at arriving safely on the platform. The past two and a half years had been spent in an unexpected transmigration — not long, but not short either — and the memories tugged at his mind.
In that other world in China, Harry had found friends he never thought he would: a top student who patiently guided him through classical Chinese texts, teammates on the basketball court, and even a pair of adoptive parents, ordinary middle-aged people who, though unfamiliar, had offered warmth that felt far more like family than the Dursleys ever had.
Yet growth in that world was limited. The main theme there was "King of Academics," not "School Bully," and the path to gaining attribute points ran exclusively through exams and study challenges. Magic was absent entirely; skills that might have grown in other worlds remained frozen, and no potion ingredients or enchanted items could be found.
Every world had its ceiling. Harry understood that he could not push combat abilities to the divine level in a low-limit setting. But the upside was that his skills never diminished — once certified, always certified. In worlds like the one with his Chinese parents, magic flowed freely, and when necessary, he could channel the full extent of his powers from a high-limit world into a low-limit one.
When the time came, Harry planned to exploit that advantage. Public displays of power, "farming" attribute points from weaker opponents — all of it would come naturally. Even participating in an ordinary sports match would give him a distinct edge. Counting his many transmigrations, Harry's real age had already surpassed twenty. Had his first transference been to that other world, he might have seen the ordinary couple as his true parents, not just an aunt and uncle. Someday, he would return to visit them and reconnect with his friends from the "A Song of Ice and Fire" world. Transmigrations brought him directly back to the moment he left, ensuring no disruptions in time or relationships — a small mercy in a life already so convoluted.
The train's first few carriages were already crowded with students. Some leaned out of windows, shouting to their families, while others played quietly on their benches. Harry moved along the corridor, searching for an empty compartment.
"Grandma, I've lost my toad again!" a round-faced boy called plaintively.
"Oh, Neville," sighed an elderly woman.
Harry glanced back at the boy. There was an untouched innocence in his face, an unspoiled simplicity that contrasted sharply with Harry's own mind, overflowing as it was with knowledge from countless worlds. First-year student, perhaps? Something in Harry's instincts hinted otherwise — the boy might rise to remarkable heights someday. But this was merely a flash of insight from his heightened Charm; certainty was impossible.
"I don't have any seers among my wizards," he mused silently. "Could it be that I have the potential to become one? Divination class in third year, then."
Thoughts of the Chinese world surfaced again. It was the 21st century there, and Harry had searched for legends of Harry Potter in Britain — only to find none. While myths, allusions, and historical figures were mostly shared between worlds, literature had diverged. Even the epic "A Song of Ice and Fire" had its counterpart, "Roar of Blood and Water," which was similar but not identical. If he could access the story of his own world, he would surely surpass any contemporary charlatan claiming prophetic powers.
"NewB, niu bi, niu de bi," he muttered. The term described something overwhelmingly powerful — so large, it defied comprehension. Harry swore by Albert Andrew's zha, Merlin's underwear, and the Seven Gods' balls that whoever invented this phrase deserved the highest praise for sheer linguistic genius. His laughter bubbled briefly as he imagined kicking the inventor just to express his gratitude.
Lost in thought, Harry maneuvered through the throng, finally spotting an empty compartment near the back. He first set Hedwig inside, then lifted his trunk onto the overhead rack with a single hand.
Many had recognized him along the way. To avoid attention, he let his hair fall over his forehead, covering the lightning-shaped scar, and consciously suppressed his magical aura. Now was not the moment for a fan meet-and-greet.
The red-haired family he had seen on the platform — four school-aged boys — had all boarded. The twins had glimpsed his scar and then departed, no doubt to recount the sight to their younger sister, a devoted admirer prevented from boarding by her mother. The mother, a plump, kind-hearted woman, had warned the twins not to pester Harry or remind her of the first day of school incident.
A shrill whistle echoed, and the train began its smooth movement. Harry turned to watch through the window. The mother waved, her little daughter both crying and laughing as she ran beside the accelerating train. Even as the train drew away, the girl's hand remained extended, waving. A shiver ran down Harry's spine. Could that little sister's gaze have been meant for him?
Soon, the compartment's sliding door opened. The youngest of the red-haired brothers stepped inside.
"Is anyone sitting here?" he asked, pointing to the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."
Harry shook his head, drew his wand, and levitated his luggage onto the overhead rack. Though his physical strength far surpassed the need for magic in such a task, it was far more convenient.
The boy, assuming Harry was a mature, older first-year, did not blink at the display of magic. He nodded and took his seat.
"Hey, Ron," a voice called. The twins had arrived.
"Listen, we're heading through the middle carriages now. Lee Jordan caught a massive tarantula — it's yours."
"Who?" Ron mumbled.
"Hello, I suppose you're Harry," the other twin said casually. "We haven't introduced ourselves. Fred and George Weasley. This is Ron, our younger brother. Mum said not to bother you, so we'll catch up at school."
"Goodbye," Harry nodded. The twins slid the compartment door closed with a faint chuckle.
Ron's eyes widened. "Huh? Harry, Harry Potter, are you the famous Harry Potter?"
"Yes — unless there's another one running around the Wizarding World," Harry replied with a slight smile. He pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead, revealing the familiar scar. Perhaps, he thought, it served as an anti-counterfeit mark.
"Was this caused by You-Know-Who?" Ron asked, curiosity eclipsing caution. Despite Harry being a first-year, his reputation as the famous Savior made magic seem routine.
"Yes," Harry said, "it's the result of Lord Voldemort's Avada Kedavra clashing with another spell. I'm still studying it."
Harry leaned back in his seat, letting his gaze drift over the students filling the train. First-years, second-years, even older students scuttling to find compartments — all were part of the world he now navigated, a world both familiar and utterly strange.
The train sped on, rattling over tracks and through darkening countryside. Hedwig perched quietly in her cage, and Harry's thoughts wandered between worlds: his friends in China, the mentors of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" realm, and the challenges yet to come at Hogwarts. Magic, combat, strategy — all lay ahead, and he was determined to surpass every expectation.
Even the small interactions — a boy losing a toad, a family waving goodbye, a curious glance from Ron — seemed to pulse with hidden significance. In Harry's eyes, nothing in these first days at Hogwarts would be mundane. Everything, even the ordinary, held the potential for greatness.