On the morning of September 1, we collected everything we needed: all sorts of underwear, socks, toothbrushes, towels, and other things we needed but not indicated in the list. I immediately put on my school uniform, and John and I, putting my stuff from the chest into the trunk, went to the station. The owl will live at home. Basically, the Knights will have to write to send me assignments from a regular school. They decided to initiate everyday correspondence. The Knights figured that I could forget to write letters home, immersed in the study of the new and incredible.

At King's Cross station, we packed our belongings into the cart, said goodbye, and I drove to the transition to platform nine and three quarters. For some reason that I don't understand, Professor McGonagall did not tell me how to get there. Well, from the tale of Harry Potter, I know that you need to go through the wall between the ninth and tenth platforms. ​​

Having rolled the cart to the supposed transition point, I poked my finger against the wall - there was no obstacle. In general, a strange sensation that causes cognitive dissonance - you see an obstacle, but you cannot find it. Every now and then, ordinary people scurried around, but as if something was taking their eyes away from this place. Without any overclocking, I passed through this strange barrier, and the world around me began to play with different colors. It really is.

From the side of the ordinary world, the station is extremely gray and gloomy. Well, the station does not mean a wealth of colors! Everything is bright here - even the red bricks of the wall. If ordinary people dressed conservatively, gloomily, because they were in a hurry on business, work, etc., then the style is free. The colors are at the discretion of the magician. Diversity. There were ordinary, familiar clothes, there were combinations of them, there were long dresses to the floor, robes ... And there were Weasleys. If we consider the boho style as the concept of "what you find, then put on," then this red-haired family is an ardent admirer of this style. I did not focus my attention on them and quickly rolled the cart to one of the scarlet carriages. I always liked steam locomotives in some way, and now I tried not to look in his direction. In order not to accidentally pester someone with questions. I also tried not to pay attention to the students and their parents.

A curly-haired girl stood at the carriage entrance I needed, and lifting the trunk clearly caused her difficulties. Why isn't there a freight car? It would be logical. But wizards can shrink things, levitate them, put them in different bags with invisible expansion. They seem to lack the very concept of freight transport as unnecessary.

"Can I help you?" I asked the girl, stopping my cart next to her.

She almost jumped, turning abruptly, looking at me in surprise. I bet it's Hermione. It looks like that actress, but there are some subtle differences. It's hard to say, I don't remember very well ... what was her name there? Oh, it doesn't matter.

"Yes, that would be great," she nodded, returning her face to a little more importance. You might even think that she is doing me a favor. Nicely.

"Then wait for a second," I unloaded my trunk from the cart, threw the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, and put the cart next to several more empty ones.

I took the girl's trunk by the handles and cheerfully dragged it into the carriage, went out, and did the same with mine. The girl followed. The good news is that the chests can be rolled with one side on the surface - at least they thought of that.

"Thank you very much," the girl nodded as we walked down the corridor in search of an empty compartment.

"No problem" The compartment was found almost at the end of the car. We settled quickly, shoving the chests under the seats, and sat down opposite each other.

"I'm Hermione Granger," the girl introduced herself.

"Maximilian Knight. Just Max."

"Very nice."

"Mutually."

Hermione looked out the window. After a couple of seconds of silence, and she spoke. Quite quickly and a little delighted.

"It's just incredible!" the girl turned to me. "Max, did you know that you are a wizard? I didn't and was terribly surprised when I received a letter from Hogwarts. That is pleasantly surprised, of course. My parents are completely ordinary people, and the fact that I am a witch is simply incredible."

She took a breath. Looks expectantly. Is this an interview? A funny girl. I wonder how I would react if I were younger in mind?

"Well, my parents are wizards, but I grew up in a family of ordinary people for reasons beyond my control. In theory, I should not have the ability to magic, but now, I'm going to Hogwarts. And I would not like to talk about it."

"Okay. You know, I learned all the textbooks in the first year. Do you think this is enough to be the best at school?"

"I do not know. I think practice is very important. But even without knowledge, it will be incomplete. But knowledge without practice is just words from books. It seems to me that success cannot be all about one thing."

"Perhaps…" Hermione thought about it, and the train had already started. We pulled out the books and decided to read while smiling at each other. Well, that Hermione would choose to read, I had no doubt.

After half an hour, the girl decided to continue the conversation. She closed the book, holding her finger on the desired page.

"Max, what House do you think you will go to? I really hope I get to Gryffindor. This is the best House! Dumbledore himself studied there!"

"And Merlin himself studied in Slytherin," I chuckled.

Hermione was about to open her mouth to be indignant but suddenly changed her mind.

"I'll tell you a secret," continued the conversation. "An ancient artifact will distribute us. It might offer a choice if you fit multiple Houses, but that's just a guess. What are you going to Hogwarts for?"

"Study, of course!"

"Which House is best suited for learning?"

"Ravenclaw. I also considered it as an option."

"There is even a small library in the living room. However, I do not know what exactly is stored there."

At the word "library," Hermione's eyes literally lit up with curiosity. If she had the opportunity, she would already be there. She's funny.

"They say that Gryffindor is too noisy and hectic," I continued my thoughts. "At the Hufflepuff, hard work is welcomed. There is a friendly team that never climbs anywhere and does not stand out. Therefore, they are considered worthless dullards for nothing. Stupidity, as for me."

"And Slytherin? Everywhere it is written that this is the House of dark magicians and even You-Know-Who studied there."

"Voldemort, or what? Well, yes, he studied. And Merlin studied there. You know, I live in a fairly quiet and decent suburb, but I'm not blind, and more than once saw dark-skinned people pushing drugs, participating in gangs, robbing, there are probably even killers among them" even though these are moments of a past life, but here everything is so the same.

"But what does this mean?"

Hermione didn't answer, and I immediately continued:

"Are all black people bad? Without exception? But what about ... well, let's say, Charlie Parker? Art Tatum? The most luxurious jazz musicians of the early and mid-twentieth century. Bad too?"

"But the books say…"

"People write books. People can be wrong. People can be brainwashed. People can be taken under control, memory can be erased, or false memories can be implanted. Skillful propaganda of the ideas of nationalism led to the prosperity of Nazism and the Second World War. Do you think that Italians and Germans throughout history did nothing but cultivate these ideas? They cared for and cherished, but there was no leader, and then bam! And away we go! Or what? Of course not."

"However, the books are approved by the Ministry of Magic, and there can be no lies in them."

"One brainwashed man wrote a book, another published the same book, the third passed through censorship, the fourth certified. Why not? And then there are bribes, blackmail, whatever!"

"Well, this is too much!" Hermione was offended either by my words or by the idea.

"Why not? Have you heard this expression: History is written by the winners?"

The girl nodded and continued the quote.

Therefore, it does not mention the losers. Arthur Drexler.

"Exactly. This is an entirely viable concept because who will refute the words written by this very winner? If it is unprofitable for people to know something, this will not be mentioned in modern publications. But in the old ones it can be the same, but vice versa. I prefer to collect information, ponder, compare with observations, and only then draw conclusions. Although I myself sometimes sin with blind faith in what is written..."