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The train's whistle echoed, carrying the last light of the setting sun away. Under the shroud of twilight, the crimson Hogwarts Express pulled into the Hogsmeade station. A sea of young wizards and witches poured out, their chatter filling the air. Hagrid's booming voice reverberated across the dark platform.
Two younger girls waved goodbye obediently to Harry, who was now entering his second year. No longer required to cross the Black Lake by boat, Harry joined the line for the thestral-drawn carriages waiting for the students.
Having witnessed death, Harry could see the thestrals pulling the carriages. These obedient winged creatures stood patiently, their quiet, effortless steps carrying the carriages forward without a sound once everyone was aboard.
This year felt noticeably different. Harry sensed he wasn't as well-liked as before. It wasn't surprising, though. Over the summer, his physique had changed dramatically. Not everyone appreciated a muscular build, and Harry wasn't particularly fond of it either.
He preferred strength without bulk, a balance of agility and power. Yet now, his arms were as thick as some people's legs, making him an object of interest for gym enthusiasts rather than his peers.
Quick results came with a price. Harry had been eager to accelerate his magical body-strengthening process, but the rushed approach had left his muscles overly bulky. The magical reinforcement had only completed the initial coarse strengthening without the finesse of integration, leaving him in a state of "swelling."
"I should slow down," Harry muttered to himself. "There's no Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. I can use that time to refine my strength. I don't want people sticking notes on my back, and then I can't even pull them off. I'd just be a laughingstock."
Squeezing his oversized biceps, Harry chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Haste makes waste. Two lifetimes, and I still haven't learned that lesson."
Once inside the Great Hall, Harry's height allowed him to survey the Slytherin table easily. Cassandra and Draco sat in the middle. Harry hadn't forgotten what Dobby had told him. Entrusting a chaotic neutral trickster to save someone was questionable, but Harry, intrigued by the potential for drama, decided to observe.
The Malfoys possessing a Horcrux diary was something Harry knew well. Yet he couldn't be entirely certain, considering that Voldemort in the AK world was far sharper than his JK counterpart. Treating him like an idiot would likely end in Harry's death.
This caution was why, even knowing a Horcrux might be hidden in Hogwarts, Harry hadn't acted yet. It wasn't just about avoiding unnecessary attention. If Voldemort had placed protective measures around it, barging in recklessly would be suicide.
At just sixteen, Tom Riddle had murdered his father's family and used the Resurrection Stone ring to create a Horcrux. That same Horcrux nearly killed Dumbledore, a legendary white wizard. If not for "Potion Master" Snape, Dumbledore would have perished.
Riddle's talent for dark magic was terrifying—so much so that even Grindelwald acknowledged it. Harry wouldn't underestimate him. If the Horcrux existed, it could stay where it was for now. Harry wasn't in a rush. As long as he grew strong enough, it wouldn't matter how many times Voldemort resurrected; Harry would simply defeat him each time. The art of war was about exploiting strength against weakness. Rather than scheming tirelessly for uncertain results, building his own power was the most reliable path.
Across the hall, Cassandra sat facing Draco. Her slender figure contrasted sharply with Draco's pale complexion as he murmured to his neighbors. The Malfoy family's signature sickly pallor gave Draco a perpetual look of frailty. Judging his condition by appearance alone was futile, but from what Harry could see, Draco didn't seem to have suffered much at home.
As Harry waited idly for the new first-years to enter, he found himself momentarily lost in thought. When he snapped back to attention, he noticed Draco, who had been murmuring with his neighbors, now staring right at him. The look in Draco's eyes, beyond the usual pale expression, conveyed something deeper.
Harry wasn't a people-reader like Dumbledore, who could see through others in an instant, but Draco's unguarded gaze was clear enough. There, in his eyes, was something that made Harry pause—an odd sort of "longing."
It wasn't a "I'm attracted to you" kind of longing. The idea of a delicate-faced Draco admiring a muscle-bound Harry seemed way too far-fetched, though admittedly, that type had its fans—especially given Britain's cultural quirks.
Draco's look of "longing" was more akin to "I want to follow you, big brother."
"What the heck?!" Harry was startled, taking a quick swig of vodka to calm himself. Yet, thinking about it, maybe this wasn't that impossible.
He and Draco didn't have any serious enmity between them. Yes, there'd been a bit of amusing friction on the train, but Harry hadn't bullied him. He'd just laid down the law a bit. Throughout their first year, they only encountered each other in classes, leaving little room for conflict. Busy as he was, Harry hardly had time to dwell on a boy he barely knew.
In fact, Harry was the one who stood out in ways that Draco could find impressive. He had dominated on the Quidditch field, excelled in class, and even formed a squad that gave out enviable benefits, earning him the unspoken title of "big brother" among many first-years. If Draco had anyone to admire, Harry did seem like a reasonable choice.
After all, their first encounter had shown that, though Draco had been a bit foolish, his underlying intention was to introduce himself. Following that train of thought, the idea that Draco might want to be his fan wasn't completely outlandish.
Running a hand over his chin—still annoyingly smooth and stubble-free—Harry managed to half-convince himself with this explanation.
But just as he looked back to Draco, he found himself meeting another pair of eyes, identical in color to Draco's.
These were colder, sharper, and far more intense.
Draco suddenly lowered his head, while Cassandra, who had been facing away, turned halfway to meet Harry's gaze.
The sight nearly made Harry exclaim out loud.
"Where the hell did last year's flat chest go?!"
"This isn't logical! Not even magical!"
In her half-turned position, the strain on her school robes was obvious, revealing a distinct, curved silhouette that was almost more unbelievable than Harry's eight-inch growth spurt over the past year.
"She's definitely padding—no question about it!"
Harry's lip twitched in disbelief, missing the fleeting glint of amusement in Cassandra's eyes. Just as he was about to take a second look, Professor McGonagall entered the hall, leading a group of wide-eyed new students.
The annual Sorting Ceremony began, and silence swept over the students, each watching the nervous first-years as though they were glimpsing their own younger selves.
(End of Chapter)