THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM
NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS
Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see him looking.
“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station?
Know who he is?”
“Who?”
“Harry Potter!”
Harry heard the little girl’s voice.
“Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, oh
please. . . .”
“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn’t some-
thing you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?”
“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there — like lightning.”
“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever
so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform.”
“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-
Who looks like?”
Their mother suddenly became very stern.
“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As though he
needs reminding of that on his first day at school.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
A whistle sounded.
“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys clambered
onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them
good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry.
“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”
“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”
“George!”
“Only joking, Mom.”
The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother waving
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