The students stood on the solid tiled ground outside the train station, watching with lingering dread as the Knight Bus tore off into the distance. Several girls were busy re-taming their hair. Everyone was now in Muggle clothing, with many outfits looking suspiciously similar—Anthony suspected some design plagiarism from earlier groups, but he wasn't going to investigate. He had already decided he would never attempt transfiguration on a lurching bus again.
"Merlin, never again," one student swore. "It nearly rattled my brains out."
"I felt like a… tentacled slug being stirred clockwise in a cauldron," another said, looking pale. "I feel sorry for them now."
"But the Knight Bus can go anywhere on the mainland, at least anywhere in Britain," Anthony said, finishing his headcount against the list. "And summoning the Bus doesn't count as using magic. The whole process violates neither the International Statute of Secrecy nor the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, unless you draw attention to your wand while waiting. Alright, double-check your luggage. We're heading into the station."
They slipped out from behind a statue and merged into the crowd. The station teemed with people. Some marched with purpose, hauling suitcases. Others drifted between platforms, looking as lost as if they'd forgotten why they were there. A disheveled man shuffled in thin, worn shoes from bench to bench. A street musician played an accordion behind them, a collection of crumpled notes and a few shiny coins in the open case.
"Stick together, but if you get separated, prioritize your own safety," Anthony instructed. "Back here, Mr. Thomas! (But, Professor, that sign has a tooth with an eye on it!) That's a dentist's… Platform Five… A dentist? Someone who fixes your teeth. Here we are."
"Fascinating," a student said, examining the station with an outsider's curiosity. "Different at first glance, but actually quite similar to King's Cross."
Anthony nodded. "Yes. And they're close together."
"So why aren't we at King's Cross, then?" he heard another student mutter.
"Because the train we're taking doesn't stop at King's Cross," Anthony told her.
"Oh… right, Professor." She still looked confused.
A fifth-year turned to explain. "It's not like the train we take to school. There are loads of different trains. Besides going different places, they stop at all sorts of different stations."
Thomas chimed in. "And sometimes, even when it passes a station, it doesn't stop."
The fifth-year nodded. "Took me a while to figure that out. Trains go the long way. They stop where you don't need them to. Not like… you know. Fireplaces." He whispered the last part so quietly Anthony barely caught it.
"I see," said the questioning student. "So the train here is more like an elevator. Even if I only need the seventh floor, it still stops at the fourth."
"Excellent analogy," Anthony praised, genuinely impressed. Most wizards had little concept of public transport. He hadn't expected the student to think of the Ministry elevators.
Of course, wizards had the Knight Bus, jumping around the country at unreasonable speeds and routes, and the Hogwarts Express, which was more of a dedicated ferry between King's Cross and the school. But they also had Apparition, Portkeys, and the Floo Network. None of those required waiting or detours.
This was precisely why he spent the next half-hour pacing the carriages, reminding students at every door opening: "Not yet," "This isn't our stop," or "Next one, we get off."
…
After the Knight Bus, no one complained about the comparatively sedate train. They sat by the windows, watching with something akin to gratitude as the city receded, replaced by the steady, peaceful spread of countryside and farms. In the monotonous rhythm of the tracks, the students finally relaxed. They stood up, stretching, and began exploring the carriage with open curiosity.
Anthony had just sternly told a student to remove his dangerous finger from the emergency button when another piped up. "There's a carriage up ahead with wider seats. And fewer people. Can we…" He spotted Anthony. "Can we sit there, Professor?"
"What carriage?" Anthony asked, then was cheerfully led to the First Class compartment.
Several students were already settled into the wide, plush seats, snacks and games spread on the little tables before them. A few passengers peered politely over newspapers or from the corners of their eyes, probably debating whether to point out the large "1st" printed on the window glass.
"Excuse us," Anthony said to the other passengers. He turned to the students, keeping his voice low. "Outside. Our tickets aren't for here."
"Why not, Professor?"
"Outside," Anthony repeated. "Also, your shoelace is untied."
It was their pre-arranged code for "your wand is showing." The Hufflepuff gasped, shoved the precarious wand deeper into his pocket, and followed Anthony out.
One student trailed after them, sounding wounded. "Why can't we sit there?"
Anthony spent the next few minutes explaining the difference between first and second class. As he described ticket prices and converted them to wizarding currency, a student gasped. "What, you have to buy tickets?"
Anthony stopped. The others stared at her, incredulous.
"I thought they were given out," she explained. "Like the school train."
"Miss Zelma Deftwill," Anthony said. "That is not what you wrote on the Transportation Practical Exam."
"Sorry, Professor Anthony," Zelma mumbled, embarrassed. "Cedric was sitting next to me that day."
Anthony shook his head. "Should I requisition some Anti-Cheating Quills?"
…
Aside from the shared grey sky, their destination was nothing like London. Victorian buildings jostled against concrete and steel. Boxy, modern houses proudly announced this as an industrial area. The air held a strange, unfamiliar scent.
They left the platform, and Anthony took the students to a nearby restaurant for lunch.
When he let them choose, some were drawn by the exotic smells from an Indian restaurant, while others wanted the crowded fish and chips shop next door. Unable to agree, Anthony declared they would eat at the Chinese takeaway sandwiched between them.
While fragrant dishes from India, China, Mexico, and Turkey had long spread across Muggle Britain, Chinese takeaway was clearly a novelty to Magical Britain.
The red and gold lanterns, the large round wooden tables with bright red tablecloths—all of it could be summed up by the question Thomas whispered to Anthony: "Are they from Gryffindor, too?"
Everything else was foreign to them: the rich aroma of stir-fry in the air, the sizzle of oil and the clang of woks from the kitchen, the customers leaving the counter with stacked takeaway boxes. They peered curiously at the fish tank by the door and puzzled over the menu's indecipherable names.
"'Ding… Sang?' What's that?"
"Sounds like a spell," one student muttered very quietly. "The whole menu looks like gibberish and incantations."
"A few things make sense," another said, pointing. "Sweet and sour chicken… Prawns in black bean sauce… Ew."
"That's the gibberish part. Can't we just get fish and chips?"
But once seated around the round table, they settled on the popular choices: beef chow mein and egg-fried rice combo plates. A few students, emboldened by memory, wanted to try spring rolls and crispy aromatic duck ("I heard Cho mention them"). On the waiter's recommendation, Anthony added sweet and sour chicken, salt and pepper squid, prawn toast, and Peking dumplings.
The food arrived with incredible speed. Soon, plates and bowls of varying heights crowded the table.
The students fell in love with the chow mein instantly. The sweet and sour chicken was also a hit. Spring rolls were universally preferred over the dumplings, but the plate of dumplings on its greasy paper lace vanished in under five minutes. The teapot, on the other hand, was largely ignored, visited only by Anthony.
"I really want to visit China," a student said, staring at the thick bundle of chopsticks in their bamboo holder. "No one would blink at my 'shoelace.' They'd just think I'm bad with chopsticks."
"If you convinced Mr. Ollivander to make your 'shoelace' look like a kebab skewer, you could carry it around too," his friend said. "People would just think you really like kebabs."
"That would be more conspicuous than a nice smooth stick, believe me," another countered. "Unless you actually skewered meat on it and walked around eating it."
…
On the way out, everyone received a fortune cookie. Anthony was counting heads and didn't notice Ted Thomas shove the whole cookie into his mouth. He yelped immediately.
"Ow! Blurgh!" Thomas cried, spitting. "What is this?"
Everyone watched as he grimaced and pulled a small, crumpled white slip of paper from between his teeth.
Anthony laughed. "A fortune cookie, Mr. Thomas. It means there's a message inside each one. Usually advice, encouragement, or a joke. Which one you get is pure luck."
"Read it, Ted," a classmate urged.
Thomas wrinkled his nose and unfolded his slip. "The recipe for happiness: heaven, the sea, or another cookie." He shook his head. "I'm not sure I want another cookie."
Another student got "Do not eat paper" and generously passed the advice to Thomas. Amid Thomas's protests, a fortune cookie informed Zelma of her future: "You will want a snack in one hour."
"Well, now you know your future too," Anthony said, tucking away his list.
A student peering at Zelma's slip said, "It's not a real prophecy, right? No tea leaves, crystal balls, or tarot cards."
"It's a reasonable inference. People often want snacks," Anthony said. "This way, ladies and gentlemen. With any luck, we should reach the factory by one."
"What did yours say, Professor?" asked Claire Tilley. A small crowd of curious students gathered.
"Let's see," Anthony said, breaking his cookie open. "Your lucky numbers: 58, 59."
"Oh," the students said, disappointed. "Boring."
Anthony popped the cookie into his mouth, shrugged, and led the students toward the bus stop.
…
"Brilliant, the seats are fixed!" Zelma said with relief, boarding the Muggle bus. The driver turned to give her a strange look.
They had missed the previous bus entirely because everyone wanted to try the automated ticket machine.
Anthony had planned to buy all seventeen tickets at once. He ended up standing by the machine for over half an hour, apologizing to other passengers, redirecting them to the next machine, and stopping dizzy students from trying to feed Knuts into the coin slot.
"And handrails everywhere," another student said gratefully, clutching each seatback as if her joints ached.
The passengers watched her with sympathy until the girl nimbly hopped up the last steps and plopped down next to Zelma. "All the handrails are solid."
Amused, Anthony watched the students cautiously settle into their seats as if bracing for a rollercoaster ride. The bus's engine shuddered to life. With a rumble and a long hydraulic sigh, the doors closed. They merged into traffic at a steady, perfectly law-abiding speed.
The bus made a few stops. The students tentatively let go of the handrails. Disbelieving smiles spread across their faces.
"This is fun!" Thomas said, looking down from the window at the car beside them. "Much better than I thought."
The student next to him sounded regretful. "I should've eaten more at lunch."
"No need to hurry," Anthony reassured him. "You'll be eating plenty of chocolate soon."
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