My name is Raven Husher, and you have the great misfortune of reading my memoirs.

My mother, a Mrs. Christine Paula Husher, birthed me several minutes after my sister, Alice Elanor Husher, on October the 31st, 1994. However, my story did not get particularly interesting until after I turned nine.

The day in question? January 6th, 2003.

What happened? I apparated onto the Hogwarts Express.

Before dismissing the notion that a nine-year-old apparated at all – without splinching mind you – consider this: I had already been labeled, as I still am today, somewhat of a "wizarding prodigy."

Proof: Three years prior to apparating into the Express, I built my own wand out of a niffler hair I'd taken from my father's desk. I enchanted my mother's broom to fly and made a slight scene out in the Muggle World. The Ministry investigated my father's research to ensure he did not plan on creating unauthorized wands.

Why did I want to apparate onto the train? As a nine-year-old I had two obsessions: One, Hogwarts; Two, motorized vehicles.

The two obsessions lead to fixation on that scarlet train. Most wizards don't understand the complexity of it. The train runs at the same pace as any other train does—much to the chagrin of students who must take it at least twice a year for a whopping nine-hour ride.1 The Express has to traverse the terrain of England and Scotland, not be noticed, and maintain an extensive undetectable charm to accommodate its passengers. And, since the, what is referred to now as "the Potter years," the train has also been equipped with almost every security spell.

The train runs on magic, and it doesn't just run when students take it, but every day there is a demand for it. Hogsmeade locals take it quite frequently, thought who knows why. Some people just hate apparition, floo powder, port keys, the Knight Bus, and muggle travel.2

That means maintenance. All the spells wear off, and for the mass the train needs to be to accommodate students, the length of the trip, the weather, etc. the concentration needed to keep those spells working on an indefinite status is astronomical. So, unless the conductor is secretly Albus Dumbledore—and there are rumors he is3—the conductor would need to be constantly repairing fading spells.

From the age of eight to nine I consumed as much information on the Express as I possibly could. I read my father's old copies of The Train of the Century by Miriam Hoodlin, and The Scarlet Engine: The Controversy that Rocked the Decade by Bobington Roadsbath and even ran my eyes over the idiotic children's book, The Hogwarts Express that Could, a poor copy of one of my favorite muggle children's book. I tried to check out more from the Hogwarts Library but received a polite note declining, as I was neither student nor alumni. I couldn't ask mum. Being a muggle, she had never attended Hogwarts. And father still mucked about in Australia studying werewolves. He did not return my letter asking if he would write Hogwarts for me.

On January sixth I sat in a classroom at my school in Crail, a small coastal town where I grew up, about an hour and half drive from Edinburgh. The schoolhouse, ancient building, had snow on its roof, and ice on its windows. The headmaster proved too afraid of large heating bills. I wore cotton gloves and a large gray pea coat my mum loved on me, in addition to black slacks that did not warm me at all. My mum kept my hair short, so I had my crocheted cap from grandmamma as far down as it would go over my ears.

My sister Alice—a brunette like me, with blue eyes, unlike me—sat next to me, and had refused the teacher's numerous requests to put on her coat. Yet she still sat and read the poorly written textbook on Britain's first Prime Minister. I had no attention for it, and when the bell clanged for lunch I'd taken in no more than three paragraphs.

Alice stood at the bell and asked, "You sure?"

I nodded. I had read A Practical Guide to Apparition and Apparition Do's and Don'ts as well as Magical Theory: How Apparition is Possible. And I had already apparated three times successfully in my back yard.

I lagged as my fellow classmates went to go feed on poor excuses for meals. When most everyone was gone, I rose from my own desk and pretended to trip. I spun, threw out my arms, concentrated and apparated.

But I did make it on the train. I made it into the last compartment, as I planned. The wood walls, the terrible patterned cushions on the seats, the sliding glass doors, scratched and dirty—evidently repaired by magic hundreds of time—it was all there as I'd pictured.

I had maybe three seconds to take in my compartment. I thought for sure students would be in there. Instead, it seemed empty. That is, until a man woke up, throwing his black cloak off of him.

When a wizard apparates they make a noise, sometimes only small pops if you're truly skilled, and sometimes excruciating loud cracks.4 As a beginner I naturally incurred the latter. The man's wand snapped into his hand. The man, of Indian descent, clean shaven with neatly cut black hair, towered over me. He stood in black robes, white shirt with a black sweater over it and a black tie loosed around his neck. I couldn't tell if he was a young teacher or a young auror.

I mentioned the Potter years before, and new train security measures because of those events. Well, I ran in to those new security measures. Something akin to a muggle alarm bell sounded and the lights in the train switched from white to red.

"What are you doing?" said the man. He had a London accent, and a silver Hogwarts crest on his robes—a teacher then.

It was sensory overload—especially for a nine-year-old. I was out of the compartment in half a heartbeat. The corridor floors were wooden, the ceiling was wooden, the doors were wooden though each had a large window in it—and there were dozens of students pressing their face against the glass to catch a glance at the troublemaker—me.

I noticed several students had some sort of green and silver robes, sweaters or necklaces. I saw a black-haired girl with silver and green snake earrings. So many Slytherins in the back of the train. Why?

A door opened at the end of the corridor and a wizard in black robes came whirling out. A wand pointed at me, I read the little gold M on the chest. Auror. Got it. Crack! I was in the steam room. No aurors there.

"What's it?"

I swiveled to see the conductor in his chair-or its chair. A house-elf sat in a seat too large for it, its feet unable to reach the ground, its head several feet below top. The house-elf used magic to push and whirl the numerous levers and buttons at the front.

A house-elf? Good thing it did not look at me, for I do not think my face masked my disappointment. I had imagined a heavyset man, with mustache and a blue and white striped hat. He was supposed to have burly forearms, thick arm hair, eyebrows that covered his face, and red cheeks. He was supposed to be smoking a cigar and puffing smoke outside the window.

Instead the conductor wore a burlap sack that had "Cotswold's Finest Flour" embroidered in burgundy lettering. Its ears were smaller than normal for a house-elf, as was its nose.

I looked back towards the house-elf. It did not look back. "You're not supposed to be up here. You're not supposed to be up here at all."

"I just want to look around. Then I'll leave."

To my right a shovel—of its own accord—shoveled coal into the furnace. But the amount of coal was considerably less than what the train really needed.

But of course! The train ran on magic, so the coal? The coal, was it just there for aesthetic? It must have been—purely for having black clouds billowing from the train.

"C'mere." A long and pointy finger ushered me beside the house-elf.

"Are you the conductor?"

"Course not. Master Morrigan is, but he's sick today. I'm just the assistant." The house-elf thrust a thumb behind him. "You haven't got much time 'till the trolley woman gets here. What do you want to know?"

"Everything," I said. "Who is the conductor?"

The house-elf snapped his fingers and a picture of a man formed. He was not fat, but very thin, and wore too-big-for-him overalls, a white shirt and a black hat. "Master Earl Morrigan, conductor of the train, and squib. Former Headmaster Albus Dumbledore gave 'em the job when Master Morrigan graduated from a muggle college in engineering about fifty-two years ago."

"If he's a squib then who powers the train?"

"I do."

"House-elf magic runs the Hogwarts Express?" I could hear the rudeness of my question, but I couldn't stop it from coming out.

"Yessir."

"What does what?"

"Speed, anti-muggle, anti-detection, invisibility, size adjustment, sneakascope, train whistle, uhhh train alarm—which is still on thanks to you. Lets see—no, no, you're outta time sir."

The door behind us opened and a dumpy but kind-faced woman wearing a gray apron and matching pointed hat opened the door. "Stowaway!" She bellowed and she marched toward me.

But I was off with a crack, back in my classroom, which was empty save for my sister. She gave me a wide smile and tossed me an apple from the cafeteria. "You'll be in lots of trouble when we get home."

1 Not the most ideal situation for a thousand students from ages eleven to seventeen to be crammed in with zero supervision.

2 Apparently.

3 He's sort of the Wizarding Elvis.

4 These are known as apparition farts.