Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl

Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl.
Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were say¬ing.
“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ mother.
“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was holding her hand, “Mom, can’t I go …”
“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first.”
What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.
“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said.
“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?”
“Sorry, George, dear.”
“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, be¬cause a second later, he had gone — but how had he done it?




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