***
Today is the day. The day we take the train to Hogwarts: a new world, new subjects, new people… and new dangers. We're at the station, looking for Platform 9¾.
My dad's first reaction when Hagrid mentioned the platform was something like: "Are you sure it exists? Nine and three-quarters? That doesn't exist in a train station." And, honestly, he had a point. How do you hide trains and tracks exclusive to wizards in a place this crowded?
I didn't say anything then, but I wondered too. A pocket dimension? Like the trunks we bought? Do they expand space that already exists? Is the wall a portal to a hidden station?
But now that we're here… I still don't get it. The magical station should be layered over the normal one; or, if they're hiding it with barriers, it should be visible to witches and wizards. And clearly neither Hermione nor I can see anything. I'd know from her face.
I give up for now. Maybe I'll understand later.
What does surprise me is how much magic there is around here.
I see people dressed… weird. Not "weird fashion." Weird as in "you are clearly not from here." Parents with kids, trolleys, cages, trunks. All mixed in with Muggles walking around like nothing's happening.
I look at my family and joke:
"Don't you think they're not hiding very hard?" And then I finish it off: "I mean… wouldn't this be insanely weird to see on a normal day?"
"You're right," Hermione says, and adds, "And their clothes are weird even compared to each other." She points. "Look at that man with the pointy hat and the cloak dragging on the floor…"
She says it with this tiny desperation, like her brain is trying to categorize something impossible.
Dad sighs.
"I wouldn't know what to say to that… but I don't think they don't have measures to keep normal people—like me or your mum—from noticing them. And busy people don't pay much attention anyway."
I hate that it makes sense. But Merlin… I'm more and more convinced that a lot of witches and wizards are either stupid or blind. Or both. Magic made them complacent, somehow.
Mum, on the other hand, looks at Hermione with calm firmness.
"I don't know what to think," she says, "but you can't point at people like that. It's rude."
Hermione drops her hand immediately.
"Sorry, Mum," she says, genuinely regretful.
Now we're right in the middle of Platform 9, and we watch families with kids of all ages walk straight through a solid wall—yes, solid—as if it isn't there. Knowing it and seeing it in a movie doesn't hit the same as seeing it in person, honestly.
"Are they… going through the wall? Just like that, in the middle of the station, with all these people around?" Hermione finishes, her voice just a little louder, but not enough to draw attention.
"That's not my problem, and it's not yours either," Dad says, sounding tired. "I suggest you simply go with the flow." He pauses, looking at the wall again. "But it's still incredible, the wall thing."
"So exciting!" Mum suddenly says, her face lighting up. "I wish I could go learn magic with you." She doesn't stop. "But for my babies to have this chance…" her voice cracks a little, "I'm incredibly happy and proud of you."
She pulls us into a short hug, but heavy with what she's saying. With what she's feeling.
"Exactly what your mother says, kids," Dad adds in that lecture tone. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don't waste it. And know that no matter what you choose or what happens, we'll always support you."
His voice softens at the end, like he doesn't want it to sound like a speech, even though it is.
"Now… go with the flow," he says simply.
And he starts pushing my trolley toward the wall without warning.
Mum does the same with Hermione's trolley, and we follow close behind them.
Dad, Mum, and Hermione close their eyes on reflex. From fear.
I don't.
I already know we're not going to crash into anything.
We go through the wall.
Yeah. Just that.
I thought I'd see something. Anything. A pull in the stomach, a flash, some weird feeling… I don't know. Something that would justify the fact we just walked through a wall like it was smoke.
But no.
Nothing. At least, not the way I expected.
What does change is the sound.
On the other side, the Muggle station drops away like someone turned the volume down. And here… here the noise hits you: a living crowd, owls beating their wings, cages clunking, trolleys squeaking, kids yelling, parents calling out last names that sound way too important.
The red train is right there, huge, steaming like it owns the place. The Hogwarts Express. They literally didn't even try to be discreet.
Dad freezes for half a second. He doesn't say "wow," he doesn't say anything, but I see it: that tiny pause of an adult processing that reality just broke its own rules. Mum too. She smiles, but her smile trembles a bit, like she doesn't want it to show she's impressed. Spoiler: it shows.
Hermione is already in Hermione-mode.
"How…?" she murmurs, almost to herself. "Where does the smoke come from? Real coal? An enchantment? And the tracks… are they connected to the rest of the system or…?"
Nobody answers, obviously.
I push the trolley and try to look calm. I fail.
"Okay," I say under my breath, "so yes. They had a train hidden inside a station. Sure. Normal."
Hermione ignores me with professional focus.
"And if someone messes up and goes back through the wall? Does it drop you on the Muggle side again? Is there a 'return button'? Do you get stuck?"
"Hermione," I tell her, "you're asking questions only a manual that clearly doesn't exist could answer."
She frowns.
"It should exist."
We move forward with the trolleys between families, trunks, and cages. There are too many people and too many animals. An owl stares at me like it's judging me for crimes I haven't committed yet. Thanks.
Dad leans in toward me, low and calm:
"Are you sure… where to board? Are there… assigned seats?"
That "assigned" is loaded with 'this is a train, there have to be rules.'
"I think it's more like… 'find a spot and pray,'" I say.
Dad nods like he just heard something reasonable. That worries me.
Mum adjusts her hair and looks at Hermione.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," Hermione says way too fast. "I'm just… trying to understand it."
Spoiler: she won't understand it. Nobody understands anything and the people who claim they do are lying.
We're almost next to the carriages when, from the back of the train, a shout cuts through the noise like a badly cast spell:
"FIRST YEARS! FIRST YEARS!"
We turn.
Farther down, near the end, there's a witch waving her arm back and forth like she's directing air traffic. She points to a door and keeps shouting—insistent, relentless—like her personal mission is making sure no kid gets into the wrong carriage and ruins their destiny.
"FIRST YEARS! THIS WAY! FIRST YEARS!"
Hermione blinks.
"Why the back? Is there an order? Do they separate us? Is it for safety? Logistics? Or just… absurd tradition?"
"Yes," I say.
Hermione looks at me.
"Yes what?"
"Yes to everything. Probably. In that order."
***
"Looks like there really was an order, Mione," I tell her, as we move down the train corridor like we're crossing a market at rush hour. "Older kids up front, younger kids in the back."
Hermione doesn't look at me because she's busy dodging a cage that nearly brushes her face and a boy trying to lift a trunk like it's a suicide mission.
"That doesn't prove it's 'order,'" she mutters. "It proves someone decided to shove hard in one direction."
We pass a compartment where two older boys are talking loudly, laughing at something I don't get. One of them looks at us like we're furniture. I keep walking.
Farther on, a group of smaller kids is crammed into another compartment, with mums still leaning in the doorway, giving final instructions like they're sending them off to war.
Mum and Dad are behind us, in full "don't get in the way but don't let go" mode. Dad looks at the corridor, the luggage, the cages, the controlled chaos… and does that tiny silent inhale that means this is insane. He doesn't say it. But he thinks it so hard I can almost hear it.
Hermione presses in at my side.
"What if we don't find an empty one?"
"We merge with the wall. We're used to that."
She kills me with her eyes.
"Don't joke."
"Okay. Then… we sit on the roof."
"Hadrien."
"Okay, okay, okay. We look. Like normal people."
We keep moving. The train is full of motion: kids pushing, parents reaching to fix scarves, someone yelling "watch the owl!", and this weird mixed smell of old wood, steam, hot metal, and… sweets.
And by the simple miracle of arriving early, we find an empty compartment.
"That one," I say, like I just found treasure.
We go in. Hermione sits immediately by the window, like claiming territory is part of the curriculum. I sit next to her.
Mum and Dad take advantage of the fact the train hasn't left yet (and there are still people saying goodbye in the corridor) to lift the trunks up to the rack. Dad does it with excessive care, like the trunk might bite him.
When he's done, he shakes out his hands like he carried concrete.
"All set, kids," he says.
Mum leans into the compartment a little more, smiling with that tiny tremble because she's happy and the reality is also hitting her at the same time.
"Eat well, study, and behave," she says, and then lowers her voice. "And take care of each other, okay?"
She crouches and hugs us. Short, but heavy. The kind that leaves your chest feeling weird afterward.
Dad leans in and does the same—more awkward, but just as sincere. Then he looks straight at me.
"Take care of Hermione, champ, okay? And keep her away from bad boys."
He says it like a joke… but his face says 'I'm not that joking.'
"Dad!" Hermione snaps, scandalized, red up to her ears.
I let out a tiny laugh.
"I promise, Dad."
Hermione shoots me a look that says I'm going to kill you when they get off.
Dad clears his throat like he wants to say something else, but swallows it. Mum ruffles both our hair quickly, like she's afraid if she thinks too hard she'll cry.
"Behave," Mum repeats, trying to sound firm.
"And write," Dad adds.
We both nod.
"And Mum, please don't cry, it's not like we're never going to see each other again," I finish, and they laugh.
"Forgive your sentimental mother who loves you and worries," Mum adds as a final comment—ironic and affectionate—while she drags Dad out.
I watch them walk toward the carriage door, through moving people and goodbye voices.
When they step down, Hermione stays by the window, following Mum with her eyes until she loses her in the crowd.
"I didn't see Harry," she suddenly murmurs, like she just remembered. "Wasn't he coming too?"
I shrug, looking down the corridor and then at the invisible clock of chaos.
"We got here pretty early. Maybe he hasn't arrived yet," I say, trying to sound casual. "Or maybe we lost him between fifteen cages, twenty trunks, and three family tragedies."
Hermione gives me that look that says not the time.
"What?" I whisper. "It could happen…"
She looks back out the window.
I look out too. More students show up with trolleys, with parents, with chaos. Some say goodbye fast. Others say goodbye like it's the end of the world.
Hermione decides that if we're going to wait, we're at least going to wait productively.
She stands, opens her trunk, and starts digging with that Hermione efficiency that makes me feel vaguely guilty for existing and being relaxed most of the time.
"What are you looking for?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. She keeps digging like her life depends on finding that exact book.
She finally pulls it out: Hogwarts: A History. Ah. Staying prepared and killing time, apparently.
She sits back down and places it between us on our laps, half on her side and half on mine.
"As always, I'm the one who reads for you. Now it's your turn. Read to me," she says, dead serious, like a Ministry order.
"Okay," I say, resigned. "I read the left page and you read the right, okay?"
"Agreed," she says, nodding, satisfied.
We've been reading for a few minutes when the compartment door opens.
Two girls appear in the doorway.
They're twins. Not identical, but clearly from the same factory: warm brown skin, long black shiny hair, alert dark eyes. One of them smiles first—confident, like she already decided she's going to be liked. The other looks around calmly, but with that gaze that registers everything.
"Hi," says the one who's smiling. "Is this taken?"
Hermione looks up from the book sharply.
"No," she answers fast. "Come in."
"Can we sit here?" the other asks, softer.
"Yeah, of course," I say, and shift the book a little to make room. "Go ahead."
They come in, close the door behind them, and sit across from us. The smiling one settles in first, like she's already been on ten trains exactly like this.
"Thanks. Almost everything is full."
Hermione nods, formal.
"We got lucky. We came early."
The smiling twin leans in a little, friendly.
"I'm Parvati Patil," she says. "And this is my sister, Padma Patil."
Padma lifts her hand slightly in a small but proper greeting.
"Hi."
"I'm Hermione," Hermione says immediately. "And he's Hadrien."
"Nice to meet you," I say, and nod.
"Nice to meet you," they both repeat almost at the same time, but Parvati says it with a smile and Padma says it with calm seriousness.
Hermione looks back at the book like she just remembered it exists, but she's already in "conversation with information" mode.
"Are you from London too?" she asks.
"We live in London," Parvati answers. "But our family is from India."
Hermione straightens a little, genuinely interested.
"What part?"
Padma answers this time, like Parvati already talked enough.
"Our family is from Maharashtra."
Hermione's eyes widen a bit.
"Oh…" she says, then corrects herself quickly. "Sorry. It's just… I've never met anyone from there."
Parvati laughs softly.
"It's fine. Most people don't know anyone from there until they see it in a book."
"Do you go often?" Hermione asks, curious.
"When we can," Padma says. "Sometimes during holidays."
I look at Hermione.
"I'll give you five minutes before you ask about food."
Hermione glares at me.
"I wasn't going to— …okay, yes, I was."
Parvati lets out a real laugh, the kind you don't hold back.
"I prefer Indian food. Way more than English food," she says—and she says it like it's a universal truth, not an opinion.
"Okay, we can definitely be friends," I say, smiling.
Padma and Parvati smile and nod.
Hermione circles back to the main point, inevitably:
"Did you know about magic before?"
Padma nods.
"Yes. We come from a wizarding family."
Hermione drops her gaze to the book for a second, like that sentence weighs a little.
"That must be easier."
Parvati tilts her head.
"Maybe."
"She does," I say, jerking my chin at Hermione. "I'm surviving by proximity." I add it as a joke.
Hermione taps me lightly with the edge of the book. Parvati laughs again; Padma just smiles a tiny bit, almost imperceptible.
Hermione looks at the book and then at them.
"We're reading about Hogwarts. Do you want to…?"
Parvati leans in to see the cover.
"Is that one of those that tells you 'how not to die in your first week'?"
"I wish," I say. "If it doesn't, they should reprint it."
"Hadrien," Hermione mutters, but she's already smiling a little.
Padma looks at the book with real interest.
"We can read with you."
Hermione nods, satisfied, like she just recruited allies for a mission.
"Perfect. Hadrien reads the left page and I read the right."
Parvati blinks.
"Is that a system?"
"It's the only system that stops him from playing dumb and saying 'I didn't get it' or 'I didn't know,'" Hermione answers with zero shame.
"That's slander," I say, offended. "I explain lots of things to you. I'm older and smarter."
I say it with exaggerated, dramatic exasperation—clearly joking.
Parvati laughs. Padma looks at us like she's already reached a silent conclusion: these two are a mess, but likable.
"Welcome to the club," I say, opening the book again. "'Survive Hogwarts.'"
"With Hermione in charge," Parvati adds.
"And Hadrien as an example of what NOT to do," Padma finishes, in a deceptively serious tone.
I go still.
Hermione hides her smile behind the book.
"I like them," I mutter, defeated.
We read interesting things. The kind that make you raise an eyebrow even while you pretend you're only "reading to be supportive."
For example: the Hogwarts motto.
Hermione reads it out loud with that solemnity of hers that says "this is important and the universe should stop to listen."
"Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus," she pronounces slowly, careful with every syllable. "It means: 'Never tickle a sleeping dragon.'"
Parvati blinks.
"That's the official motto of the most prestigious school in the wizarding world?"
Padma leans in a little, genuinely interested.
"It's… specific," she says, like she's being polite.
I stare at the phrase.
"Okay," I murmur. "That doesn't sound like a deep metaphor. That sounds like a real story that ended badly."
Hermione frowns.
"Hadrien, mottos are usually symbolic."
"No, no. Not this one. This one is literal. This is 'someone did something stupid once and now it's carved in stone.'"
Parvati laughs.
"How do you think it happened?"
"Easy," I say, like I was there. "First year at Hogwarts, a group of students finds a 'supposedly tamed' dragon, someone says 'it's fine, it's asleep,' someone else says 'what if we tickle it,' and the punishment wasn't detention… it was rebuilding half a wing of the castle."
Hermione gives me that look: don't make things up.
Padma raises an eyebrow.
"Why tickling?"
"Because stupid people always pick the most humiliating way to die," I say without thinking. "Nobody dies heroically. They die doing… that."
Parvati covers her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh too loudly.
"That makes way too much sense."
Hermione huffs, but doesn't argue. That's rare. That means she pictured it too, deep down.
We keep reading.
And it confirms what I was already suspecting: Parvati is a radio with legs. Social, expressive, talking like she's collecting data points to build a real-time mental map of Hermione. She asks her everything. Whether she likes dresses. Whether the Muggle world has "real" makeup or if it's all "sad paint." Whether accessories matter or if you "can survive without earrings."
That kind of information goes in one ear and out the other for me. Not my problem. I'm physically present, but my soul is in airplane mode.
Padma, on the other hand, isn't exactly "quiet." She's… efficient. Like talking costs money and she's saving. She asks questions, yes, but only when they're worth it. And when we read out loud, you can tell she's actually paying attention.
We reach the section where the book starts talking about the Houses.
Hermione lights up like someone said "exam."
"It says Hogwarts is divided into four Houses…" she murmurs. "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."
Parvati tilts her head.
"We didn't know that."
Hermione turns to her, surprised.
"What do you mean you didn't?"
"Our parents told us the basics," Parvati says. "Hogwarts, magic, wands… but not this. They kept it secret."
Padma nods.
"They said it was 'better to experience it.'"
Hermione opens the book a bit wider.
"It says something here about 'sorting.'"
And then the classic child speculation begins. The most dangerous kind. The kind that feeds itself.
"Maybe we'll have to demonstrate spells," Hermione says, already building a mental plan.
Parvati gets excited.
"What if it's a ritual? Like… candles, symbols, something dramatic. And we have to swear things?"
Padma, without raising her voice, drops:
"What if it's a test?"
Hermione looks at her.
"What kind of test?"
Padma shrugs, minimal.
"Magic. Character. Something like that."
Parvati's eyes widen.
"What if they release a magical creature and you have to survive?"
Hermione goes stiff.
"That would be… illegal."
"In the wizarding world?" I say, flat. "Hermione, sweetheart, we just learned the official motto is 'don't provoke the dragon.' I wouldn't bet on 'illegal.'"
Hermione glares at me for the "sweetheart," obviously.
I keep reading like nothing happened.
The book gets mysterious—talks about "belonging," "values," and "destiny." Very dramatic.
Parvati, fascinated, leans closer to the text.
"It has to be something big."
Hermione is already in theory mode.
"It could be a personality assessment. Or magical affinity. Or—"
Padma points to a line with her finger.
"'The method of sorting has remained the same for centuries.'"
Hermione blinks.
"Centuries?"
Parvati hugs herself like that's thrilling.
"Okay, it's definitely a ritual."
I listen for a second, let the snowball grow…
And then I say, like I'm making an innocent joke:
"Or maybe… a magic hat will sort us."
Silence.
Hermione looks at me. Parvati looks at me. Padma looks at me.
Parvati laughs.
"That would be ridiculous."
Padma, without changing her expression, adds:
"Extremely ridiculous."
Hermione frowns, thinking, like she hates admitting it…
"…But not impossible."
I drop my eyes to the book so my face doesn't scream 'yes, exactly.'
"Uh-huh," I mutter. "Ridiculous. Totally ridiculous."
Parvati latches back onto the ritual theory.
Hermione starts debating probabilities.
At some point, without anyone "officially deciding," the book ends up in Padma's lap.
Not because she asked for it. Not because she grabbed it. It just… happened. Like when something finds its natural place and nobody argues.
Parvati is talking with Hermione about something extremely important—according to them—like whether Muggle earrings count as "decent accessories" or "sad metal." Hermione answers with scientific seriousness, because Hermione can turn any topic into a thesis.
And me… I'm there. Existing. Nodding sometimes like I understand.
Padma, meanwhile, lowers her eyes, keeps one hand on the page so it doesn't close, and keeps reading like she already accepted the world is weird and that's that.
No drama. No exaggerated emotions. No wasted words.
Just reading.
"Mione… look."
Hermione turns and sees the book in Padma's lap.
Parvati notices too and lets out a little giggle.
"I think Padma adopted it."
Padma doesn't look up.
"I'm reading," she says simply, like that explains everything.
Hermione blinks, offended and fascinated at the same time.
"And… what does it say now?"
Padma turns the page calmly.
"That sorting 'reveals' something about you."
Parvati leans forward, very interested.
"Reveals what?"
Padma shrugs, barely.
"Perfect," I mutter. "I love it when a school decides to look into your soul before giving you your class schedule."
Padma keeps reading, unbothered.
The train makes that loud metallic "exhale" sound, like it's warming up its lungs. Then a long, clear whistle. And then: the floor vibrates slightly, the view outside starts moving slowly.
Inside the compartment, Parvati doesn't let silence exist for even five seconds. Hermione keeps up. Padma, meanwhile, has the Hogwarts book on her lap and reads calmly, like this is completely normal. Hermione doesn't have it anymore. No need—Padma grabbed it and officially adopted it.
The door swings open again.
A boy comes in dragging a massive suitcase. Not "big": massive. The suitcase looks heavier than him, and he has that tense face of someone who already apologized in his head for existing.
He's chubby, with messy brown hair, cheeks red from the effort, and a shy, hesitant expression. Like every step is a negotiation with the air.
And the weirdest part: there's a frog sitting on his shoulder. Like it's his pet and his co-pilot.
I stare for a second because… what do you even say to "frog on shoulder"?
"S-sorry…" he starts, stuttering a bit at the beginning like he has to shove himself into speaking. "I-is this taken?"
Hermione turns immediately. Parvati too. Padma looks up only for a moment, but doesn't let go of the book.
"No," Hermione says quickly. "Come in, you can sit."
"Yeah, of course," Parvati adds, smiling like they're already friends. "Everything's almost full."
I stand up before the boy decides to run away.
"Come on, get in," I say. "We'll help with that."
He comes in carefully. The suitcase hits the frame with a clunk.
"S-sorry," he murmurs instantly.
"It's fine," I cut in, calm. "The door survived."
I grab one side of the suitcase and help lift it. We shove it up onto the rack.
The frog doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just stays there.
"Okay," I murmur. "Your frog has better emotional control than I do."
Parvati laughs. Hermione does too, softly. Padma gives the tiniest micro-smile without taking her eyes off the book for long.
The boy sits carefully, like the seat might judge him. Hands on his knees, stiff, looking down.
I hold out my hand.
"I'm Hadrien Granger."
He blinks, looks at me, looks at my hand… and finally takes it.
"N-Neville… Neville Longbottom."
I shake firm but gentle, and when he lets go I tap his empty shoulder lightly, like: relax, it's done.
"I'm Hermione Granger," Hermione says, formal and kind.
"Parvati Patil," Parvati says with energy. "And that's Padma Patil."
Padma dips her head politely.
Neville turns red immediately. He looks at the frog like it's supposed to save him.
"Th-that…" Hermione says, glancing at it without pointing (because Mum would exorcise her). "Is that your pet?"
Neville nods quickly.
"Y-yes."
Trevor keeps sitting there like he just got introduced at a formal dinner.
"He's way too calm to be at Hogwarts," I say.
Parvati giggles again. Hermione looks at me like don't scare him, but she doesn't stop me.
Padma goes back to the book without drama. She's actually reading, not using it as decoration. Every so often she turns the page. That's it.
I look at Neville.
"Were you looking for a compartment? Because this train is packed like they put up a sign that says 'free seats.'"
Neville nods.
"Y-yes… and I didn't want to b-bother anyone."
"Well, you already did," I say without malice. "So sit and breathe. You're here."
Hermione steps on my foot under the seat—soft but with intent.
"Ouch," I whisper. "It's a joke."
Parvati laughs louder. Neville stares, confused… but not uncomfortable. More like he doesn't know what to do with normal people being nice.
"I-I'm not very good… at talking," Neville admits, quietly.
"Perfect," I say. "We talk too much. You just exist, nod, and survive. Solid plan."
Padma, barely looking up, slides the book in her lap a little closer toward the center, giving him space to look too.
Hermione notices and smiles.
"We're reading about Hogwarts," she tells Neville. "If you want, you can join."
Neville blinks.
"R-really?"
"Really," I say, and tap his shoulder lightly again. "Nobody bites."
Hermione opens her mouth, offended.
"Don't start."
"Okay, okay," I say. "Nobody bites… without prior notice."
Hermione glares. Parvati laughs. Neville lets out a tiny laugh—almost accidental.
Neville relaxes a little in the seat.
Padma turns the page calmly. The frog stays in statue mode. For now…
I decide to take a nap. The trip is going to be long.
"I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up when we're close… or when something happens. Whichever comes first," I say, and without asking permission I let myself fall against Hermione's shoulder.
"Hey, I'm not a pillow," Hermione says, but there's no heat in her voice. Just that practical resignation of 'this is my life now.'
I toss out my last comment before I shut down.
"I'm your pillow when you want, Mione… now it's your turn."
Parvati lets out a contained giggle and covers her mouth with her hand. Her sister side-eyes her, equally amused, but without spending a full laugh.
Neville sits still, like he doesn't know if that was a joke, a confession, or an advanced spell.
Hermione makes a tiny sound between a sigh and defeat.
"Thanks…" I murmur, already half asleep.
And I sleep.
Parvati looks at me with that smile that says 'I already understood everything and I just got here.'
"So, Mione, huh?" she says in a teasing tone.
I feel my ears get hot. I don't say anything because if I open my mouth, I'll betray myself.
Parvati keeps going, delighted with herself.
"Are you always like that?" She makes a big gesture with her hands like she's describing an exotic animal. "You have nicknames, you lean on each other like it's the most normal thing in the world, and…" she drops her voice dramatically, "you throw out weird lines right before sleeping. You're really close. Not as much as me and Padma, though."
Padma exhales dramatically like she just witnessed a crime against good taste. She closes the book but keeps a finger marking the page like a promise.
"Please, Parvati. I barely tolerate you and your gossip. Don't bother Hermione."
I laugh, but I try not to move too much because Hadrien weighs… normal. Which is still more than he should for someone who lives on sarcasm and air.
"We've always been like this, as long as I can remember," I say softly, fondly. "And the nickname… honestly, I don't know how he came up with 'Mione.' But he's always called me that."
I glance at Hadrien. He's genuinely asleep. Relaxed face. Zero guilt. Of course.
"I've tried to think of a nickname for him too, but nothing sounds right," I add, like it's a scientific complaint.
And then, for reasons I don't understand, I decide to do my best Padma impression just to annoy her.
"And yes… I can't stand him sometimes either," I say, copying her serious tone. "He doesn't take anything seriously and he jokes all the time."
Padma lets out a short laugh, almost surprised.
"Your impression is horrible. I don't sound like that."
Parvati responds way too fast, like she was waiting for the moment.
"It was perfect. She captured your eyes and your grandma voice perfectly."
"I do not have a grandma voice!" Padma protests, but she's already smiling.
Parvati looks back at me, still with that energy of 'I love this train and I love you people.'
"And yeah, he jokes a lot… but he's pretty funny, honestly," she says, and then finishes with a playful look. "And he's pretty handsome."
I go still.
It's not a big reaction. I don't make a scene. But inside, something clicks. Like a door quietly shutting by itself.
Padma nods, like she's evaluating a data point out loud.
"Yeah, actually. And he doesn't seem dumb… even if he acts like it."
I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying "thanks for that clinical analysis," because that's exactly what Hadrien would say, and I don't want to catch it.
Neville, who's been quiet almost the whole time, leans forward a little. He speaks in a whisper that still carries, because the compartment is quiet enough and he can't gauge volume when he's nervous.
"I… I'm jealous. Having a brother like that."
He turns red immediately after saying it, like he regrets existing. It's sweet. And also a little sad, because he said it with such clean honesty.
Parvati turns to Padma like she just got divine inspiration.
"See? Why can't you be like that too?"
Padma looks at her. Calmly. With the self-control of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Because you're annoying," she says, direct.
Parvati opens her mouth, offended on instinct.
Padma adds, without changing her tone:
"And don't worry. I love you. But from far away."
Parvati makes a dramatic noise like she just got stabbed with a teaspoon.
"You're cruel, Padma."
"I'm efficient at staying sane."
I laugh, and this time more escapes than I planned. Hadrien shifts a little on my shoulder, but doesn't wake up. He just settles like the whole world is an official pillow.
I take a deep breath and look back at Parvati, because I need to regain control of this conversation before she starts writing a romance novel to my face.
"He…" I say slowly, choosing my words, "is my brother. And he's an idiot."
Parvati smiles like that confirms exactly what she suspected.
"Uh-huh."
"But he's my idiot," I add, quieter, without meaning to.
Half a second of silence.
Padma raises an eyebrow. Parvati's eyes widen, triumphant. Neville stares out the window like it's his only emotional lifeline.
I feel heat rush up.
"I mean—" I rush, "that… I take care of him because he's family. That's all."
Parvati leans back, satisfied, like she already filed that sentence in her mental folder labeled 'things I will definitely bring up again.'
"Sure. That's all."
Padma opens the book again with insulting calm, like the world is not currently on fire with gossip.
"Let's keep reading," she says. "Before Parvati decides Hogwarts is a soap opera."
"It is a soap opera," Parvati replies instantly. "Just with magic."
But the phrase "he's pretty handsome" sticks in my head like a fly.
And I don't like it. I don't know why.
"Neville," I call softly, "what's your family like? Are you from a wizarding family, or are you Muggle-born like me and Hadrien?"
Neville blinks like I asked something dangerous. He carefully adjusts the frog on his shoulder, like it's the only stable thing in the universe, and only then looks at me.
"Uh… I'm from a wizarding family," he says, and the sentence comes out like he's asking permission to exist. "My gran… my gran is… very… strict."
Parvati makes an interested "mm," but Padma gives her a look and she shuts up. Miracle.
"Strict how?" I ask, voice gentle.
Neville shrinks a little.
"About everything," he says. "How I talk… how I walk… and… and what I'm supposed to be."
That last part is quieter, like he swallows the words.
I nod slowly. I remember Mum telling me "straighten your back" when I was nervous…
"Are your parents wizards too?" I ask.
Neville looks down at his hands.
"Yes… but…" He gets stuck there, searching for courage. "But I don't live with them. I live with my gran."
There's a strange silence. Not awkward. Just… careful.
"I understand," I say, not pushing him. And I mean it.
Neville lets out air like I gave him permission not to explain more.
"And you?" he asks, in a thin voice. "You said… you're Muggle… I mean… you come from… you know."
"From Muggle parents," I say, and a small smile slips out because that part still feels absurd. "Yeah. They're both dentists. They had no idea until the letter arrived."
Neville's eyes widen a little.
"Dentists?" he repeats like I said "dragon hunters."
"Yeah," I say. "Teeth. Cavities. Cleanings. The real magic."
Parvati laughs under her breath. Padma doesn't look up, but her mouth twitches like she's about to smile.
Neville makes a face that's half laugh, half fear.
"That must be… that must be weird."
I blank for a second.
Excuse me? How is being a dentist 'weird'? What do wizards do—pray? Do their teeth fix themselves through magical osmosis? My brain tries to picture a wizard with a rotten molar going 'it'll pass' and I almost lose it.
I decide not to touch that topic right now. For my own sanity.
"But also… I don't know. My parents are excited. Scared. Proud. All at once. It's a weird mix."
"My gran is proud…" Neville says, then corrects himself fast. "I mean, she would be if… if I…"
He trails off.
I lean forward a little.
"If you… what?"
Neville turns red.
"If I were… better," he says, and his voice cracks a little on the word. "My gran always says I… I should have… shown magic earlier. And I… I took longer."
Something tightens in my chest—small but annoying.
"And because of that she treats you like you're behind?" I ask, and I can't keep the indignation out of my voice.
Neville shrinks more, like my indignation is dangerous.
"She's not mean," he says quickly. "She just… wants me to be strong. She says… I can't be weak."
I bite my tongue. Because what I want to say is: that's not making someone strong, that's crushing them. But I don't say it like that.
I breathe.
"Neville," I say, "you got into Hogwarts. Not everyone can do that."
He looks at me like he doesn't know if he's allowed to accept a compliment without something exploding.
"I guess…"
"No. Not 'I guess,'" I say, firmer, but without raising my voice. "You did it. Period."
Neville swallows. The frog croaks on his shoulder like it's backing me up. Perfect. Amphibian ally.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
A small smile appears on me.
"Also," I add, "if I've learned anything these days, it's that the wizarding world has weird rules. Sometimes you're late, sometimes you're not, and it doesn't mean anything about your worth."
Neville looks at me like that sentence is a new language.
"Hadrien says things like that…" he whispers. "Like… like he's sure about everything."
I look at Hadrien asleep on my shoulder, perfectly calm, like the train is his personal cradle.
"Hadrien is sure about everything even when he's wrong," I say dryly.
Neville lets out a nervous little laugh.
"But… it feels good," he adds. "Someone… talking like that."
That softens me. Drops my tone.
"Then hold onto it," I say. "And if your gran makes you feel small…" I stop, choose carefully. "Remember that here, at Hogwarts, nobody knows you for what you 'should've been.' They'll know you for what you do now."
Neville nods slowly.
"Do you think… I can do it right?"
I'm surprised by how direct that was. Like it cost him, but he said it anyway.
"Yes," I answer without hesitation. "And if you mess up, so what. We're all going to mess up. It's literally a school."
Parvati, unable to resist, sings in:
"And if not, we can always blame the castle."
Padma finally looks up.
"Or blame Parvati."
Parvati looks offended with dignity.
Neville smiles a little more.
I shift again so Hadrien doesn't slide off me.
"What's your frog's name?" I ask, glancing at his shoulder.
Neville stiffens.
"I… I don't know," he admits, ashamed. "My gran just said 'take a pet' and… and she gave me this."
Parvati opens her mouth to joke, but Padma steps on her foot. Literally.
I, on the other hand, feel like this situation needs… a solution.
"Then we name him," I say, serious, like it's official business.
Neville blinks.
"Now?"
"Now," I confirm. "Hogwarts has Houses. It has hats. It has invisible trains. This is the most normal thing we'll do today."
Neville looks at his frog like he just got handed a sacred mission.
"And how…?"
I think for a second.
"Something simple," I say. "Something… strong."
I look at the frog again.
"Trevor?" I suggest.
Padma nods like it's acceptable.
Neville stays still… and then, very slowly, smiles.
"Trevor," he repeats.
I wake up to someone nudging me. I open my eyes and sit up before speaking.
"Hopefully the train is being robbed," I say as my brain reboots.
It takes me half a second to process what happened: Hermione shifted me at some point, and now my head is in her lap—the legendary, celebrated lap pillow. And she's looking at me like 'don't mention it.'
"Good morning, sleepyhead~," Parvati sings, dragging out the last syllable like this is a musical.
"The train is not being robbed," Hermione says, shaking her head. "But an older student came by a moment ago and said we're getting close to Hogwarts. That we should put on our uniforms and robes."
"Okay," I say, still running at half power. I stand and look at Neville. "Come on, Neville. Let's wait outside for a few minutes. The girls are going to change."
"Ah… y-yes, yes," Neville stammers, straightening up like the uniform might demand permission to exist.
"Thanks, Hadrien. You're a gentleman," Parvati and Padma say almost at the same time.
I turn to them and do an exaggerated, theatrical medieval noble bow.
"An honor, ladies," I say in the suavest, calmest voice I can manage with this kid throat.
Neville and I step into the corridor. I close the door behind us and, out of habit, hover for a second like I'm guarding it.
The train still vibrates under our feet.
I glance at Neville.
"So how do you feel?" I ask. "Excited? Happy to be going to Hogwarts?"
Neville stares down the corridor like a teacher is about to appear out of nowhere and scold him for breathing.
"I… y-yeah. I think," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "My gran says it's… it's an honor. But also… it's scary."
"Yeah, well. New people, new place. If it wasn't scary, that'd be suspicious," I mutter.
Neville lets out a small laugh—the kind you need permission for.
I look at him more closely. At his shoulder.
And then I notice.
"Wait… where's your frog?" I ask, because it's not on either shoulder and I didn't see it in the compartment earlier.
Neville goes still.
Then he blinks.
And his face does that slow, awful change, like when you realize you left the key on the inside of the door.
"I…" he starts, swallowing. "I lost it."
"What do you mean you lost it?"
Neville lowers his voice like the frog might hear him and get offended.
"I went to the bathroom a while ago and… when I came back… it wasn't there," he says, gripping his suitcase strap hard. "I thought… maybe it jumped… I don't know, to the floor or…"
He runs out of air for a second.
"Did you look for it?"
Neville nods fast.
"Hermione and I… went compartment by compartment," he says, embarrassed. "We asked. We looked under the seats. In the corridor. But… we didn't find it."
I stay quiet for a moment, staring at our compartment door like the frog is going to stroll out with its own suitcase and intact dignity.
"Okay," I say finally, keeping my voice calm. "First: I'm not going to punish you, because life already did."
Neville looks at me, confused.
"Second: if a frog gets lost on a train full of magical kids… there are two options," I continue. "Either someone grabbed it thinking it was theirs, or your frog decided to escape before Hogwarts turns it into a potion ingredient."
Neville goes pale.
"No! My gran said—"
"It was a joke," I cut in quickly. "A bad one. Don't shut down on me, Neville."
He exhales with a tremble, like he just remembered how to breathe.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"Don't apologize for everything," I say, and give him a light tap on the shoulder—firm, but not like he's porcelain. "Let's keep it simple: when we get off, first thing we do is ask a prefect or an older student. And if it shows up later… it shows up. Frogs have… their own schedule."
Neville tries to smile, but it comes out halfway.
"And if it doesn't show up?"
I shrug like I've got the whole world figured out.
"It'll show up," I say confidently.
Neville frowns, unsure.
"How are you so sure?" He wrings his hands. "And what if it doesn't come back? And what if it—"
"No." I cut him off before he falls over the edge. I lower my voice, more serious. "Listen to me, Neville."
He goes still, attentive.
"What would you rather do? Worry about everything you can't control and torture yourself with it… or focus on what you actually can do?" I pause briefly so it doesn't sound like a sermon. "You already tried searching. It didn't show up. Okay. That hurts."
Neville swallows.
"But don't go back to that thought every thirty seconds," I continue, softer. "It doesn't help. It just crushes you. Now we do the next thing: ask, stay alert… and hope for the best."
I breathe once, slow.
"If it doesn't show up in the end…" I say, without dramatics. "The world doesn't end. We deal with it later, and until then you're not alone. Okay?"
Neville hesitates, then nods.
"Okay."
The door behind us swings open.
"We're done. Your turn," Padma says.
We step in while the girls head out into the corridor. I reach up for my trunk and start digging until I find my uniform.
I change quickly. I adjust my shirt, smooth my clothes with my palms, and stand there waiting for Neville to finish.
"I'd rather not wear the cloak," I tell Neville, eyeing the folded robe like it insulted me first.
Neville doesn't answer. He just finishes buttoning up, focused like each button is a life-or-death decision.
When he's done, I crack the door open.
"You can come back in."
Parvati comes in first like the compartment belongs to her by social law. Hermione comes in after, fixing her collar with a 'please let this sit right' face. Padma comes in last, straight to her seat, no wasted movement.
The three of them keep talking, and me… I already spent all my social energy for the day. Power-saving mode activated.
So I do the healthiest thing a twelve-year-old with a tired soul can do: I hide in my stuff.
I rummage through my trunk until I find a book that sounds useful enough to justify my existence.
Ah. This works.
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
***
7718 Words
A/N: WHAT THE HELL! Almost 8k words… are we insane?
But yeah, you're starting to see what my chapters are like, right?
I introduce characters, I try to patch (or at least point out) J.K. Rowling's plot holes where I can, I pull things out of my ass when I have to, I pack in a lot of dialogue… (I admit I sometimes go too hard on Hadrien's jokes. Sorry. Not sorry.)
Writing Neville was a nightmare. Seriously. Keeping him from feeling out of character was like juggling grenades. And don't come at me with "that's not canon" because I invented scenes or didn't follow everything word for word. You already know: this is fanfic.
I planned to introduce more characters, but I decided it was too much effort at this point. I don't have to do it here. I can bring them in later, when I'm not fighting my patience and my keyboard at the same time.
And the whole Hermione-and-Neville-looking-for-Trevor thing was basically my way of bringing Hermione, Harry, and Ron together without writing the "classic start" exactly as-is. Because honestly… I don't really feel like writing Ron. And to be clear, I don't hate him, but I don't love him either. He's just not my priority. And I don't really know what to do with him.
Looks like you're lucky. On average, the chapters are going to be longer. Not all of them, but a bunch will be.