Mother Magic and the Philosopher's stone

Chapter Eight

The summer past by in a warm blur, reading old books like they were new and avoiding his relatives like the plague. If there weren't blood wards, Magic always said, they'd be gone in a heartbeat. Today was September 1st, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt sick, and afraid, knowing full well the dangers that lurked outside of his home. Albus Dumbledore wanted to use him, Tom Riddle wanted to kill him, and children would crowd him for his money and fame. As he stood outside of King's Cross Station, Ouroboros wrapped securely around his neck, Harry knew he had to be cautious; had to vet his friends, and make sure he didn't make any enemies. And with that thought, he disappeared into the throng of people, intent in his head and anxiety in his stomach.

'There are too many people here Speaker.' Ouroboros whined into his neck, his forked tongue flicking wildly, tickling Harry's skin. The boy, now student, stroked his scales softly, hissing quiet reassurance as he traversed the station. Platform Nine and Three Quarters, obviously not the kind of station a muggle would have. He stopped walking and stood on the bridge over the tracks, looking at the wall between platforms nine and ten. 'There?' He asked his mother, hoping he didn't have to ask someone else for help.

'Aye my son, just walk right through the wall, it's nothing but an illusion.'

Harry looked harder at the wall, and suddenly it looked very off compared to the brickwork around it. Subtle loss of detail made it look very out of place and he was once more bewildered that muggles never noticed anything around them. How oblivious did one need to be? Gripping the handle of his trunk in a clammy hand, and holding the cage to his beautiful snowy owl in the other, Harry went through the wall, and out the other side. A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed full of people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts express, 11 o'clock. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the ticket box had been, with the words Platform nine and three quarters above it. He had done it.

Smoke from the engine had drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every colour wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to each other in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of trunks. Harry was thankful his trunk has a featherweight charm on it, carried easily by the boy.
The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting overseas. Harry slinked through the crowd until near the end, finding an empty compartment right at the back. He tried to push the trunk through the thin door but the corner always got stuck, and years of cramped spacing and small amounts of food left him not strong enough to get it through the door.

'Want a hand?' Asked a tall ginger boy from behind him.
'Yes please!' Harry said, exasperated with the effort of getting it on.
'Oy Fred! C'mere and help!' Another boy, presumably Fred walked over, and it was clear the pair were identical in every conceivable way. With the twins' help, Harry's trunk was at last tucked away in the corner of the compartment.
'Thanks,' Harry said, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
'What's that?' said not-Fred, pointing out Harry's lightning scar.
'Blimey,' said Fred, 'Are you?
'He is,' said the other, 'Aren't you?' he added to Harry. Harry nodded quickly, a blush staining his face.
'I'm Fred, that's George,' said not-Fred. Harry raised an eyebrow.
'I thought you were Fred?' Before the could respond, a loud, shrill voice called for the boys, and they ran off the train. Harry sat down in the corner of the compartment, making sure the door was shut behind him. The train started moving, slowly then all at once. It was impressively fast, watching the city disappear behind them in a dizzying blur that hurt Harry's eyes to look at with too much concentration. He had never been on a train before, and the London buses were slow, stopping every five minutes to sort out an old dear with too much shopping for her to carry easily. But there weren't any stops here. From London to Scotland, one way, for hundreds of miles. It was the introduction of the blonde boy from Madam Malkins that interrupted Harry's stupor.