A/N – Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, but rather J.K. Rowling's. I have only taken her ideas and moulded them, they are – as ever – hers.
He looked around him and smiled. Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair. It was an old habit of his, a cocky move in his earlier youth that had become something between an unconscious gesture and a nervous habit. His lips quirked as he heard the snore beside him. Beside him his best friend slept, the discomfort of the train the obvious source of his sudden propensity to snore. Only a year ago he would have woken his friend, needing the company, but he knew that his companion was exhausted. He was far from alert himself, but he was learning to revel in such placid silences. His companion, his age-old friend, found silence to be a cheap metal rather than the gold of old expressions, and his witty sarcasm was an endless source of amusement. Even at the worst times, they could entertain each other. He, with his ability to elaborate on anything, and his friend, with his sarcasm, were constants in each other's life. They were closer than brothers, like twins, and he laughed as his sleeping friend grunted and attempted to shift into a more comfortable position.
"Not likely, Padfoot," he said aloud, smiling as he watched the tall, muscular young man wriggle in the stiff compartment seat. He stretched, his long, wiry body pulling taunt. It was a lovely ride, out into the countryside, and he knew that in a few hours the pair of them would be revelling in being with their two other halves. Or quarters, really, he mused with a smile. And in a few weeks they would be on their way to school. Back, for a final year. He had already received his badge, proof that he really had been appointed Head Boy. Oh, his surrogate twin had teased him about it endlessly! Not that his marks were bad. It was more a matter of reputation.
He could never be sure who had a worse reputation, especially with the teachers, himself or his best friend. The entire drawers devoted to their petty "crimes" was lasting testament to that. They rarely caused harm, merely chaos. And they loved it. Well, he rarely caused harm. His best friend was a little more reckless with human life. His best friend was also indestructible. He had been the same way for much of his youth, until his father had dragged himself to the doorstep, covered in blood. Watching an idol, as well as a father, die was enough to warn even the most foolhardy of daredevils that death was an option. He swallowed, the mere memory tightening his throat. What a Christmas that had been. And how bravely, how marvelously, his friends had stood beside him. After that he had grown up.
There had been no other choice. He smiled as he thought of his father, of how proud he would have been to see the Head Boy badge on his prankster son. His father was an intelligent man, and he had passed his intelligence onto his only child. From the beginning, he had been taught to read. Unfortunately, he could not claim the title of a reader the way his prefect friend could. Still, he was better than the sleeping figure beside him. Though the sleeping figure had that annoying ability to remember everything he read after a single look. He would acknowledge that he was naturally intelligent, but he studied, somewhat, to get his marks. His best friend slept his way through class and after a single reading managed to be in the top of the class. Shaking his head, he smiled again.
If they were books, rather than people, his best friend would be a thesaurus, an endless comparison of countless definitions without really knowing what a single one meant. He, the semi-intellectual one of the group, would be a dictionary, a massive collection of definitions that probed the meaning without fully understanding the concept. Their favourite prefect, their mutual best friend, would be an encyclopaedia, a multi-volume work of meanings that delved into the essence of a concept. The fourth addition, their favourite little counterpart, would be a pocket pal, a relatively superficial guide of everything necessary to get by. Between the four of them, they could do anything. From survival to creativity to definition to essence, they had everything.
He was jealously protective of his friends. Not that he, or any of them, had any problems with popularity. Still, they were his friends, his special family, and their bond ran thicker than the superficiality of blood. Whoever had said blood runs thicker than water had never seen the power in their bonds. His best friend understood that reality and practiced it possessively. So between the overprotective one and the possessive one, it was no trouble that they would be best friends, brothers, even before they bonded with their other two best friends. Nothing could come between them, ever.
Not even death. It had tried, just recently, but they had pushed it back. Well, he had, for his best friend had taunted it too foolishly. Because they were a pair, because the group was bound by something inexplicable and powerful, it wasn't even betrayal. It was a foolish mistake. Though it took much difficulty to forgive, it was then easily forgotten, except in pensive moments such as these.
But pensive moments easily turn to sleepy ones, especially in tired young men. As such, his eyes dutifully fell shut and the images of the countryside were replaced by dreams. Dreams of impenetrable friendships, and a certain young woman who had wormed her way into his heart. And when the images were again replaced, it was by a smiling young man. A pale, brown-haired, deep-eyed, thoughtful, and currently ecstatic young man whose joy was instantly contagious, "Prongs! Padfoot! Wake up, you're here! Come on, everything's waiting!"