Author's Note: I do not own Harry Potter.

Lysander Scamander is smiling, laughing, melding easily with the crowd of people on Platform 9 ¾ that he has never met before, never seen before, never even heard of before. He is clever, handsome, funny, charming, and utterly enthralling in every way. He is endearingly honest, adorably awkward, and self-deprecatingly perfect. He is new, and special, and everyone wants to be his friend.

And his smiles glitter like noon sunshine on smooth glass, and his eyes sparkle like polished gemstones, and his hair is sticking up a little bit in back but that doesn't really matter, because above all, Lysander Scamander is cool. He is especially interesting, not just because of his inherent charm, but also because he is a transfer student from Merlin-knows-where. Somewhere in South America, or so go the rumors that are sweeping around the platform. He went with his war-hero family to study made up animals for eight years, and now it is Lysander's first year at Hogwarts despite the fact that he's already thirteen, and there are whispers and speculations and gossip and giggles and awkward prepubescent lust directed clumsily at him.

And Lysander has only been at Kings Cross for twelve and a half minutes.

But this is not his story.

See that other boy, standing awkwardly with his parents over there? No? That's all right. You're not alone: nobody else sees him either. That boy is Lorcan Scamander, and Lysander is his twin.

They're not identical; they're not even close. They look more like brothers than twins, in all honesty. The familial resemblance is obvious from even a cursory glance, but Lorcan is tall and thin, while Lysander is slightly shorter and stockier. Lorcan has his fathers unruly curls in a warm mahogany color that came from his maternal grandmother, while Lysander's stick-straight hair is halfway between Rolf's platinum and Luna's dishwater-blonde locks. Lysander's eyes are the piercing cerulean of his father's, while Lorcan's are as ethereally silver as his mother's. The boys have the same knobby knees, the same elegant fingers, the same crooked smile. Lorcan has a smattering of freckles across his nose, and ears that stick out, and long long long dark lashes. Lysander has high sculpted cheekbones, and a birthmark shaped like a palm tree on his left ankle, and he moves with a kind of easy grace that comes from both Rolf and Luna and that has bypassed his twin altogether. Lorcan has all his mother's social incompetence, with none of her dreamy self-assurance; Lysander has his father's charm and his mother's confidence, and the ability to make friends anywhere.

But despite all their similarities and all their differences, the truth remains that everyone notices Lysander and nobody notices Lorcan. People see the starry shine of Lysander's eyes, but ignore the moonlike glint of Lorcan's. And if Lysander's crooked smile glitters like diamonds, Lorcan's is slow, rare, and gradual, and gleams comfortingly like a streetlight on wet pavement.

And he gives off one of these smiles now as he hugs his mother goodbye, wrapping his awkward teenage arms around her tiny waist with a fierce desperation. And he looks into his father's eyes and sees in them deep, deep pools of love and devotion. And if Rolf's smile is tinged with sadness that he will never completely understand his youngest son, well, that's nothing new.

And the train is whistling urgently, calling all Hogwarts students to board. Lorcan gives his mother one last, rushed, crushing hug, then speeds off, his trunk clunking awkwardly behind him.

He boards the train. He stumbles awkwardly down the aisle, searching and searching for a place to sit. He passes compartment after compartment full of smiling, laughing groups of friends, and a sinking feeling slowly grows in Lorcan's stomach. He's only now remembering that he doesn't really know anyone here. He doesn't have the slightest idea where to sit or who to sit with. And this feeling of embarrassed panic crashes over Lorcan like a tidal wave, and he swallows, hard, trying to quash the desperation to belong that is boiling inside him.

Lorcan hates people. Well, actually, that's not really true. He doesn't hate people. He hates his complete lack of understanding towards them. He hates how he never comprehends why people say things, do things, act the way the do, talk the way they talk. He hates small talk, and mindless chitchat, and cheery introductions. He hates that feeling after he says something, and nobody replies, and it slowly dawns on him that he just said something egregiously wrong and offensive, and the moment drags on like infinity and the accidentally cruel words hang like knives made of icicles in the space between sentences.

Lorcan hates that.

He closes his eyes, feeling hopeless and detached from the world. Finding a seat shouldn't be this painful, he knows, and for most people it isn't anywhere near this painful. And Lorcan knows: he lives with Lysander, after all. He sees on a daily basis how easy it should be to get along with the world. But for him, it just isn't.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, lying in the tent he shares with his brother, listening to Lysander's calm and slow breathing and the shrilling of South American insects, Lorcan often wonders if he was born inherently wrong in some way. It often feels as if everyone else has been born with a standardized instruction manual for living, and Lorcan was just passed over in line. He feels like everyone else is following a secret set of rules that are never spoken out loud and that change almost constantly, but that everyone seems disproportionately shocked and horrified when he accidentally breaks them.

Lorcan hates that, too. He just wants to belong.

And so he stands up tall, and takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door to the nearest compartment.

"Hello." he says bravely, expecting the worst. "I'm Lorcan Scamander. Would it be all right if I sat here?"

And the occupants of the compartment look up. They don't seem upset, Lorcan notes detachedly. They seem excited, almost as if they're glad to see him. It's all a bit strange.

The nearest occupant, a slight girl with a big smile and an even larger amount of curly, bright red hair, shoots a dazzling grin at Lorcan. "We already know who you are, Lorcan," she says cheerily. "And don't be ridiculous. Come on, take a seat! We've been waiting."

Correction: it's extremely strange. But Lorcan just nods, and smiles, and shoves his trunk into the carrier, before he slips into the one remaining seat. What is this? he wonders, and who are these people? He knows literally nobody in the entire country of England. He's lived in Peru since the age of five, looking for Swashbuckling Oliphants, and he got back a little under two weeks ago from said mission (which was, incidentally, entirely unsuccessful).

He looks around, searching for clues. There's the slight redheaded girl, and then a pale blond boy next to her who looks, somehow, spindly. He didn't think people could be spindly, just chairs and trees and insects, but this boy manages it. Then, shoved uncomfortably against the window, is a tiny redheaded boy, obviously a first year and obviously related to the first girl. Across from him is a smiling blonde girl, with hair like moonlight and eyes like stars and the most beautiful lips Lorcan has ever seen-

Lorcan shakes his head to clear it. It's like the girl just made his brain go all fuzzy for no good reason. He doesn't like it, not one bit, and when he looks back at the girl she is still extraordinarily beautiful, but now she seems concrete and real in a way that she didn't before. She waves at him, and he waves back.

And next to him, is a skinny kid with dark messy hair and round glasses and warm hazel eyes and – oh. Oh. OH!

He's sitting next to Albus Potter. Albus Severus Potter, son of the famous Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, Savior of the Wizarding World Harry Potter, and the legendary Harpies player, the Flaming Fury, and vicious sports reporter, Ginny Weasley. Albus Potter, whose parents saved the world. And Lorcan Scamander, whose parents helped Albus's parents save the world.

Now things make sense. Lorcan is getting brief flashes of playing with a preschool-age Albus in a sandbox, of messing about on toy brooms and falling off swingsets and building a very pathetic snowman together.

Lorcan meets the eyes of the girl, and they're a startlingly intense navy blue, like deep oceans or the midnight sky during a new moon. She must be Rose Weasley, he muses, and he remembers, like a wispy dream, sharing Fudgesicles and getting hit in the face with a dog-eared copy of Goodnight, Moon. That makes the boy near the window her brother, Hugo, who Lorcan remembers absolutely nothing of besides a brief flash of the toddler Hugo drooling on his socks. The blonde girl, then, must be another Weasley – almost certainly one of the French ones. A drop of veela blood would explain her shimmering hair and the way Lorcan's head had just gone all blurry, and the Weasley blood would explain her otherwise incongruous freckles. As for the other blond in the compartment, Lorcan has no idea. Even racking his mind desperately for any type of decade old memories, he's coming up blank.

The boy notices his confusion, and sits up straighter. Even in the depths of bewilderment, Lorcan is able to note that this is the haughtiest thirteen-year-old that he's ever met – not that he's ever met a lot of thirteen-year-olds, actually.

"I'm Scorpius Malfoy," the blond boy says imperiously, and holds his pale, thin hand out for a handshake. "It's nice to finally meet one of the elusive Scamanders. Peru, right? How's it feel to be back in England?" Lorcan takes his hand, then reciprocates with a hesitant half-smile. He's heard stories about the Malfoys, and few of them have been good. But Scorpius doesn't seem so bad, not really. A bit snobbish, maybe, but perfectly polite and generally fairly nice.

"Yeah, Peru." Lorcan answers softly. "It actually feels pretty good to be back, though its a really strange adjustment. I've got to get used to a lot of things – the elevation, the climate, the language. It's all so different here, and I've forgotten so much."

"Well, that's okay," Scorpius laughs. "Half of Hogwarts doesn't get the wizarding world, and the other half doesn't get the Muggle world." Scorpius gives a dry chuckle, and continues, snarkily, "So what if you don't get either of them? As long as you've got more than two brain cells to rub together, I have a sneaking suspicion you'll be all right."

Lorcan likes Scorpius immediately. He has no idea why. He resolves to stop judging people based on shaky memories and unreliable stories. After all, he's spent eight years in the Andes mountains. Who's he to judge?

Scorpius smiles again. "So, do you know the rest of this lot already?"

Lorcan looks around the compartment a bit nervously. "Er... Sort of. I remember some of you guys, but I'm sorry. It's been a while and I could use a refresher course on names."

"Sure." Rose says. "We're not offended or anything. I only knew who you were because Mum pointed you out and told me to be nice. If it were up to me, I'd have ignored you completely."

"Rose!" Albus hisses. "Don't be rude!"

"I'm only being honest." Rose says pragmatically, tossing her hair back. "I'd have ignored everyone not already in the compartment. Really, it's not being mean. Do you regularly go up and talk to complete strangers?"

"No," Albus admits, "But you don't say things like that in public. Come on, Rose!"

She shrugs. "I'm just saying what we all know is true. I doubt Lorcan's too offended, and hey! We're talking to him now! I don't see the issue."

Lorcan isn't too offended. He hadn't expected anyone to even acknowledge him, and now that someone had, he didn't care about reasons. "It's fine," he assures his companions. "Really."

"No, it's not!" Albus says hotly. "Rose, that was way out of line! I apologize for the insensitivity of my cousin."

"Not necessary-" Lorcan begins, but his words go unnoticed in the ensuing argument.

"Oh, please!" Rose retorts. "Like you're Little Miss Manners. You can barely use a spoon. What's a little honesty between friends?"

"He is not our friend. He's a distant acquaintance who we're just re-meeting, and you are making a bad impression!"

Scorpius rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Like anyone cares. Let it go." He turned to Lorcan with a smirk. "That's Albus and Rose, as I'm sure you've gathered. I'm not bothering telling you their last names: if you can't figure that out based on the hair alone, then there's no way I can associate with you, Peru or no. Those two plus me are all just starting our third year here. You're the same, right?"

Lorcan nods. He's glad that he'll at least know a few people in his grade when they arrive at Hogwarts.

Scorpius continues. "Good. Now, Hugo in the corner is Rose's kid brother. He's going to be a first year. He's quiet now, but God knows why, because usually I will literally pay him to shut his ungodly mouth."

Hugo leans over and glared at Scorpius. "Excuse me! Are you trying to say that I talk too much? Because I do not! I talk the perfect amount! Mum says so! And plus, you so do not pay me to be quiet. Sometimes you give me food to leave you alone, but unless you're counting a knut and a stale doughnut as payment, you've never done anything of the sort. And I mean, I'm unbribeable. I'm pure. I'm eleven. I don't even know what bribe means! That's a joke. I'm clever actually. I mean, sort of. So you can take your knut and shove it! Yeah! Oh, hey, Lorcan, right? Did you see any dragons in Peru?"

"Actually, yeah, I did-"

Hugo continues chattering, not even pausing for breath. "I've always wanted to see a dragon. Dad says I don't know what I'm talking about, not really, but just cause he didn't like the one at Gringotts doesn't mean I wouldn't. I'm not like Dad at all, no matter what Aunt Ginny says. I'm going to grow up and be just like Uncle Charlie and work with dragons. And then I'm going to be a huge hero like pretty much our whole family and I'll save the world and be super rich and then won't you be sorry, right, Scorpius? You're always mean to me. I don't like it. I'm not giving you any of my hero points. Huh? Right? Yeah, I'll ride around on my dragon and you'll just-"

"Oh, will you shut up?" The pretty blonde has finally thrown her two cents in. "You do talk too much. Nobody cares about a thing you're saying, Hugo." She turns to Lorcan. "I'm Dominique Weasley. I'm going to be a fourth year, so Merlin only knows why I'm still hanging out with these guys." She smiles, and Lorcan has to focus hard to keep the weird fizziness out of his head.

"It's nice to meet you," he finally gets out. He's desperately racking his mind for more things to say when a cheery witch with a trolley knocks on the compartment door and offers candy. The rest of the compartment leaps at the chance to gorge themselves upon sugar, but Lorcan remains seated. He's fairly sure that Lysander has both the pocket money the two boys were to share, and the lunch their mum gave them.

No matter. Lorcan wasn't hungry anyway.

The others become engrossed in their food and each other, and they begin a loud, laughter-filled conversation debating the merits of Chocolate Frogs versus Fizzing Whizbees. Lorcan slips into the background, as per usual. His traveling partners seem to have forgotten altogether that he so much as exists. It's starting to get a bit tiresome, but he supposes he can't blame them, not really. He's just too quiet: Lorcan knows that if he wants attention he has to demand it, and he just can't do that.

So he sits, and listens, and learns. And maybe his heart aches a little, but mostly he's just happy to have learned some names.

Then, of course, Lysander appears.

He always does, Like clockwork, or magic. Or something. He always pops up when he's least wanted, and then somehow immediately becomes the most wanted person in the room. And today is no exception.

He waltzes into the compartment with a sunny smile and a bag full of raspberry scones. "Hello!" he chirps enthusiastically. "I've got food for you, Lorcan." He then pauses, and surveys the rest of his present company. "Ah. Nice to meet you lot."

"Likewise." Rose says. "You must be the other twin – Lysander."

"That's me!" Lysander exclaims, thrilled. "Now," he adds pensively, "I can guess who some of you are, but I'd prefer the official introduction."

Rose instantly obliges, running rapidly through the list of names, before shooting Lysander another hundred-watt smile. Lysander sits down between Lorcan and Albus, squishing his twin up against the compartment wall.

And if Lorcan had felt invisible before, that was nothing compared to how transparent he feels now. He spends the rest of the ride listening to his twin spout out veritable rivers of endless, effortless charm. Lysander seems to have instantly befriended every single person in the room. Not even four hours, and he's already got two inside jokes with Rose, another three with Albus, an invitations both to Dominique's Halloween party and to ride Hugo's dragon, as soon as he gets one.

Lorcan is so jealous. He tries not to be, but it is so hard, when your brother is perfect, delightful at worst, and you are adequate, acceptable at best. He lives in the shadows. He hates it.

They pull into Hogsmeade Station, and all the other students on the train begin to get off, chattering and laughing excitedly. Lorcan tries to follow his compartmentmates, but he gets lost in the crowd.

"FIRS' YEARS! FIRS' YEARS OVER HERE!" Lorcan hears someone bellow loudly, and he turns to see a veritably enormous man with an equally large beard calling across the hubbub, swinging a lantern in one hand. Is he a first year? He's going to be taking third year classes, but he doesn't know what House he's in yet, or anything about Hogwarts, really. Oh, Merlin, he'd forgotten about the Sorting; apparently it was forbidden for anyone to learn what it was before being Sorted themselves. Argh. He's been so busy worrying about where to go that he's forgotten about House placement-

But where was he supposed to go? Lorcan starts to seriously panic. The platform is clearing now, and Lorcan is left alone. Where... What... Why hadn't anyone given him any proper directions?

He feels a tug on the sleeve of his newly-donned robes, and whirls around in alarm. It's only Lysander, who looks distinctly annoyed. "Where did you go?" he hisses, dragging Lorcan along behind him: although Lorcan is taller, Lysander is significantly stronger. "Come on!"

"What's this?" Lorcan asks, wresting himself free of his twin. "Do you know what we're supposed to do?"

Lysander stops dead in his tracks, and Lorcan has to pinwheel his arms to keep from running into his brother. Lysander shoots a disbelieving stare in his direction. "Seriously? Didn't Mum tell you anything?"

"Apparently not," Lorcan aches to say, but instead he just keeps walking. He sees a man up ahead, whose robes appear, in the lamplight, to be covered completely in mud. Drawing nearer, Lorcan can see that not only are his black robes now more brown than anything, he has a large smear of dirt across his left cheekbone, and a maple leaf sticking out of his hair.

"Professor Longbottom?" Lysander asks, with complete confidence, and the man spots them.

"Ah! Yes! That's me!" he says brightly, and begins digging through his pockets. "And you two must be the Scamander twins. Lysander and … um … Lewis, wasn't it?"

"Lorcan," he corrects, but Professor Longbottom doesn't seem to hear a thing.

"I was great friends with your mum, you know, back in our school days," he points out conversationally. "We did that whole DA thing together, fighting Dark Arts and all that. Good times, good times... well, actually, they weren't, not at all, but what can you do, eh? I liked your mum. We were very close, but then we both got married and didn't have the time to keep up properly... And, of course, she was always in mad places. She took you boys, too, right? South Africa, was it, this time, or Brazil? Chile? Portugal? Something in there..."

Lorcan thinks that this professor seems to be rather mad. For once, Lysander seems to agree with him, judging by the wide-eyed looks the twins are sharing while Professor Longbottom rummages through the pockets of his robe.

"They sent me to come fetch you, seeing as I'm the most junior professor here," he continues, frowning at his knees. "It's really very unconventional circumstances. It took Headmistress McGonagall ages to come up with the proper solution as to what to do with you. Couldn't let you mingle with eleven year olds, wouldn't be right, old kids like you would steal all their glory. But where to seat you, if Sorting had to take place after... Moved it up, kept it secret... Aha! Here it is!" he exclaims triumphantly, holding up what appears to be a very battered edition of the Daily Prophet. Someone, at some point, has doodled mustaches over all the politicians in the front page articles, and then folded it into what appears to be a hat. It doesn't look much like a hat, but then it doesn't look much like a newspaper, either.

"Come on, then," Professor Longbottom insists, "Grab hold, or we'll miss it!"

Lysander obeys immediately, and Lorcan follows, though not without some trepidation.

"Three... two... one..." mutters the professor, "er... one half... one quarter... er, any time now..."

And then a most unpleasant sensation grips Lorcan. It's as if something has snagged him by the rib cage and dragged him through a whirlpool. He doesn't like it at all.

And then he's standing, blinking, in a huge empty room with a sky for a ceiling.

"What in the name of Merlin was that?" he gasps, blinking. Neither of his companions answer him.

"Get on with it!" Professor Longbottom urges, pushing them forward. Lorcan stumbles over his own feet, as he's only just noticed that there are about twelve adult wizards sitting at a table chatting, each and every one of them pretending not to see the trio.

Lysander, of course, rises perfectly to the occasion, and walks ahead to where a very battered hat is sitting on a stool. He seats himself, jams the hat on his head, and waits.

"What's going on?" Lorcan asks Professor Longbottom, but the man just hushes him and watches Lysander, who is just sitting there, face hidden beneath the hat's brim, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouts the hat, after at least five minutes of contemplation, and Lorcan is startled. Not only did a hat just speak, but apparently that was the Sorting ceremony itself, and it was rather more informal than he expected. On top of that, Lysander was apparently a Hufflepuff, which was not the house Lorcan had expected to see him in. He'd been wagering on Gryffindor for sure, or maybe Ravenclaw...

He supposed it made sense, though. Lysander is great with people, and a Hufflepuff's greatest attributes are said to be their diligence and their loyalty. Lysander has both of those, plus a dash of humor and an entire gravy boat full of charm, so he figured his twin would make an excellent Hufflepuff.

But now it seems to be his turn to be Sorted, and before he realizes what's happening, he's perched on the stool and the Hat is on his head.

Ah, the hat says, you're practically a textbook case. Brilliant but lazy, better with books than people, astoundingly unmotivated, not unopposed to cutting corners, but very opposed to dishonesty and cheating, just want to be left to yourself, really – oh sweet Merlin, did you really say that? Heavens, you have got to be one of the most awkward people I've ever met. Seriously, invest in a self-help book or something, you're never going to get a girl, not if you keep this up-

Excuse me, Lorcan thinks at the hat, You're rather rude, for a hat that looks so old my grandfather wouldn't wear it in public.

Ouch, the hat replies, I remember your grandfather. Odd bloke. You're really rather nasty, like I said... You never play fair. You never play at all, outside your own head, though, so I suppose your underhandedness isn't really the problem. Honestly, I wasn't joking about the self-help book, you could really use it-

Aren't you sorting me? Lorcan reminds him, irritated.

All right, all right, hold your horses, I was just trying to give some good advice, but if you insist you can be-

"RAVENCLAW!"