Chapter Eight
King's Cross Station, London, 1 September, 1991
The man walked briskly toward the barrier, dragging his son's trunk behind him. He sidestepped a Muggle, stumbling slightly and cursed softly under his breath. He'd never enjoyed the crowded station, even when he was at school.
And now it was his sons' turn. Henry's and Harry's, though only one was with them.
No, he had not forgotten his son. Harry, who had his mother's eyes and laugh, but resembled him in every other way, right down to the raven hair that stuck up every which way. The one they'd given away to….
well, they didn't know who.
But they would after today. Harry was sure to have inherited Wizarding genes, and today, they'd know for sure who'd raised him. Whether or not they cared for him, loved him as they should have.
They would see if they'd made the right decision all those years ago.
James Potter sighed and broke into an awkward shuffling run, headed for the barrier. A barrier between two worlds that could never be one.
He was through.
He heard Henry complaining loudly behind him and rolled his eyes skyward as though asking for help. His son was impossible, never happy, arrogant (James grudgingly admitted that the arrogance was a genetic trait), a bully, and, in most cases, a spoiled little brat.
But he was his father's spoiled brat, and James loved him anyway. It was his job.
"Mum! Let's go! I want to sit in the middle of the train!" he whined.
He heard Lily mutter something about "worse than his father" and cracked a grin at his wife, who returned it. Even after so many years of seeing her, holding her, she still took his breath away when she smiled that smile; slightly crooked, eyes sparkling with mischief, nose and eyes a little bit crinkled now, but still beautiful in every way.
They stood in the haze, waiting for boarding to begin, for hundreds of children to leave their families until Christmas holidays.
Did Harry have a family?
James shook his head violently and caught sight of a small family waiting only a few steps away, tall, blond wizards.
Malfoy's.
James' eyes narrowed, glaring subtly at the younger boy, the darker one. Adrian. The one who'd threatened his son. He was laughing and kissing a wailing bundle goodbye, shoving his brother playfully. His parents looked on, proud smiles on their faces as they watched their sons.
They were good looking kids, James gave them that, and they walked with the effortless grace of gifted athletes, Quidditch players, probably.
Henry hated Quidditch, hated flying.
James had almost cried when he heard that his son hated to fly.
Did Harry like flying? Did he even know how? Was he any good?
More families were piling into the station, greeting each other warmly and laughing.
Most of them were, anyway. A few old families hung away from the crowd, looking at the others with disdain. James rolled his eyes again, glad that the Potter family had dropped the blood supremacy fixation long ago.
As in several hundred years ago.
The Malfoy's stayed where they were, ignoring the noise around them as they said their goodbyes.
James' eyes roved across the station, looking for Harry.
He was nowhere to be found.
He caught Lily's eye, amber meeting emerald, and she matched his distress; they'd wanted to see both their sons go to Hogwarts.
Henry, of course, had no memory of Harry. The day they left him, Henry asked where his "bwuver Hawwy" was, and they told him that Harry went away. He'd never asked again, didn't even remember that he had a brother, much less an almost-identical twin.
Except for the eyes. He had Lily's eyes.
The Malfoy boys boarded the train, waving cheerfully, sending off fireworks with their wands. And they were gone, looking for an empty compartment on the soon-to-be full train.
Henry was getting impatient, wanting to go with his friends, who had already boarded. "C'mon, Mum, I want to go! Why are we just sanding here?"
Their eyes met again, a silent conversation going on between them. Henry huffed impatiently.
He hated it when they did that.
"Alright, Henry, you can go. But we'll need hugs, and letters, and, uh, jokes, and pranks, and everything," James said, stooping down to his son's level, their identical eyes locking.
Henry smiled and nodded, allowing himself to be pulled into a tight hug, and surprising James by hugging back.
He turned to his mother, who looked a little weepy, gave her a genuinely sweet smile, and buried himself in her robes, squeezing her as hard as he could.
He could be a good, sweet, honest kid when no one was there to analyze his every move and put it in the news, James reasoned. It must be hard.
Pulling away, he smiled at her again and bounded toward the train, grabbing the handle of his trunk as he went.
"G'bye! I love you!" he yelled, and he was gone.
They stayed until they couldn't see the train anymore.