The lunch had gone just as Harry had expected it to. They'd partaken at half past twelve, given how late they were told the feast would be, and it had been hilarious (to Harry.)
Neville's meal—watercress salad and veal with cucumbers—raised a few eyebrows, while Crabbe and Goyle's (both sandwiches of some kind) did not. Malfoy himself dined on beef wellington and asparagus, kept at the right temperature via a box with a stasis enchantment (Harry knew wizards had lunch boxes!)
It was Harry's meal, though, which was to them by far the most unusual.
"What is that?"
"Why does it feel so weird?"
"It's so cold!"
From the icepack he'd used to keep his food cold, to his Lunchables, Rainbow Drops, Wagon Wheels, and Sunny Delight, everything was novel to them.
Harry had painstakingly taken the time to describe what little he knew of how the icepack worked, what plastic was, how all of the foods were made, and how common they were in the muggle world. When Harry had gone on the train the first time, he had not brought a lunch at all, and so it had taken him notably longer to learn about just how disparate the muggle and magical worlds were.
Malfoy's reaction, in particular, was a shining example.
"But—but—it doesn't even—! You can't do that!"
"Why not?" Harry asked.
"Not—not eat, just… You can't just… plastic wrappers and icepacks and… you're making this up! This is all done by magic, and you're having a laugh at me!"
"I'm not!" Harry laughed.
"Yes you are! You're having a laugh at me, and you'll be sorry for it! Just wait until I tell my father about you!"
"What's going to happen then?" Harry asked, leaning forward.
"He's—he's—he'll show everyone that you are a liar, and a cheat, and, and that you are mean!" Malfoy nodded resolutely, sitting back as if he'd won the argument. Harry glanced at Neville, but the future Gryffindor seemed content to let things play out without him, and had pressed himself as far into the wall of the compartment as he could.
"I'm not lying, Malfoy." Harry said.
"Of course you are! There's no way muggles have invented anything this useful! My father would have known, and he says muggles haven't done anything that meant anything in years!"
Harry paused, thought a moment, then spoke again. "You do realize that plastic was invented about one hundred years ago?"
-
The argument had continued well past all of the compartment's occupants having finished their lunch. While Crabbe and Goyle had seemed content to sit silently, and Neville had been all to willing to fade into the wallpaper, Harry and Malfoy had argued over whether plastic was real, whether Harry was a liar, and what the Lord Malfoy would do about either if he found out.
Shortly after one Harry decided that, despite how fun it had been to see Malfoy get increasingly frustrated with Harry's blunt questioning and refusal to admit he was a liar, he ought to get back to his 'charm offensive.'
Prior to lunch Harry had only managed to meet four more of his future classmates, though he had been let into four compartments altogether.
The first had been entirely third years, none of which he'd remembered, all of which had been… eager to meet him. Which had been, well… On the plus side, his negotiation skill had levelled up by one point just because of the work he had had to do without a) seeming like an asshole, b) promising a future date to one of them, or c) having them start outright squealing over meeting him.
So that had been an interesting experience.
As for the second… well, honestly Harry was being kind of generous in saying he'd been 'let in' to the compartment. Three sixth or seventh year girls had burst out of the compartment Harry was about to knock on, snickering and laughing as they did, and disappeared into the next compartment before even noticing him—or closing the door.
Harry had hesitantly stepped into the compartment to check if anyone was hurt, but the girl (who looked about the same age as the ones who had just left) didn't even acknowledge him—in fact, she didn't even look up, so all Harry could see was a mass of mousy brown hair and muggle clothes.
Which had been an unnecessary reminder that the bullying problem at Hogwarts was much more pervasive than just his year.
There wasn't any kind of immediate solution to that, though, so he apologized to the girl for whyever she was crying and shut the compartment door behind him.
The next compartment had been much less depressing, and the first group of first years that Harry actually recognized. Actually, it was Dean, Ernie, and Terry, all of whom were having a rather enthusiastic conversation about magic (and how weird it was.) Harry had no trouble jumping into that conversation, and had left a half hour later feeling much better about the general goodness of Hogwarts students, and much worse about having rarely talked to most of them.
The last compartment he visited was mostly fourth years, as well as the younger sister of one of the fourth years, who Harry couldn't remember, but apparently was being sorted this year. She was very quiet, and so Harry had left the compartment soon after entering.
So despite the variety of his pre-lunch effort, Harry was honestly hoping for a bit more success in his post-lunch effort.
No one in the next two compartments he tried even opened the door.
And of the third compartment, while most doors had actually opened to him, he'd only found two groups of first years: a compartment of future Slytherins (Pansy, Theodore, Blaise, and Daphne) that Harry was willing to swear Draco had originally been sitting with (they had actually been surprisingly polite, if standoffish), and.
Hermione.
Who was sitting alone.
And suddenly Harry realized the wrench in his plans of not being friends with Ron or Hermione. He remembered how lonely Hermione had been before their first Halloween, and how kind and generous Ron had been—but also about how he, too, had not been particularly cheery prior to the "Golden Trio" forming.
"Hello! Are you looking for a compartment? I mean, it is well after we took off, so you should have already found one, but perhaps you were kicked out of your compartment as w—I mean, because it was too crowded or something. Do you want to sit here?"
"…Hello." Harry said. The swallowed the lump in his throat and tried again. "Ahem, um, no, I wasn't looking for a compartment. I just figured I'd try to find as many of my new classmates as possible before we arrive. I know I could probably wait until we arrive at Hogwarts, but according to Hogwarts, a History—"
"You read Hogwarts a History, too? Oh, I loved it! Did you? It was so detailed, and it really helped relieve my worries about the school—I know Professor McGonagall said there wasn't anything to worry about, but I like knowing as much as possible about a place before I arrive, you know? For instance, last summer my parents and I went to Italy, which was absolutely lovely, but before I arrived I must have read at least 30—"
Harry suppressed a smile. This wasn't his Hermione—it was the Hermione from before he met her, from before the three of them had went to hell and back together. But something really needed to be done about that, because as much as it made his heart hurt to be near her, she deserved friends. And as it stood now, there was no way anyone—even Ravenclaws—would talk to her.
So he started talking over her.
"—and so I thought—"
"—it says that we're sorted almost immediately after arriving, and from what I understand after that people mostly only interact with their houses, but I want friends who are brave, and smart, and loyal, and ambitious, so I figured if I met everyone before we arrived then we would be more likely to stay in touch once we were sorted. So, in conclusion, my name is Harry and it's nice to meet you." The second Harry had started talking again Hermione's mouth had snapped shut and she'd looked oddly hurt for having had done the same thing to him less than a minute ago. But she had recovered quite quickly, actually, and had even waited a beat to make sure he was finished before responding.
Harry was fairly sure she had just remembered a book about etiquette, or something like that, but everyone had to start somewhere.
"Hello, um, again. I'm Hermione Granger. Are you Harry Potter? I've read lot about you. Did you know that you are currently thought of as the third most famous person in all of magical British history?"
…maybe she hadn't remembered a book.
"It's nice to meet you, Hermione. Yes, my name is Harry Potter, and while I am aware of my fame I don't really want to make a big deal of it—I grew up muggle, just like you, and I haven't been benefited from the popularity in any way, and honestly, given that I'm famous because my parents died, I wouldn't really want to be."
"That's not why you're—" Hermione started, before suddenly processing the meaning of his statement. "Oh. Um."
"Yeah. So anyway, have you experienced the culture shock yet? I know I have."
"The… culture shock? But… we're still in the UK. I mean, even Scotland doesn't have that different a culture."
Harry laughed. "Non-magical Scotland, sure, but as far as I can tell Magical Britain is very different from its muggle counterpart."
Hermione did not look convinced. Harry sat down across from her. He'd been thinking a lot about this, and, given his current situation, it was Hermione—even if it wasn't his Hermione—that would be most able to tell if his thoughts made sense.
"Okay, so, first off, as I'm sure you've noticed, magical people really covet old stuff. I mean, it's not even a 'if it isn't broken' sort of deal, it's more… they genuinely think the older stuff is better. Like, I'm sure you've read in Hogwarts a History about how pissed a lot of magical people were over the Hogwarts Express initially, right? Because, even though they knew there were a lot of problems with the way things were currently done, they didn't want to change it? None of the arguments against the Express really talked about other ways to fix the problems, or how the Express wouldn't—they were all just based on tradition.
And, on another note, there's the whole thing with pureblooded-ness." Hermione's expression, which had been becoming increasingly open as Harry explained his thoughts on the Express, suddenly shut off, and she opened her mouth—likely to begin a long tirade over how unfair the system was—but Harry held up a hand to stop her. He knew he had to get his side out first, or else she'd just assume he was a purist (never mind how much of a misomater he'd be if that was the case.)
"While I'd be the first to admit that the magical world's current system of blood purity is incredibly bigoted and wrong, if you look into the historical reasonings behind it—like they explain in The Magical Judiciary, and Magical Laws and You, and a bit in History of Magic—it's mostly based on how, in order for anyone to know if you will act good, they have to look at your lineage to see if your ancestry acted good. And because most magical people only interact with other magical people, they have no way of knowing what your parents, or your parents' parents, or my mother's parents are like. While, if either of us were pureblooded, they'd be able to immediately find evidence of how they behaved and, therefore, how we'd likely behave in the future.
It's how they set up the Wizengamot, too—all of its members are selected after multiple people from the same family do good things for the wizarding world as a whole. Same for titles—the Most Ancient houses are the ones which are considered to have done the most when magical Britain was initially founded, and the Noble title is added on whenever a member of a house does something really big selflessly for a Most Ancient house—that's how my last name was ennobled, actually—because everyone and their mother 'knows' that I defeated Voldemort, that means that I avenged the Most Ancient house of the Monroes, who were all killed by him."
Hermione reluctantly nodded. "That makes sense. It doesn't mean that it's good, though!"
"I'm not saying it does! I just used those examples as evidence of magical Britain's overall culture, which cares much more about ancestry and tradition than the England that we're used to does."
"That's true..." Hermione said. "Like how in Ancient Rome boys would always just be named after their fathers and have to continue his legacy."
"Basically, yeah." Harry agreed.
"What else have you noticed?"
Harry hummed, trying to think where to start.
He ended up staying with Hermione for most of the rest of the trip, discussing his ideas on everything from clothing style to career preparation—in fact, he only left because he knew he'd have to scramble to knock on the rest of the doors in time to get back to his own compartment before arrival.
That didn't mean that the discussion had been entirely fruitful, however. She had dismissed and flat out refused to hear some points purely on the basis of her own understanding of the way the world worked then any particular issue with his own reasoning, and his own trouble finding ways to describe different things without letting out that he had already been to Hogwarts was difficult enough that she'd soundly refute a few arguments he knew held water.
On top of that, she'd remained more than a little unintentionally rude throughout, interrupting him regularly, stating that she knew better than him rather than explaining her side, and always, always, letting a book she had read have the final word, no matter how hard he tried to prove that many of them were clearly written in an unresearched or over-biased way.
So. Not his Hermione.
But she was still nice, for an eleven year old, and he was fairly sure that by the end of their conversation she was less attention-starved, which would hopefully mean she wouldn't be as… ardent… in her attempts to make friends.
The next few compartments flew by, with no one particularly willing to talk more than a minute or two with him, but all who opened their door perfectly polite.
There were only two hiccups at all, in fact—the first, running into Zacharias Smith, who had been… less than complementary about Harry's so-called fame (not that Harry didn't disagree with him, but it wasn't like he'd had any control over it), and the second, finding Ron's compartment.
Ron and another first year named Ernest were in the middle of a chess battle, so they'd also been fairly quick to shuffle him out of the room, but before he'd left he'd noticed Ron giving him sidelong glances—specifically at his forehead. While he'd introduced himself as Harry—and only Harry—throughout the entire train, only some of the students (mostly those who'd asked) had managed to figure out that he was the Harry Potter. Ron hadn't asked, but given where, exactly, he'd chosen to focus his attention, Harry was fairly sure he'd wanted to, which wasn't a surprise: it had taken years for Ron to overcome his initial… displeasure over Harry's name, and Harry was sure he'd have to do something about not only Ron, but also Zacharias, the many fanatical girls, and, next year, Colin to make sure that their love or hate of his fame was at least mitigated somewhat.
But that was something to think about later. For now, though, Harry took the
Charm Offensive Goal Completed (met the majority of your classmates and left them with a neutral or better impression of you) 250 XP Awarded.
You have leveled up!
Congratulations, you are now level 15.2.
announcement as success enough for the train ride and slipped back into his own cabin, where the five boys therein began to make their frantic last-minute preparations for the feast. Draco had even gotten over his earlier fury over Harry 'making up' muggle accomplishments to instruct him on the proper way to tie up the ribbon at the neck of the robe—not leaving it open, like Harry had usually done, or tying it up like a shoelace, which was all Harry had bothered to do during feasts, but rather a way that was supposed to look somewhat like a flower—which was especially important during the Sorting Feast, Draco said, because that was when the ribbon would change color depending on the house you got into.
At last Harry was ready—shiny black boots perfectly laced in the normal fashion, all encompassing black robe making him feel a little too much like he was wearing a dress, and fancy flower ribbon right at his neck to make the feeling stronger. After one last attempt to use his metamorphmagus skill to neaten up his hair—which actually worked better than expected, even if it still didn't look nearly as styled as Draco's or even Neville's, Harry was happy to say he was as ready as he could possibly be.
Outside the compartment window the rush of greens and browns slowly coalesced into clearly visible trees and bushes, and Harry opened the cabin door, stepping aside to let Vincent, Draco, Neville, and Gregory out. It was time for the sorting feast.