Chapter Two- Platform Nine and Three-Quarters
"Where did you get that?" Asks an old trembling voice.
Clara looks up into the watery, old eyes of the priest. His crimson robe is stuffed so far up his neck, he looks like a shriveled turtle.
"It was my mother's…" Says Clara warily.
"You didn't steal it? Are you sure? Your mother was a peasant, child. Where would she ever have gotten that?"
"You don't know that." Says Clara sharply.
The priests sucks in air sharply through his horsy teeth. "Such disrespect! I know much more than you do young lady. Now… Mrs. Podgemouth has been telling me that you intentionally frighten the children at her orphanage by pretending to… oh my, let me see… talk to snakes?" He looks at the plump lady beside him and she nods her head vigorously, sending her jowls aquiver.
"No." Clara stares hard at the floor and shakes her head.
"No? Mrs. Podgemouth is lying?"
Clara bites her tongue hard. She would love to say that Mrs. Podgemouth isn't a liar. She's just a bloated idiot. Instead she tries to make her voice sound innocent and sincere.
"My intentions were never to frighten anyone."
"Oh ho! So you're saying you talk to snakes, then, hmm?"
"No…" Well, yes, but he doesn't need to know that.
"Then what exactly were you doing young lady?"
"I'll tell you Father!" Pipes up Mrs. Podgemouth indignantly. "She was kneelin' on the ground out by the trees pettin' a little green garden snake. As it were, I walk on up to tell 'er she's gettin' 'er nice dress all dirty. And there I hears 'er, makin' the most abominable hissin' noises you ever did hear. Un-natural like. And all 'round her are the little ones, there eyes wide as saucepans, ready to cry, the poor dears."
"Ah." Says the priest precociously. "What do you say to that?"
"Mrs. Podgemouth must not have heard clearly, Father."
"That's not all, Father! She's always frightenin' the younger ones with her stories. Devilish, un-natural like stories. 'Bout witches on broomsticks and black cats." Mrs. Podgemouth seems to be unloading years of resentment.
The priest's eyes widen. "I know exactly what we have here, Mrs. Podgemouth. A classic example of a headstrong female. Let young girls get ideas and they start acting funny."
Clara narrows her eyes at the floor.
"Young ladies shouldn't be running around outside, reading and things like that. This one needs to be developing manners, she's going to be out in society soon."
"Well, what would you have me do with 'er, Father?"
The priest looks thoughtful. "Maybe a boarding school somewhere would be fitting. There is an excellent school nearby. Saint Beatrice's School for Incurably Impolite Girls. They would teach her more than one good lesson there."
His eyes narrow. "And you can start by taking away that foolish thing." He points to Clara's locket. "Young ladies should not be wearing such ornaments."
Clara steps backward. "No, it doesn't even belong to you!"
"Don't be so selfish, child!" The priest yells, his face turning red and splotchy. In one quick movement he takes the locket in his soft, shriveled hand.
And then suddenly, he's clutching his throat. His face is turning purple; he's uttering strange gurgles and gasps.
"Look at her eyes!" An altar boy screams. Mrs. Podgemouth starts screaming too.
Clara clasps her locket and it's burning hot.
Clara's eyes burst open. She was shaking, sweating, burning with anger. Slowly, it began to fade. The awful memory… or was it a dream?
She inhaled slowly against the pillow, taking in the soft scent of the linen. For some reason, she was incredibly tired. Her limbs felt like lead sinking into the mattress.
There was a little patch of warm sunlight next to her right eye and for the time being, she was completely content just lying there, hovering in the world between being awake and asleep. She reached up lazily to scratch her head.
"Ah, I see you're not dead."
She shot upright, heart pounding and found herself face to face with a pair of cold, grey eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The result was a rather fish-like expression.
"Had a good sleep?" The boy asked her.
"Whereami?" She finally spit out.
The boy arched his eyebrows. "You're in the Leaky Cauldron, London."
Clara felt like someone had hit her on the back of the head. "London?"
"Yes, London." He replied. His eyes slid down to her chest. "I was wondering if you could tell me where you got that." He was pointing to her locket.
"It was my mother's…" She said, absentmindedly. "How did I get here, who are you?"
The boy looked annoyed. "Tom Riddle. And I brought you here because you were washed up on the beach about to die. Who was your mother?"
"Beach…?" She was trying to remember… but the only memory she had was the one she had dreamt.
"Yes, a beach." He said exasperatedly. "Could you take that off for a moment?"
Clara looked at Tom's face. He was gazing intently at the locket. She clasped her hand around it, as though thinking. "No."
Tom's eyes met her own. He was angry. "May I ask why not?"
Right, well, if she told him, he would never believe her anyway.
"No, you may not ask."
Tom looked increasingly frustrated. "Well, I think it's cursed, so it might be dangerous for you to be wearing it."
Once again, Clara was lost for words. "Cursed… Like, magic?"
For the first time, Tom grinned. "Yes. Just like magic."
Tom sipped coffee from a slightly yellowed mug. It burned his tongue and he jerked it away from his mouth, sloshing some over the sides.
Across from him, Clara was staring down into hers, completely confused and incredulous. "There's a boarding school where people do magic tricks all day?"
"Not magic tricks! It's so much more than that. It's real, true magic."
Clara pursed her lips. "Right… ok, so you want me to go there so some old guy can save me from a locket I've been wearing since birth?"
Tom slammed his fist down on the table and Clara jumped. "You aren't listening to me!"
Clara narrowed her eyes. For some reason she couldn't get Saint Beatrice's out of her mind. "Right, well. I'm just telling you right now that I'm not going anywhere, so whatever school you're talking about… I'm not going. Thanks for saving me and everything…" She stood to leave.
"Do you know who your mother was? Do you know how she died?" Tom had to say something, anything to get her to stay.
Clara looked surprised. "Do you?"
"No." Said Tom shaking his head. "But Dumbledore will, he knows everything." He smiled inside. Perfect, she couldn't refuse now.
Clara's tongue slid across her teeth, she looked thoughtful. "I don't believe an ounce of it you know…"
Tom looked nostalgic for a moment. "Neither did I, at first."
Clara looked softly at him. The expression on her face was peculiar and unreadable. Her soft brown eyes framed in thick lashes reminded him faintly of someone… he couldn't imagine who.
"So, how about you just come along, get some questions answered, and then go, uh… home."
He watched her sigh deeply. "Alright, I suppose. But I can't pay for a train ticket or anything, you know."
"Don't worry." Said Tom laughing. "On my train, all you need is to know how to get on it."
Tom burst in through the doors of the Leaky Cauldron. Spying Clara at a far table, he rushed over to it, trying to keep his packages from falling.
"Here you are! We really have got to get going, the train leaves at exactly eleven o'clock."
He watched Clara eye the packages curiously. She pulled out a long, flowing green garment. "What… is this?"
"Your robe, try it on." Tom was nervously eyeing the clock.
Clara put it on slowly and looked down at herself. "I look ridiculous!" She tore it off.
"Then just put it away, but listen, we have really got to get going!"
"Listen, Tom, I don't know where you expect me to wear this, but I can assure you…"
He grabbed her arm impatiently. "Look, will you just shut up and come!" Clara widened her eyes indignantly, but nevertheless, allowed herself to be pulled from the pub.
Waiting outside for them was a sleek black car driven by a man with dark sunglasses. Clara looked at him skeptically.
"Ministry car." Explained Tom. He opened the trunk and threw Clara's things inside. "Well… get in."
She looked at the door handle. Tom watched her shake her head and then open the door and slide inside. He sighed. Well, it would be easy from here on out.
"Alright, so this school… Warty-whatever…"
"Hogwarts!"
"Right, sorry. And the man that teaches it… um, Dumbledorf?"
"Dumbledore. And he couldn't possibly teach the whole school, now could he."
"Yes, whatever. He'll be able to tell me things about my mum, how?"
"Well, Dumbledore just sort of seems to know things…"
"Mhmm… But I'm not enrolled in the school, will they let me stay?"
Tom considered this a moment. Muggles were forbidden from knowing anything about the magical world. But… this was different. After all, she said she was an orphan- was he supposed to just dump her somewhere?
She couldn't remember it, but Tom had a suspicion someone had tried to drown her. She hadn't implied she had anywhere to go back to, so, naturally, he should help her… right?
"Well?"
"What? Oh, yeah. They'll let you. Don't worry about it. But um, if anyone starts asking you questions, say you transferred from somewhere else."
"Alright."
They sat in silence for some time. Tom leaned on the door staring out the window. It was bright and sunny and wonderful and he was going back to Hogwarts. His final year and then he would be out in the world making his future. Or fulfilling his destiny…
"Tom?"
"Yes?"
"Do you, um, have parents? I mean, I was just wondering because I haven't seen them…"
Tom itched his forehead. "Well, I did once."
"What happened to them?"
Tom clenched his fists. He hated talking about them. If it were Lestrange or Malfoy, he would have hit them in the faces.
"Well, they died."
"Right, but how?"
"Well, their hearts sort of stopped beating like."
Clara laughed. It was a wonderful laugh. Rich and warm and friendly. It made Tom smile at the window.
"You know. I've been wondering what happened to my parents my whole life…"
Me too. Tom thought.
"That's the gateway."
"Looks like a wall to me…"
"Well, it is, but it's the gateway, I promise."
"That's ridiculous."
"Watch there. See those people. Keep a good eye on them."
Clara watched a young boy lift a cage up onto his trolley. He smiled in at a little owl hooting nervously and then took off towards the wall between platforms 9 and 10.
Clara watched him near the wall, gaining speed. He was about to crash into it, Clara was preparing to yell 'Watch out!' And then he was gone.
Her mouth fell open. She stared at the spot where the boy should be, but there were only bricks.
"See?" Said Tom.
"It's more like what I don't see! Where did he go!"
"Through the barrier. Ready?"
Tom watched her face turn milky white. He wheeled the trolley around to face platform nine and three quarters.
"Alright, you better go first."
Clara swallowed hard. "I still don't understand, is there something I press?"
"No, just walk through."
"But that's not possible!"
"Bloody, just walk through!"
Clara exhaled sharply and gazed around at people hurrying to catch their trains. They were all going to think her mad when she hit the wall like an idiot.
"Alright, I'll go." She mustered up the last traces of her dignity and took off at a fast walk toward the solid wall ahead of her.
And it was like slicing butter. For a fraction of a second, she was surrounded by cool stone and then she had stepped out into blinding sunlight.
Blinking, she could see, above her, a great flag, proudly bearing the words: Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Puffing before her was a great black train with the words Hogwarts Express painted down the side. For the first time all morning, Clara realized Hogwarts was an actual place… and she was going there.
"Brilliant!" Said Tom behind her. "Come on now, we have to get a spot on the train."
He pulled his trunk and Clara's packages up to the stairs of the train and heaved them up. It struck her how little effort this took him.
He climbed up and looked down at her, extending a hand. "Well, you coming?"
Clara nodded and stepped up to the train. Taking his hand, she climbed up into the magnificent train. Stretching out before her was a long, narrow passage lined with sliding doors.
Tom picked up the trunk and began dragging it down the hallway. As Clara followed behind him, she was stunned to find that everyone was wearing the ridiculous robes. Some in black and others in green and gold and blue and red. Suddenly, she felt very self conscious in her dress.
Tom opened a door and shoved the trunk inside. He pointed to the empty compartment. "There you are. I have to go, I've got Head duties, but I'll be back in a bit."
Perfect. Clara thought as she watched him retreat down the hallway. She closed the door and immediately pulled the robe on.
The train, with one last whistle, chugged to life and sped away from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Clara tucked her legs up under her and leaned back against the seat. She could feel the locket resting heavily on her chest.
This was most certainly the strangest day of her life.
"This taken?" Said an icy voice. Clara looked over to see a pale-blonde head sticking into the compartment. Set in his finely-featured face were the most startling pale blue eyes she had ever seen.
"Oh, no. Well, I mean sort of."
"Well, is it or isn't it?" She immediately disliked his tone of voice.
"Tom Riddle and I are the only ones so far, so I suppose no." She looked into those eyes and narrowed her own.
The boy seemed to soften a bit. "Tom and I are mates, its all well. I don't fancy I've ever seen you before."
"Oh, no, I transferred." She said, a bit too hastily.
The boy offered his hand and Clara took it.
"Abraxas Malfoy."
"Clara."
"Last name?"
"I um, don't have one, I'm an orphan you see."
"Oh, how odd." He said indifferently.
He hadn't dropped her hand yet, so Clara pulled back slightly and he let go.
Malfoy pushed his trunk into the compartment and sat down across from Clara. She was staring out the window again.
There was something very familiar about her. About her long blonde hair and soft brown eyes and the softness of her features.
What have you gotten yourself into, Tom. He wondered.
