Luckily, Tom had managed to "convince" Mrs. Cole to get one of the oldest boys- a sturdy young man who had always gone unnoticed by Tom and treated the two boys with indifferent disdain- to carry their cheap trunks to the holding compartments in the back of the sputtering moter veichle Wool's Orphanage owned and drive them to King's Cross Station. So Harry didn't have to worry about Tom's pride being bruised by carrying his trunk to a trolley stop.

But, unfortunately, another problem arose when they were abandoned at the station. One look at their ticket, and the boys found bewildering information imprinted on the little pieces of paper.

"What sort of nonsense is this? Platform nine and three quarters?"

"Maybe it's a misprint?" Tom looked up from the infuriatingly mysterious ticket, and seemed to accept the voice of reason Harry offered. So they went off to tell the management, but Harry caught sight of a vaguely familiar head of platinum blond hair. This spurred the bright eyed boy's mind out of the box, and he stopped in his tracks, gripping Tom's sleeve to halt him as well, gaze never straying from his clue.

"What is it Harry?"

"I think the manager's over there."

"Really?" Tom didn't actually doubt Harry, but he couldn't see any indication that what he said was true.

"Yes," Harry replied simply, and after a moment of contemplation, Tom allowed Harry to lead the way. So they set off, Harry keeping a constant eye on the figure amidst the crowd while he deftly pretended to be looking for an office.

But, the blond man, along with a child their age, walked right into a pillar and... disappeared. No, they strode confidently through the pillar and out of sight, just as if they were walking through a door. Harry stopped in his tracks, staring wide eyed and open mouthed at the pillar. Slowly, his eyes lifted to the numbered plates on either side of the column; nine and ten.

"Harry? Why'd you stop?" Tom paused, turning back to show him his annoyed expression.

"Platform nine and three quarters..."

"What?"

"That's it there," Harry stated, raising a hand and pointing at the pillar.

"Have you gone mad?"

"No, I swear Tom, two people just disappeared into it," Harry lowered his voice to a whisper, afraid someone else might hear him. Tom stared at his companion, scrutinizing his eyes for the cloud of insanity. However when he found none, he took it in stride.

"Is that so. Well then, you'll just have to try it."

"Huh?"
"I'll follow after you closely. Assuming you don't crash." Harry's expression turned dry and deadpan, trying to let Tom know he was being needlessly pessimistic without actually saying the words out loud. But when Tom simply crossed his arms and ordered a, "go on," Harry sighed and rallied himself up. He could only suppose he had to rush into it like one would dart through a room full of insects to get to the treasure on the other side.

So, that's what he did, and when he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a majestic steam train and a crowd of people boarding with heavy trunks and animals in cages, parents and younger siblings saying their final goodbyes for the year. It was loud, all shouts and crying echoing through the stone walls, and the clamor only worsened when the train whistled. Yet Harry couldn't stop the growing excitement as what had felt like a dram was turning into reality.

"We should hurry and get on board." Harry startled and turned to see Tom standing by his side. "Come along Harry."

Tom pushed his cart towards one of the doors of the train like none of this surprised him, forcing Harry to hurry to follow. The dark eyed boy left his cart at the loading boxcar, a wordless order for Harry to do the labor, and retreated into the first year section. However, just when it became obvious Harry was going to have to struggle with the trunks, a young boy his age with fiery red hair and freckles stepped up and assisted Harry in lifting and pushing the two trunks in exchange for help with his own. The boy seemed remarkably enthusiastic and overly energized, and he spoke quickly and openly to Harry as they worked together.

"My name is Septimus Weasely. Nice to meet you! Are you a first year too? You don't look like you know what you're doing. Are you a muggleborn? That's okay, I'm really interested in muggle culture and inventions. Harry, how does a rubber ducky work?"

Harry couldn't get a single word in edgewise, and stared at the red head in confusion, his head starting to spin. It took a while to realize that this boy- who Harry thought he caught the name of- had finally halted his rapid fire interview, and was gazing at him expectantly.

"Oh, um..." Harry stuttered hesitantly, struggling to register what had been said, but in the end a simple question of his own was all he could muster. "What?"

"How does a rubber ducky work?" Like it was so bloody obvious.

"Ah, uh... I don't know?"

"Why don't you know?"

"I don't know... I just don't. There are a lot of things I know about, but I've never thought to question why a rubber ducky squeaks." He's always had much more important things to worry about. The ginger seemed disappointed, but quickly fired off a dozen other questions, some easier to answer and less obscure than others. Harry did this best as he held up his end of the bargain. When all three trunks were on board, Harry rushed to get on as well.

"Thanks Weasely, but I've got a friend waiting for me in a cabin, so I've got to go." But just as Harry was about to run for the door, Septimus clapped him on the back, making him nearly jump.

"Just call me Dal, Harry. We're mates now after all."

"We are?" Harry asked before he could stop himself. There was only a second before the skinny child turned and ran without looking back, remorseful for his question coming out in the wrong way, but most of all ashamed for the sincere hope that had tainted the words.

Harry found Tom in an empty compartment, but standing in the entry way, Harry felt immense guilt. Guilt for talking to another person and feeling happy when they called him a friend. He couldn't move to Tom's side just as much as he couldn't tell Tom about Septimus. In fact he prayed Tom would never find out, especially concerning how Harry felt about the whole exchange. So, Harry stood on the threshold until Tom noticed and looked up.

"Harry, what are you doing? Come over here, you're probably holding up the line." All it took were those simple words, that one order, and whatever self imposed spell Harry was under was released. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and shut out his previous thoughts.

Things felt normal again, sitting next to Tom, the both of them completely alone with each other. This was the natural order of things.


About ten minutes in, the boys realized they might have been earlier than they had thought, and someone opened the door, alerting the two orphans of intruders. Only Tom looked up though, and Harry instead sinked lower in his seat, hiding himself from view. A voice groaned in disgust, and Harry could feel Tom's temper rise. He never told Tom, but whenever the dark eyed boy got angry Harry's scar would hurt. He could handle it, so there was never not so much as a flinch. But it was strange and a little worrisome, so Harry avoided letting Tom know.

"Why is it that the last empty compartment has mudbloods in it?" A vaguely familiar voice demanded answers for his rhetorical question. Harry sneaked a peek from around Tom, and instantly recognized the boy from the entrance to Diagon Alley. Watery blue eyes shifted their ever present glare on the bespectacled boy, and he ducked back under the protection of Tom.

"If you don't want to have to sit in here, you're welcome to squeeze into a different one. In fact, I want you to. You're frightening Harry," Tom stated coldly, barely a hint of inflection in his voice. Unfortunately, the words only managed to spur the blond inside.

"Don't talk to me, mudblood," he ordered egotistically as he sat down across from them. Tom's mouth turned down just slightly, and the pain in Harry's scar spiked. "Besides, I left my own cabin because a bunch of mudbloods forced me out."

"What does that word he keeps using mean, Tom?" Harry asked in their secret serpentine language, but didn't notice the blond's eyes widen in surprise and blink as he struggled to place the language, even if Tom did. Nonetheless, the dark eyed boy replied naturally.

"I'm not sure, but it's definitely some sort of slur..." Harry nodded to show his understanding, and was about to lay his head down on Tom's shoulder when the blond suddenly stood.

"You're Parseltongues?!" He exclaimed, and the other two barely had time to register what he said before the train lurched forward. Forcing the blue eyed eleven year old to fall forward and land face first right into Harry's lap.

As Harry squeaked in fright, surprise, and embarrassment all at once, Tom snapped out of the shock with a flash of anger. He grabbed onto the trespasser's collar, and threw him back. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence where only the sound was of the train's gears working as it picked up speed along the tracks as all three boys allowed the past instant to sink in. While the blond turned flushed with disgust, Harry's face turned red with shame. It wasn't so much that it had happened, but rather that Tom had been there to see it. Tom however, was near boiling over.

Logically, he knew that it had been out of anyone's control. But still, Harry was his. The fact that anyone other than him had touched his belonging was inconceivable. It was near insulting in a way. However... it would not do to lose control. No, Tom was not an idiot. He pushed down his rage before the blond could notice it, sitting tense in his seat as he stared at him with cool dark eyes.

"If you tell anyone about what just happened," the blond started after another long moment of silence, "I'll make you wish you had forgotten it."

"No trouble," Tom replied simply, turning his attention to Harry instead, who was much more important. "Are you alright, Harry?"

Harry nodded with a small hum, his embarrassment having calmed down. "Yes, it wasn't that bad, Tom." Tom's eyes softened, his wrath soothed slightly, and Harry smiled.

"You two really are Parseltongues..." The blond interrupted their private exchange, making Tom turn his head towards him.

"What's a Parseltongue?" At first the third wheel appeared shocked that the question was even asked, but then scoffed condescendingly, crossing his arms.

"A Parseltongue is a person who speaks that language you were using just now. They talk to snakes."

The two orphans stayed silent, simply staring blankly at the blond across from them. Glancing down, Tom noticed Harry's attention, burning with curiosity, directed towards the snobbish boy.

"Harry. There's nothing he can tell us that we haven't already found out on our own." Ignoring the indignant cry from the person in question, Harry turned his emerald gaze to Tom, who sighed with gentle affection for his pet. "What have I told you about that curiosity of yours? You always look in the wrong places." A hand stroked untamable black hair, and Harry leaned into the touch.

"I'm sorry, Tom..."

"It's alright, just don't let him bait you."

"Still..."

There was a moment of silence between the two, then Tom sighed softly, closing his eyes that had studied the bespectacled boy. Harry's mouth turned up into a thankful grin, and he rested his head on Tom's shoulder again.

"I have a proposition for you," Tom stated, long lashed eyes opening and turning to gaze at the ignored blond.

"Why should I have to listen to what you have to say?" The child's arms were crossed, and he absolutely refused to meet Tom's gaze, mouth curved down into a sulkish scowl.

"Because if you do not humor me- humor Harry, really- then I shall... make use of the incident that just occurred."

"What incident?" Now the blue eyed prat was cautious, no stranger to the idea of blackmail. Tom's mouth rose in a condescending smirk in answer to the change in attitude.

"Your face being pressed into a... what was the term? Mudblood? Yes, landing on top of a Mudblood's lap." Accompanying the smirk, Tom's earlier anger showed again in the dangerous glint in his eyes as he stared at the now shrinking boy.

"You wouldn't dare..." the blond bluffed, lips pulled back in a feral attempt at self-preservation.

"Oh, but I can do much worse," Tom replied, arrogant amusement seeping into his tone. "But you really don't have to be so guarded- what was your name?" Tom's newest victim, who was feeling very on edge around this dark eyed demon and his silent companion, fidgeted in his seat before begrudgingly answering.

"Abraxas Malfoy."

"You really don't have to be so guarded, Malfoy," Tom continued on without pause, "all I want is for you to answer some questions about this... magical world." Tom seemed both distrusting and curious about the idea. "You seem to know a lot about it, after all."

"I," Abraxas used the word as if it were some great title, drawing himself up proudly, "am a Malfoy, one of the few families with the purest of blood. Of course I know a lot about magic." Tom hummed thoughtfully, then cocked his head to one side slightly.

"Because you were raised in it?"

"Of course. That's what being a pure blood means. I'm not like you 'muggleborns.'"

"Actually, you're wrong about Harry and I. It's unfortunate, but our ignorance stems from being raised by the wrong kind of people." Harry, hearing this and picking up on what was implied, lifted his head to look at Tom.

"Tom?"

"Yes Harry?"

"We don't-"

"Know who our parents really are? Yes. But if being of pureblood is so important here, we can't admit the truth. Besides, it has to be true; we're too powerful to not be." Seeing Tom so convinced, Harry feel silent, laying his head back. Best for Tom to make the decisions for their survival. After all, Harry was too gullible to figure people out, while Tom could do it within a few minutes.

"You two really are Parseltongues..." Abraxas noted with no small amount of wonder, "so you have to be purebloods..." The blond sat back, relaxing. "Shame then, being raised by the wrong sort."

"Indeed," Tom intoned cordially, mouth quirking up into a small smile only mirroring emotion, "care to remedy it?" As Malfoy started an enthusiastic lecture on the importance of being a pureblood and acting in a manner expected of such lineage, Harry studied Tom. Tom hardly ever acted polite, instead letting Harry give pleasantries more often than not. He had only seen the dark eyed orphan twist his face into such a smile when facing the police on the few occasions an officer felt the need to stumble upon them. So it was rather odd to see Tom treating a boy their same age as an equal. But then Harry remembered his companion's ultimate plans. A life independent of the orphanage and normal people. And the wizarding world was more than either of them could have hoped for. So it made sense for Tom to make an extra effort to integrate himself into the society. These people were like them.

Harry was no longer special.

"Harry, did you hear that?"

"What?" Harry asked on reflex, blinking wide green eyes, startled out of his reflection.

"There are four houses at this school, one of which is perfect for us," Tom reiterated with vast amounts of patience. How much longer would he exert such favor to Harry alone?

"O-oh..." Harry trailed off, his thoughts swirling in panic.

"It's called Slytherin," Tom continued, oblivious to Harry's worries in his excitement, "and it's meant only for purebloods, so we won't have to sleep with muggles." Already Tom was fixated on the idea of belonging to a higher race, but Harry's mind didn't dwell on that for too long.

"How are the students sorted?"

"There's an old enchanted hat that does it," Abraxas informed Harry, his face not even cracking under the ridiculous notion of a hat deciding students' apparent fate, enchanted or not.

"I see," Harry stated politely, startling slightly when the felt Tom's icy cold fingers thread through his hair.

Harry took comfort in the touch, his troubled mind soothed momentarily. He'd keep his place next to Tom, even if faith turned out to not be enough.


AN: Ah, parallels. Made you go "what?" there for a second, didn't I? Unfortunately, no ancestor of Hermione's, but I figured this was plausible, no? Ron look-alike with Colin Creevey's personality, heh. Fun fact, I couldn't find the name of Ron's grandfather so I had to make it up. I chose the name Dalmatius originally, asking if anyone could give me the cannon name. They did, so now it's fixed~! Dalmatius's an actual name. Who knew?

Finally, the new chapter can be put up. Can someone please give me tips on how to get life to leave me alone? He keeps getting in the way of my writing.