Chapter 5

Hogwarts Express

The hustle and bustle of students and their families ushered an air of excitement to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Children heads shorter than he clung to their mothers, while others ducked away from kisses in embarrassment. Enthusiastic greetings echoed around him: the sounds of friends catching up after months apart. The babble was barely loud enough to cover the scraping of heavy luggage, the rattle of metal cages, and the hooting of owls.

Smoke from the scarlet steam engine drifted above their heads. The breeze carried it through the platform, along with the distinct scent of new uniforms and owl droppings. Harry, Liza, and Draco were a part of the flurry of students flocking around the train in search of an empty compartment. They had parted ways with James moments earlier, after promising to visit him at the shop during Hogsmeade weekends.

An empty compartment gleamed near the end of the train, and they had to wrestle away a pack of second year boys to claim it as theirs. After stowing their luggage on the overhead compartment, Liza and Draco left to meet their respective friends, promising to return not long after.

Younger students shrieked as they ran up and down the corridors, the ear-rattling sound accompanied by the booming laughter of older students. He slid shut the carriage door and sagged back to his seat. This was a day he had spent months anticipating and worrying and pondering over, yet now he felt… nothing. Just numb. And perhaps a little tired. He closed his eyes.

The train jerked forward, preventing him from fully drifting off. Only Liza had returned.

"Couldn't sleep last night?" she asked.

"Yeah," he grumbled. He yawned and stretched his arms.

The train had left the station, gaining momentum by the minute as suburban houses flashed past them, a barrage of grey and beige plastered under the vibrant blue sky.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"It's just work stuff," he lied. "Did some last minute research for your dad."

"Mhm," said Liza, not entirely convinced. "Told you you were crazy for taking that job. Listen, you were in Gryffindor, right? Mum said they're gonna have to resort you. You reckon you're gonna get into Gryffindor again?"

"Probably, yeah," he said. "Why?"

"I'm thinking of striking a bet with Draco over your sorting," she said. "Could be the easiest galleon of my life. Hey, speak of the devil…"

Draco returned, dragging the door open and sneaking in, slipping the door shut with his foot. He slumped right next to Liza, coiling his arms around her shoulders. His blonde hair was tousled carelessly to the side, the sleeves of his cloak rolled up. Even after meeting him several times, he was sure he'd never get used to this happy-go-lucky version of his old rival.

"Sorry about the wait," he said. "Pansy wouldn't let me leave. She, er, wishes you well."

"Yeah right." Liza scoffed, leaning on Draco's shoulder. "Anyway, who cares what that pug-faced cow has to say about me? Not me. Couldn't give a toss."

"Well, you certainly didn't think that last year when you…" Draco trailed off, noticing the dangerous expression on her face. He coughed. "Harry, my friend! Excited for Hogwarts?"

"I guess," he said, shrugging.

"Had a chance to ponder over your sorting?" he said. "Please consider Slytherin. Everyone there is such a bore, you know. Having a Potter would mix things up real fast."

"No chance!" said Liza. "Us Potters are Gryffindor through and through."

"Exactly! Think about it, Harry, where's the fun in that?" said Draco. "Everyone expects you to become a Gryffindor. Now imagine Mr Potter's face when you turn up in Slytherin. After all the shit he gives me about being a snake…"

"It's not like I can choose what house I'll be in, is it?" said Harry, a sly grin flashing in his face knowing he had done exactly that. "I go wherever the hat wants me to go."

"Good point, but I sense the greatness in you, young Potter," said Draco, deepening his voice. "You'll be right at home here in Slytherin."

"Firstly, that's a terrible Salazar Slytherin impression," said Liza. "Secondly, if a house embodies greatness, it'll be Gryffindor – we got Dumbledore. Thirdly, how much are you willing to bet for Harry's sorting?"

"Ten galleons?"

"Deal."

They shook hands, with an air of faux solemnity that made him snort. Draco winked at him, then glanced out the corridor as if looking for something.

"Speaking of bets," he said. "Where's Ron, anyway? Haven't seen the bloke in a while. He's supposed to run the Triwizard betting pool this year, isn't he?"

"Triwizard betting pool?" asked Harry.

"Hogwarts annual tradition," said Liza. "Used to be run by the Weasley twins, but now that they've graduated, I think it's handled by Ron and his friends. You pick three schools you think are gonna be chosen for the tournament this year. Draco guessed Castelobruxo right last year, won him a fair few galleons."

Several weeks ago, he had spent an afternoon feeling rather baffled as he read up on the Triwizard Tournament, which worked rather differently than he expected. Here, the tournament had never been discontinued; it only expanded instead, accepting participants from over a dozen schools from all across the globe. Staying true to its name, three of these schools were chosen randomly each year for the annual Triwizard Tournament, as if fate wasn't tempted enough by the treacherous nature of the tasks. He had noted with both horror and amusement that the sheer peril associated with the contest was the only aspect he found similar with the disaster of a tournament in his Fourth Year.

"What do you reckon they'll do to choose the participants this year?" he asked.

The selection method differed with each tournament, inciting a great deal of uproar for schools who were not in the favour of Lady Luck. Controversies and rumours of conspiracies abound; it was all part of the culture, of course – no international competition could exist without some good-natured accusations. Except last year, the accusation had actually induced an investigation, which, to his knowledge, led to nowhere.

"I dunno, but I hope it's not some divination bullshit," said Draco. "Last year they used Omniamancy, remember? What a load of bollocks that was. Everyone reckons the seer was paid off by Ilvernmorny. Four years they've been selected! Four!"

"If they're selected again this year, Hogwarts has to boycott," said Liza darkly. "We'll refuse to participate until they're kicked out for good."

"That is if we do get selected," said Draco. "Fat chance of that. Six years I've been in this school and not once have I seen the tournament with my own two eyes. I'll give anything for us to be chosen, even Quidditch…"

"I won't," said Liza, looking rather alarmed. "I'm captain this year, remember? It'll be rotten luck for me if–"

The door creaked open. Looming by the corridor was a gangly red-haired boy, gripping a parchment and a worn-looking quill. Under his Hogwarts robes which dangled freely above his ankles, he wore a maroon sweater with the letter 'R' embroidered over.

"Wotcher, Ron, we were just talking about you," said Draco.

"Good things, I hope?"

"Just about," said Liza. "Draco was just saying how much you're gonna mess things up without Fred and George–"

"Fuck off," said Ron, snickering. "I did fine last year, remember? It's Ginny you're gonna have to worry about next year, if I pass it over to her anyway – she couldn't care less about the tournament. Oh, er, I don't believe we've met."

"I'm Harry," he said, forcing a smile and a nod. "Nice to meet you."

"Ah, Liza's cousin, then?" he said. "Yeah, blimey, you look just like her dad. Heard you're a menace at the field – can't wait to see you in Gryffindor. I'm Ron Weasley, by the way, and you should ignore whatever these chucklefucks said about me."

Harry could almost laugh – whether from bewilderment or amusement, he wasn't sure. Ron was so different. It was apparent in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke, in his apparent friendship and familiarity with Draco fucking Malfoy, of all people. The difference was not as striking as Draco's, obviously, but it was there, and he wasn't exactly sure how to react other than to smother his own growing grin.

"Anyway, you lot know what to do. Have these two told you about the betting pool, Harry, or have they been too busy snogging?"

"Whatever you say, Won-Won," said Draco. Ron recoiled, his grimace spread so wide that his face looked like crumpled paper, causing those in the compartment to laugh, including Harry. "It'll be Castelobruxo, Uagadou, and… Ilvermorny, for me."

"Ilvermorny!?" shrieked Liza, face alight with the woes of betrayal as Ron quickly scribbled on the parchment.

"Hey, if they're gonna sneak their way in again, I might as well make some money off of it."

"Fucking Slytherins," said Liza, though her expression betrayed a fond smile. "Mine'll be the same as last year, Ron."

Ron furrowed his brows. "Isn't that the same as your guess two years ago?"

"And the year before that," said Liza. "And the year before the year before that. And – well, you get the point. I am nothing if not consistent. Someday I'll be right, you watch."

"It's your money…" muttered Ron as he jotted down Liza's bet. When he was finished, he looked towards Harry. "What about you, Harry? You in?"

"Sure," he said. After a moment's thought, he added: "My guess is Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons."

"Hogwarts and Durmstrang?" said Ron. "Brave choice, mate. We've been watching from the sidelines for a decade, and Durmstrang's been cursed ever since they expelled Grindelwald. You ought to replace Trelawney if you get it right, though… Anyway, that'll be three galleons, I'm afraid."

"Total?" asked Draco.

"Each."

"Each!? Hasn't it always been two? Why weren't we informed of this treachery beforehand? Fred and George wouldn't do this, would they, Liza?"

"It's three this year – Fred told me to raise it, not that it matters," said Ron. He stared at Draco's comically dismayed face, unamused. "Bloody hell, you're a Malfoy."

"So?"

"So you could probably buy out half the shops in Diagon Alley with some spare change from your Quidditch robes!"

"What does that have to do with anything!?" Malfoy cried out. "And I'm more of a Tonks these days – I'm just too lazy to deal with the paperwork to change my surname, even if Mother would let me." Ron stared on, still stone-faced. "Fine, you win. Three galleons. It's more for me if I get it right anyway."

They passed the required money towards Ron, who enthusiastically channelled it towards the seemingly endless expanse of his breast pocket. They said their goodbyes, and Ron moved on for the next compartment.

"Good bloke, glad to have him as a friend," said Draco jovially. "I'll never say that to his face though."

Harry turned his face towards the window and bit his lip to drown the laughter that threatened to burst from his throat. He still couldn't get over the irony and strange hilarity in Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy being good friends; he couldn't wait to tell –

There it was again.

Over the weeks he had somewhat gotten used to the idea that he had parted ways forever with his old friends, but occasionally his brain took a break from rationality and went into old habits. He would sometimes find himself thinking I can't wait to tell Ron about that, or Hermione would love this, or Fred and George would surely give me shit for that, or I bet Ginny would have a good laugh about–

He stood abruptly, interrupting Draco and Liza from their conversation.

"Mind if I get some fresh air?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the door open and strode out without any sense of direction; he just needed to move. The rounded windows across the compartments displayed the idyllic lull of the Scottish countryside: rolling green hills separated by dense borders of trees, occasionally disrupted by a cottage or a barn. A veil of clouds swirled above them, groaning with the promise of rainfall, clouding the corridor with a gloomy undertone. Everyone had settled down after the initial excitement of the new academic year; the screams and booming laughter from earlier were replaced by muffled chatter and the occasional shuffles of people sauntering from one compartment to another. He bathed in the familiarity of the setting, taking a much needed break from the novelty and sheer outlandishness of recent predicaments.

He squeezed himself to the side as a particularly broad-shouldered student strolled past him, and he halted abruptly upon feeling a tap on his shoulder.

"Hey," said the boy. He was slightly shorter than Harry; the difference in their height would probably be more apparent were it not for the boy's perfect posture, for he had a bearing befitting a soldier standing before the Queen. Wavy blonde hair curved above his glimmering brown eyes, set in a pale, round face. "I don't think I've seen you before. Are you new?"

"Yeah, I enrolled for my seventh year," said Harry, recalling his fabricated backstory before the boy could inquire further. "I was homeschooled for most of my life, but I thought it best to have structured instruction for my final examinations, because, well, you know…"

"A wise choice," he said. "My mother warned me of the great discrepancy between the OWLs and the NEWTs – apparently the former tests you as students, while the latter tests you as scholars. Well, hopefully Hogwarts helps you in this regard. I'm Neville Longbottom, by the way."

"I'm Harry," he said as they shook hands. The ephemeral comfort of familiarity faded swiftly as he set his eyes on the golden pin in the collar of Neville's Gryffindor-embroidered robes. "You're the Head Boy?"

"That's me," said Neville with a beam. "If you have any problems – anything at all – don't hesitate to find me or Padma Patil, the Head Girl. Hogwarts does take some time to get used to. Anyway, what did you say your surname was? Not a Potter, are you?"

"What gave it away?" asked Harry dryly.

Neville guffawed. "Oh, I could sense you lot from a mile away. You must be close with Liza, then?"

"We're distant cousins," said Harry. "Though I did spend the summer with her family, so I know her quite well, yeah."

"You do look a lot like her father – oh, I know that look, I bet you get that a lot, don't you? It's the same for me, people say I'm identical to my mother all the time."

Their eyes met for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, and the deep recesses of his stomach tingled.

"But I'm afraid I have to go," said Neville. "Prefect's meeting, and I'm already late enough; Padma must be furious with me. It was nice talking to you, Harry."

For some reason, his heart drummed against his ribcage as he watched Neville's retreating figure. The feeling lingered even when he turned to continue walking; something about the conversation had left him feeling uneasy indeed. This was altogether exacerbated by the dimness of his surroundings; shadows lurked in every corner of the corridor, from the dingy lacquered floor to the arched white ceiling.

He was grateful to escape the increasing sense of claustrophobia as he entered the open carriage. Much shorter in length compared to the rest of the train, it was composed of small circular tables which lined both sides of the waist-high walls. Each table was supposed to have two chairs, though the students in this area had no qualms in rearranging the furniture to fit their collective needs, combining and moving tables as they saw fit. Wind blew against his face as he trudged through the aisle, making his hair billow like a tree in a storm. The mild gust carried with it the scent of dew and wet soil.

Despite the looming threat of rain, the car was brimming with students, and it was surprisingly difficult to find a place to sit. Only one table was left untouched, and he wasted no time in claiming it as his own. He plopped towards the seat, expelling a sigh of relief as he leaned against the backrest, muscles relaxing.

Here resided students of all sorts: those unfortunate enough to have not found a compartment; those who had found a compartment but found its inhabitants so unbearable that they would rather bear the raucous roar of the steam engine and the sharp hiss of the wind instead; those who simply preferred the outdoors; and those who, like him, just needed some fresh air to clear their mind. But there were also those who found… other uses for the open setting. In the far end of the carriage, surrounded by (to his outrage) a wall of tables and chairs, a group of younger students huddled on the floor with pipes in their mouths. Smokes of all shapes drifted from their corner. One had the shape of a Golden Snitch, its mistry tendrils shifting and fluttering to give the impression of flight. Another puff of smoke with the vague outline of a Seeker followed soon after, the two forms disappearing quickly behind them, left behind by the velocity of the train.

The entrance on the other side of the carriage slid open, and in slipped the Trolley Witch, barely visible behind the Honeydukes Express cart which teemed with all manners of food. She swivelled and whirled the bulky cart around the convoluted maze of chairs and tables and students, stopping every few seconds along the way. Harry prepared to take a few sickles from his pocket as she approached; though it was rather too early for lunch, one does not simply ignore a grumbling stomach.

In the end he settled with a simple turkey sandwich, a handful of cauldron cakes, and a warm cup of mooncalf coffee. The latter he was rather hesitant to try, despite the renown it had for its rich, explosive taste and energy-granting capabilities. This reluctance stemmed from the coffee's unorthodox source: a mooncalf was fed with spleenwart beans, after which it would undergo an almost alchemical process of fermentation inside the animal's body; the beans were then collected and processed from the mooncalf's excrement. It was said that the closer it was to the full moon, the better the excreted coffee bean tasted.

Fortunately, its renown was not for naught; the dull taste of the sandwich was offset by the orgasmic burst of flavour in his mouth upon just a single sip of mooncalf coffee. It was bitter, of course, but there was a balance of other sensations swirling in his mouth, from a tinge of spice to a dash of sweetness.

Just as thunder flashed overhead, he was beginning to feel his mood lifting. Good food, he found, could quell almost any quandary, at least temporarily.

So much was he enjoying his drink that he didn't notice the approaching figure which now settled in the seat across. Her face was a familiar one, though it took him several seconds to recognize who she was. It was the girl he had seen in the Hospital Wing: Daphne Greengrass, Madam Pomfrey's ward. She greeted him with a mere nod, offering no further explanation of her presence. Instead, she pulled out some charcoal sticks and a sketchpad – it was, perhaps, the first time he had seen a wizard using anything but quill and parchment – and began drawing.

Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she worked, hands switching from precise, miniscule movements to broad strokes which spanned the entire paper. He, of all people, could easily recognize the look of someone who didn't want to be bothered, so he said nothing, taking another sip from his cup. For her part, she continued, nonplussed; if she noticed his curious stares, she did nothing to show it. He was suddenly all too aware of his sitting posture – or lack thereof. Like Neville, her bearing was straight and polished, even as she was visibly consumed by her work. Her sharp, pale face reddened with the coldness of the wind which heralded the coming outpour.

Indeed, the grey veil above finally fulfilled its promise, and the first specks of rain fell towards them, drop by drop. Greengrass did not seem bothered by this development; the drops of water seemed to slide off perfectly from the paper, leaving no trace of its presence. Suddenly, the cries of the steam engine, the clacking of the train's wheels against the tracks, the rumbles of thunder, and all the other noises that had contributed to a general inability to hear one's own voice was dampened as if someone had forcibly put earmuffs on him. The rainfall became heavier, but not a single drop of water reached their carriage. Rain itself seemed to bend above them, halted by a sudden invisible roof. It was silent enough now that he could hear conversations even from the other side of the carriage.

Finally, Greengrass lifted her head and looked around. It was silent enough still to hear her mutter: "Damn."

"What's wrong?" he asked, curious as to what led her out of her trance.

Her head snapped towards him, and she blinked, as if only just realising he had been there all along.

"Nothing," she said. "I just miss all the sound. It's far too silent now."

"Why?"

"It helps me focus," she explained, back to sketching but without her earlier vigour. "The more I can't hear my own thoughts, the better I work."

"I guess that makes sense," said Harry. "You're Greengrass, right? We met at the Hospital Wing, before the summer."

"Indeed," she said. She paused briefly from her work. "You never gave me your surname."

"It's Potter."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said. Suddenly, she looked up with an accusatory stare. "You're not one of those Quidditch-obsessed lunatics, are you?"

"Comes with the package, I'm afraid," said Harry with a smile.

"Astoria, my sister, never stops complaining about one of your lot," said Greengrass. "A sixth year from Gryffindor. She makes her life as a Keeper terribly difficult, or so I've heard. But enough about Quidditch – I hear enough of that Gods-forsaken game at home. Why are you here, Potter? Given your luggage is nowhere to be seen, I assume you're not like one of them."

She motioned with her head – without diverting her eyes from the paper – towards a group of young students, possibly first years, all sitting around a mountain of trunks and owl cages whose peak almost reached the invisible barrier between peace and the burgeoning storm.

"Yeah, I just needed some fresh air," he said. "Needed to clear my mind. What about you?"

"As I said, the loudness helps me focus on drawing," she said. She spoke no further for several seconds, as if deliberating on something. "And I suppose the reason I wanted to draw was, like you, I needed to clear my mind. I was also in need of some peace; I love Pansy and Tracey, but they can get rather… trying sometimes."

In a fleeting moment of insecurity, it occurred to him how much he was distracting her from her drawing, so he buried his desire to converse further and instead finished his coffee. The divine liquid began to settle down, providing warmth and fullness to his stomach, which offered respite from the chill air prickling his skin. As he put the cup down, he was met with Greengrass' startling blue eyes.

She looked at him expectantly. "Talk."

"What?"

"Talk," she instructed. "Now that the noise is all gone, there's nothing to distract me from the thorny mess that is my mind. Our nascent conversation was beginning to help in that regard."

He wasn't sure whether he should feel offended by being treated merely as a replacement for the hootings of a steam engine, but he indulged nonetheless: "Well, I did wonder – why were you shadowing under Madam Pomfrey?"

She set her charcoal sticks down on the table and beckoned him to look at the paper. He leaned over and cooed.

It was a black-and-white rendition of the Hogwarts Express, and Harry was mesmerised by the way Greengrass had captured the train in such intricate detail. It was far better than it had any right to be, given it was crafted in well under an hour. The train seemed to come alive at the page, its solid form shown through rich, bold lines and sleek angles. She masterfully used shading to capture the texture of the metal of the steam engine, and the fuzzy reflections on the windows. The contrast between the stark dark shade of the charcoal with the whiteness of the paper made the train seem as if it was about to burst off the page. Combined with the seamless flow and fluidity of each line and curve, giving the illusion of motion, the train seemed truly alive.

In fact, he only just noticed the subtle movements which arose from each masterful stroke: the smoke actually swirled and drifted upwards, disappearing beyond the edge of the page, only to puff out again from the engine; the train moved, apparent from the blurring and rattling of its form; and the wheels turned and turned above the curving tracks. This wasn't a drawing; this was a photograph.

"It's gorgeous."

"Isn't it?" said Greengrass with a beam, before ripping the page off of the sketchpad, crumpling it into a ball, and tossing it towards the rain.

Harry yelped in surprise, leaning by instinct over the edge of the carriage, but the paper was far gone.

"What did you do that for?" he demanded, looking back at Daphne. She frowned, as if unaware as to what she had just done. He suddenly felt silly for feeling such a personal affront for the destruction of something someone else had made, but even still…

"What?" she asked, shrugging. "The artwork was never the goal. As I said, I just wanted to clear my mind. I had no use for the end product."

"But it was so good!" he said, now feeling quite embarrassed. "You could've kept it."

"I'm flattered you think so highly of my art, Potter," said Greengrass. "But I have dozens, possibly hundreds of my own artworks at home – most of which I have not touched ever since their creation. No, I had no use for that piece, beautiful or not."

"You could've given it to someone else." His affront deflated, but for some reason he was not ready to give up the argument.

"To who, Potter?"

"I dunno, me?"

Greengrass raised an eyebrow, and he grinned sheepishly. She made a show of picking up one of her charcoal sticks and motioning it over towards the sketchpad. "Well, I suppose I shall reserve my next piece of art just for you. Happy, now?"

"Very much so."

And she began sketching once more.

"As for your question earlier," said Greengrass, continuing as if nothing had happened. "It is to gain some experience for my application to St. Mungos. I have been helping Madam Pomfrey since my third year."

"Third year?" he said. "That seems… early. Here I am only figuring out what I wanted to do in life during my OWLs, and you're out here preparing for your career at the age of thirteen. So you want to be a healer, then?"

Becoming a Healer was a highly prestigious endeavour – some specialties more than others. This was a career reserved only for the best of the witches wizards, requiring near-perfect NEWTs. Even so, he felt that working on the Hospital Wing since her third year was rather excessive. This level of dedication was something even Percy Weasley wouldn't match.

"Not exactly," said Greengrass. For a moment she was silent, before she sighed. "It's just preparation for my actual goal, I'm afraid." She elaborated no further on what this goal entailed. "What about you? You said you figured out what you wanted to do in life during your OWLs. What is it?"

"Well, I thought I wanted to be an Auror," said Harry.

"But…?"

"But now I'm not so certain," he said. "I dunno. I don't really have a clue."

"And you accept that?"

"I think," said Harry. "Well, it's not like I have a choice. I have to accept it. It doesn't really bother me much anyway."

"How is that?" asked Greengrass. "I've always needed a goal in mind – something to look towards, otherwise I get confused and frustrated."

Well, for him, the goal had always been to either stay alive or kill Voldemort (mostly it was both); any goals beyond that was just wishful thinking, reserved for better times.

"I guess I'll just figure it out as I go," he said. "That's how I go about my life, anyway. It'll always work out in the end… more or less."

Even when he had a concrete goal in mind, he realised that he still kept true to this philosophy. When he set out to hunt the remaining Horcruxes, armed only with a vague idea of what each Horcrux might be, he barely had any plan in mind, relying mostly on pure instinct. This was, ultimately, what led to his bout with Ron; thinking about it now, he could hardly blame the man for leaving them, influenced by the Horcrux though he was.

In fact, he could barely recall any situation wherein he didn't abide by this philosophy. For better or for worse. He supposed this stemmed from the then-looming threat of Voldemort. There was no sense in thinking months beyond when he wasn't sure he'd even survive that long, and constructing any sort of plan was doomed to be futile given his age and inexperience as a wizard, especially in contrast to the Dark Lord. It had been far more fitting for Dumbledore to do all the thinking, and for him to merely react to the best of his abilities whenever his hand was forced.

He wondered whether things would have worked out differently were he to abide by other principles.

"I don't think I could ever share that worldview," said Greengrass. "You're essentially taking your chances with whatever life throws at you. Doesn't that scare you, at least?"

"Not really," he said. At this Greengrass showed a quizzical expression. "I mean, whatever happens, I know I'll be able to handle it. That's why I'm not really scared of anything… I think, at least."

"Anything? Not even death?"

"Someone once told me that, to a well organised mind, death was just the next great adventure."

"Do you genuinely believe that?"

He hesitated, twiddling his empty coffee cup. "I've seen the destructive consequences of fearing death, and I don't wanna go down that road." He thought back to that ephemeral copy of King's Cross, to the wailing, grotesque body of Voldemort, lying cold and limp on the divine white floor. "Someone – the same man – also told me it does not do to dwell on matters which you cannot control."

"That's much easier to say than do, I would imagine."

"Believe me, I understand," said Harry with a knowing smile. "It's just something I try to abide by."

Greengrass hummed, deep in thought. It seemed as if her hands had a mind of their own, moving with the speed and precision of machines.

"There is merit, I suppose, to your mindset," said Greengrass. "But how do you find meaning? What wakes you up in the morning? Adopting that view, I would argue, leaves one prone to mediocrity."

"What's wrong with mediocrity?"

This question seemed to startle Greengrass. She finally looked up from her paper, hands paused, eyebrows furrowed. It was as if she had never considered this simple thought.

If he was asked who was the most successful man he knew, Harry would not hesitate to refer to Mr Weasley. He was a man some would call mediocre (and, if money were one's sole measure of success, he would be called far worse than that), though to Harry he had all one would ever want in life: a big, loving family; a job he was passionate about; and, perhaps most importantly, moral integrity.

"I just don't understand how one could be fine with it," said Greengrass, her eyes alight with passion. "You only have this one life. Why settle for mediocrity, when you can strive for greatness? To be the best at what you do? Yes, failure is possible, but it is far outweighed, in my opinion, with the chance, however miniscule, of tremendous success."

"Not everyone is a Slytherin, Greengrass."

"True enough," she said, lips curving to a smile. "But you would be surprised at the indolence of Slytherins these days. Most people, it seems, adopt your view, in one way or another."

With that, she gently tore the page off her pad, blew the surface, and handed it towards him. "It's not my best portrait work, but I hope you find it satisfactory."

What she showed was a flattering portrait of him in his Hogwarts robes, staring onwards with a mischievous expression. It was less detailed than her drawing of the Hogwarts Express, having been drawn at a much faster rate, but she still managed to capture his likeness with startling accuracy, each line and curve perfectly placed to create a lifelike representation of him. He was struck by how much he had changed since he first arrived in this world he had been a thin, malnourished shell of a person (none of them during the run had mastered the subtle art of cooking, not even Hermione). Now he had filled out considerably, in large part thanks to Lily's (and his own) cooking. His shoulder had broadened, something that made him look more and more like James, according to Lily.

As in the previous picture, charcoal-Harry moved, though just as subtly, visible only through blinks, nods, and the occasional winks. It was as if someone had captured a picture of him, and for some reason decided to make it black-and-white.

"Wow, Greengrass – I don't know what to say," sputtered Harry. "This is amazing. Thank you, really."

"Keep it, sell it, or throw it away, I don't really mind. It's in your hands." Despite the casual tone she displayed, he could've swore she reddened somewhat at his complement. "Well, I'm afraid, my work here is done. I must return to my compartment, lest I worry Tracey – she must think I've finally decided to jump and off myself, given how I've been acting."

"Mind sufficiently cleared?"

"Absolutely," she said as she stood. "And thank you for that, by the way. It was nice talking to you, Potter. See you at Hogwarts."

"You too."

He watched Greengrass leave, feeling a warmth in his body not wholly caused by the hot coffee he had earlier. Carefully, he folded his portrait and slipped it into his breast pocket, suddenly grateful for the uncreasing charm Flitwick had taught them years earlier.

For the rest of the journey, he remained in good spirits.