The Thing About Trains

AN:

Oni: Things will start condensing after this chapter. Starting next chapter we should be looking at a year per chapter with snapshots of hilarity and/or importance.

Tom: Oni does not own Harry Potter or his band of wand waving maniacs.

Oni: Aaaaaand ONWARDS!

Is anyone still out there? Oh! Hello, hello! It seems you have decided to continue this story for a third time! Huzzah, huzzah! Now that you have arrived, we can continue on this train wreck of a story.

Speaking of which, I have been thinking about trains recently. Well, really anything that rides on rails. They really are such nifty inventions, don't you think? Even the magical folk think so, what with their Goblin mine carts and their scarlet steam trains, and you know how difficult it is to get wizards on board with anything Muggle. Sure, machines are all well and good but paper isn't? Honestly!

Anyways, back to trains. Depending on the kind of train, though, it might be hard to get them moving. The more that is on the metal can with wheels, the harder it is to make it budge. Even if you have the power of gravity on your side, you'd still need to exert enough force to get your locomotive over the edge first (unless it's already teetering on the side of descent, then all you would require is a little nudge in that direction to make it fall, but I highly doubt that's important right now).

However, once you do get the damn thing moving the heavier train becomes far more difficult to stop. They just keep chugging along, gaining speed and momentum until suddenly it would take loads more force to slow down its movement than it took to get it moving in the first place even once the train's run out of steam. By then it's too late, and the train is far too fast and powerful to truly halt. Fascinating, don't you think?

Ah, but you didn't come here to listen to me prattle on about trains, did you? Especially since it probably has nothing to do with this story whatsoever. No, you're here to read about little Tom Riddle and his shopping spree in a magical marketplace. Well I've kept you long enough then. Let us see what that rascal is up to.

The first stop on their trip turned out to be a place called Gringotts. As they neared the large marble building in the distance, Dumbledore taught Tom the nuances of the Wizarding currency. That is, the three coin system that seemed to have no logical base. Okay, he could understand the nature of using large gold coins, medium silver coins, and small bronze coins. But twenty nine Knuts to a Sickle and seventeen Sickles to Galleon made no sense whatsoever. Apparently they weren't really made of the precious metals, but were smithed to appear that way for the currency's sake, which meant it can't be blamed on the changing values of the metals they appear to be. It's almost as if the system was made purely to show how off the rocker different they were to the regular pound monetary system.

Then Dumbledore told him who was behind such an insane and nonsensical system.

Now, Tom was prepared to see wizards and witches perform magic, as it was already established that he himself was a wizard and therefore the strange things he did was rather run of the mill here. He was even expecting the broomsticks that were displayed on shop window, because most stories with witches in them had flying broomsticks.

He was not prepared for the Goblins.

Honestly they were all angles. Sharp and pointy ears. Sharp and pointy chins. Sharp and pointy eyes. Sharp and pointy teeth. They bowed to the duo as they walked past the giant double doors, their presence only making that rhyming warning carved on the marble wall much more menacing. All the fairy tale stories told Tom that goblins weren't to be trusted, or at least trifled with. If those axes that were strapped to their diminutive forms were as sharp as they looked, then he wanted to make sure he was always on their good side.

Thankfully Dumbledore seemed to know what he was doing, so the young boy decided just to emulate him instead. The goblins didn't seem to care either way when they finally got up to the teller to open up a vault for him, so Tom decided to change tactics. Considering that goblins ran the only Wizarding bank and were portrayed as money loving creatures anyway, it would be better to talk their language. And by language he mean money, not Gobbledegook.

"What kind of investments are there in the magical world?" the boy had asked with a tilt of his head.

"None that a scholarship student with barely a Knut to his name could afford." the goblin sneered down at the boy, but Tom was unfazed.

Well, mostly unfazed. There was something more terrifying about Goblin sneering than regular human sneering. Must be the teeth. But he didn't want to show this obvious predator any weakness, so instead he put on a brave face and promptly shrugged.

"Have to start somewhere. Money may not grow on trees, but money grows. Besides, if there really is going to be a war, then the factories in London are going to be booming very soon."

The goblin stared at the young lad for a solid minute without even blinking, his beady eyes shifting up to glare at the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. So, the man already knew of the boy's intellect, and had given the boy free reign of setting up his account. Most muggborns had their parents do it or simply exchanged pounds for Galleons and Sickles, and no eleven year old that wasn't egged on by their pureblood parents (and usually ended up sounded like idiots instead of intellectual because they had no idea what they were spouting) asked about investments on the first visit. This boy was ambitious, that he could tell.

Half an hour later provided Tom with a vault and a few galleons invested in various companies in London. This time the Goblins' sharp sneers were almost...friendly. Huh, go figure, talk their language and suddenly you're loved. Tom was starting to like this world already!

Their next stop was a shop that sold trunks. Now, usually this was a quick venture unless you were an excited muggleborn that wanted to know everything about the trunks (we're looking at you Hermione Granger) or a stuck up pureblood who wanted the best quality everything in their life (and you Draco Malfoy). The trunk shop, however, had never had anyone like Tom Riddle to deal with before.

"Why trunks?"

Initially the salesperson had looked rather affronted. The child had just insulted the market that he banked his career on. Before he could defend his livelihood, however, the child had continued.

"I mean, these trunks have extension charms on them, which means that the space inside is way bigger than it is on the outside. These charms work by having a set extended space inside so that the trunk can carry far more than a regular old trunk."

Silently the salesperson nodded, confused.

"Then if that's the case, why not use duffle bags or backpacks, which are more portable than a heavy trunk and more durable and have larger openings than a regular extended pouch." Tom had continued, "And don't say levitate the trunk, because you said that before and that's moot point because a backpack could just be slung over the shoulder and requires no spells because if you haven't noticed sir, I don't have my wand yet and won't be able to levitate anything with it until I learn it in school. How am I supposed to lug this thing around in the meantime?"

The child had ended up getting a trunk anyway, grumbling about common sense as the trunk shop owner had an existential crisis about how a child had somehow given him a better marketable product than the one his family had been using for generations. Dumbledore was starting to wish he had gotten some sweets to snack on as he enjoyed. So far Tom was already making waves with his words alone, and they haven't even gotten their books yet.

This line of almost exasperated questioning extended to the stationary shop, which got a rundown on how pens and pencils and paper worked. Still, he begrudgingly purchased the quills and inkwells and the ridiculously expensive rolls of not-paper (which was now identified as parchment. Parchment! These hooligans were still using animal skins! Those poor goats!). Once again the young orphan had left the shop owners with a kind of business epiphany, if their scrambled attempts to contact the Muggle companies that produced such things that the child had name dropped in his tirade had anything to say about it.

The apothecary and second supply store came out a little worse for wear as even Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up when Tom started mildly panicking about safety regulations. Sure, he could understand cauldrons and phials and scales (and telescopes, but that was a different subject with less of a chance of getting burned by hot reactive liquids). It was basically the same as the beakers and test tubes that the orphans got to use in science class. But where were the goggles? The gloves? The safety coats that the teachers never let the children enter the classroom without when they were working with chemicals?

"So what happens when a potion goes wrong and the stuff splashes on other people?" asked the wide eyed and incredibly worried boy to the blankly staring adults.

"They go to the Hospital Wing." Dumbledore supplied helpfully.

There was a loud groan of frustration from Tom, who was very close to pulling his hair out. He'd have to see if he could filch some supplies from the cabinet in the orphanage if this was how Potions was going to be taught. He very well didn't want to die or be permanently disfigured just because there were no safety protocols or equipment.

Surprisingly the most 'normal' reaction had been in Flourish and Blotts, where Tom had behaved as any excited intelligent muggleborn would have, flitting from shelf to shelf excitedly looking at all the various books for sale. There was, however, an interesting flicker of understanding when Tom perused some of the covers that the child put back on the shelf. Still, as expected, there were used copies of all of his required schoolbooks as well as a copy of Hogwarts: A History, The Muggleborn's Guide to the Wizarding World, and surprisingly The Founders: Hogwarts Four. Everything was still within the supply budget, so Dumbledore had allowed the purchase. Seeing the bright and happy smile of the young boy made it worth it as well.

However, Dumbledore decided to test Tom again when he saw a familiar head of white hair from within Madame Malkin's. Making an excuse to check for some robes for himself, the older wizard allowed for the boy to be measured on his own. This would be his first gauge as to how Tom would behave with others. Tom, who had no idea how defining this moment would be, simply hopped onto the stool that Madame Malkin motioned to and did his best to hold still as he was fitted for his robes. As he waited he wondered if he could somehow prank Father Hale now that he had a robe that looked similar enough to the dark clergy uniforms. This train of thought was derailed by a haughty voice.

"Hogwarts, too?"

Tom turned to the source of the voice, which appeared to be a boy around the same age as him with the whitest hair he'd ever seen on a young person.

"Yes." Tom replied, "First year."

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands." stated the boy with the impossibly white hair in a bored, drawling voice, "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms."

"But I thought you had to be there to get your own wand." Tom replied curiously.

The posh blonde boy blinked at the statement, but nodded his head in a shrugging manner so that he didn't get poked by the pins.

"True, but there's no harm in looking." he finally conceded, "After all, style is very important."

"Wouldn't use be more important?" questioned Tom curiously, "Say you had the ugliest wand in the world, but it let you produce the strongest magic. Would you still use a prettier wand for aesthetic alone?"

For a moment so the white haired boy did not answer, his face blank. Even so, Tom could tell that he was thinking the idea over.

"Yes." he finally replied pompously, "I wouldn't be caught dead with a hideous wand."

Lie. Tom noted, as he was very good at telling these kinds of things, but he didn't call the child out on it. He did, however, add it to the mental picture this boy was painting. Outwardly Tom shrugged in a similar manner to the other boy as to avoid the wrath of the pins.

"Then I suppose we should agree to disagree."

Silence passed between them for a few moments before the blonde boy spoke again.

"Know what House you'll be in yet?"

"I don't believe that's up to the student." Tom voiced, his mind going back to the book he procured all those years ago with such familiar names and a bittersweet friendship between four friends that built a legacy together and thought of the poetic protagonist (and author), "I think I'd like it if I got into Slytherin though."

The boy with the snow-white blond hair gave him a wide grin. That was apparently the correct answer in something that Tom had already vaguely realized as a test. In fact, their entire conversation thus far had been an odd sort of social test. Was this how people scouted for friends in the Wizarding world?

"Quite." The snow blond said simply, his air of superiority slightly lowered enough for Tom to see the excited child that he was supposed to be (seriously, why act like an adult when you're still young? Adults are boring!), "No one really knows until they get there, do they? But I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been."

"I didn't realize that genetics was a factor in house placement." Tom replied slowly, trying to think back to where that smidgen of information was and found no proof of the boy's statement.

But he wasn't lying. Because Tom could tell that he wasn't and that was confusing. Thankfully the yet unnamed boy next to him decided to reword his statement to something that made more sense.

"Oh it doesn't really." the posh boy admitted, "But most families end up going in the same house. Say, how did you not know that? What house were your parents in?"

Now, Tom could lie to this kid and say something like 'Oh my parents? They're Ravenclaws. It's where I get my brains from', and it probably would work if it weren't for the fact that the Wizarding world appeared to be a small tight knit community. Even though he knew that the truth of his parentage would initially be a disadvantage, he'd rather not lie about something that could easily be debunked and therefore label him as a lying cheat before he really even got to know this world. So he didn't.

"They didn't have one." Tom replied softly before tilting his head to the side, "At least I don't think so. They're no really in my life anyway, considering they're dead."

Well, he was pretty sure his dad was dead. Or at least dead to Tom if the bloke just didn't even have the decency to take him away from Wool's. Either way, most likely not a wizard.

"But they were our kind, weren't they?" asked the white haired boy, his tone with a slight tings of desperation.

"No." Tom answered with a slight shake of his head, "As far as I know neither of them were magical."

The change in the blond boy's demeanor was obvious. Not only did the posh attitude return with full force, but now there was an air of disgust emanating from him. Proverbial hackles had been raised as if the boy had been personally insulted.

"You're a mudblood." he whispered, as if asserting it more to himself than Tom.

Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.

The words of the parrot echoed in Tom's mind. Now he understood what kind of name it was. It was derogatory title for those without magical lineage. Mud, because mud is the opposite of Magic's immaculate bloodlines. At least in their eyes. So maybe this particular child will write him off as a nobody. Maybe he won't find a friend in his boy, but that was alright. He was sure that there were more people like him and like Tom. But for now, the dark haired boy knew that he had at least one person in his corner, an adult no less. An adult in an authoritative position.

"That's you done, my dear." said Madame Malkin to Tom, who took his cue to leave with grace, saying a polite goodbye to the sputtering blond boy and a thank you to the nice robe-making witch who had patted him on the head and told him he was wonderfully well-mannered.

Professor Dumbledore was waiting for him near the register with a robe folded in his arms. Tom completely missed the bright twinkle of the man's eyes behind half moon glasses in favor of staring incredulously at the purple llamas hopping on the bright green fabric. So the plum suit was just the tip of the iceberg of the wizard's particular fashion sense. When he finally did look up at the man, Dumbledore seemed rather proud, most likely of this...find. Well, Tom supposed when you were a Deputy Head for a boarding school for magical children it gave you one step ahead of the power-wielding children if they were too weirded out by your fashion sense to cause much trouble.

Once the robes (both the 'sensible' Hogwarts uniform ones and the dancing llama one) were purchased, the Professor guided the child out of the store. Only then did he voice his thoughts on the conversation that he had witnessed.

"You did well holding your own, Tom." Dumbledore began simply, his eyesore of a robe safely covered to prevent staining, "Mr. Malfoy is one of those wizards that have been raised with a particular opinion on the placement of muggleborns in our society."

The boy shrugged helplessly, his own robes stored in his shrunken trunk along with his other things. Dumbledore had kindly conjured a chain so that he could hang the small wooden chest around his neck, smiling when the child continued to grumble about practicality and portability. Honestly if wizards held themselves in such high regarded that they refused to look at 'muggle' technology because it was too 'lowly', then Tom would just have to change their minds little by little. They might even get a clue one of these days.

"Yes," Tom muttered sourly, "I believe the name 'mudblood' states their opinion pretty clearly."

But then why had Mr. Burke accept him the way he had if his outlook was similar? Yes, it would explain his initial distaste of the obviously 'muggle' child that most likely was magical enough to notice the bookstore in the first place, but not magical enough to have at first known its true nature. It would also explain the dress of the patrons, who were all labeled as 'wizards' in Tom's mind. However, it didn't explain the owner's sudden... fondness for him. This was most perplexing.

"But you stood your ground rather well, and provided some intelligent replies to his questions." Dumbledore added, "Though I'm rather curious, why choose Slytherin?"

Tom's mind looked back to the book that he still had tucked safely under a floorboard under his bed. The one about a serpent talking boy who went on a quest to find friends and make something of himself. The one would found friends and built a legacy with them. He thought of all these things and shrugged again.

"It feels right, sir." was his answer before grinning cheekily up at the professor, "Plus it is the house of snakes, and I can talk to snakes. I thought I'd fit in there, but from what Malfoy said now I'm not so sure."

Malfoy's comment about families had worried him. It wouldn't be far-fetched to assume that most of those in the Slytherin House were people like the blond haired boy and looks down on those not of continuous magical blood. What a shame. Salazar Slytherin had been so very relatable to Tom, being a muggleborn who was shunned by his village and was exiled. Did people like Malfoy know about that? It was rather doubtful. Being proud of their Slytherin alumni while simultaneously sneering down at muggleborns was bloody hypocritical if it was the case, so Tom suspected that they didn't know that particular tidbit.

Whilst in his musings the duo of Professor and uninitiated student had reached their final shopping destination of the day. Ollivander's, the sign above the shop proudly displayed in golden lettering. The young wizard-to-be stared in awe at the beautifully carved stick resting in a velvet box that was displayed in the large glass window. Once he walked through those doors, he would officially be a wizard. Dumbledore smiled down at him.

"I always leave this place for last." the professor explained, "Getting one's wand is a rite of passage of sorts."

The bell tickled above him and Tom could feel the buzzing of magical potential around him. It was an odd (but not bad, just... different) feeling. Pillars of boxes rose all the way up to the ceiling, and perhaps it was the sheer amount of wands that had enamored the child enough to not realize that there was a third person in the room.

"Good afternoon," came a soft voice that still reverberated on the walls of the small shop room.

It made Tom jump nearly a foot in the air as he quickly snatched his hand away from on of the boxes he had been inspecting and turned to meet the owner of the voice with a sheepish expression. Wide pale eyes stared into wide dark eyes, the man in his late thirties having an air that could only be described as vague-yet-piercing. This eyes then shifted to Dumbledore.

"Ah, Albus." The wandshop owner greeted, "Yes, Unicorn Hair and Apple, twelve inches, quite stiff, correct? It seems you've brought another student. You are looking to buy a wand?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't." Tom replied softly, still quite shaken from the sudden appearance and rather creepy disposition of the man, "No offense, sir."

"None taken." was the flippant reply from Mr. Ollivander before staring once again at the professor.

"Mr. Riddle here has had a rather interesting day, Garrick." Dumbledore answered with a smile and apparently unfazed by the wandmaker's behavior, "But he is indeed here to find a wand to call his own."

Ollivander simply nodded and turned back to Tom, who did not like being under his scrutiny for long. His pale eyes felt piercing and for some reason he felt...exposed.

"Now on to business." Ollivander began, "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm ambidextrous, sir." Tom answered, to which the wandmaker's eyebrows shot up at.

"I see." the man muttered, "Please hold out both your arms then."

Once Tom obliged, the wizard took out his own wand and gave a flick and a tape measure that had been previously sitting innocently on the floor rose up and began to measure every part of him. Ollivander himself had gone deeper into his shop, though his voice could still be easily heard.

"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Riddle." the wandmaker's voice echoed from a group of pillars of boxes that appeared to be getting shorter, "We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

When Ollivander returned, Tom couldn't even see his head as the pile of boxes he carried piled higher. He was afraid the man was going to bump into him and send the boxes flying but the wandmaker set down his burden near the child's feet instead. A cream white wand with a spiral handle was shoved into his right hand.

"Try this one." was the excited demand-request, "Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Give it a wave if you please."

Crash.

A vase at the far end corner of the shop shattered into smithereens. Tom went to apologize but was immediately waved off as if this sort of this happened often. The wand was snatched from his hand to be replaced with another one that was distinctly more brown, but the handle was carved with rather pretty leaf designs.

"Heartstring's to temperamental, hm? Holly and Unicorn hair. Give it a try."

Clink.

A crack in one of the windows appeared. But once again Ollivander shook his head and replaced it with another. This one was completely black and had a vinelike pattern on the handle. Were all wands simply ornate? Why was Malfoy complaining about the designs?

"Unicorn hair's too docile. Ebony and Phoenix feather. Try-"

Fwoosh.

The remainder of the flower in the vase set on fire. Ollivander shook his head, but appeared gleeful for the challenge. More wands were attempted and discarded. Both adult wizards were putting out fires left and right, though everyone highly doubted the vase could be salvaged at that point. It had been broken, put together, set on fire, turned into a newt, set on fire, grew legs and tried to escape, set on fire, shattered, and set on fire again. Ollivander behaved as if on a sugar high.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere..."

Before he could choose another wand, however, Dumbledore put a hand on the man's shoulder and gave him an earnest look.

"Why don't we try one of the two?" the Professor asked, and Ollivander's eyes winded as he dashed to the back, leaving Tom incredibly confused.

When the wandmaker emerged again, he was carrying two boxes, an excited grin plastered on his face. He opened one, revealing a wand that appeared to be made out of sun-bleached bone. The handle, unlike the others, was wild, appearing uncarved and untamed, bent bone with a claw on one end.

"Yew and Phoenix feather." Ollivander stated almost reverently, "Thirteen and a half inches. Rigid. Take it and give it a wave, Mr. Riddle."

As soon as his thin fingers wrapped around the wicked looking handle, there was a sudden rush of warm energy that flowed through him. Dark eyes widened. That hadn't happened before. This time when he waved the wand, brightly colored sparks fired off the tip, showering the group in green and silver light. Dumbledore clapped good-naturedly with Ollivander, who in turn shouted:

"Oh bravo, Mr. Riddle! Though Albus, how did you suspect...?"

Both the boy and the wandmaker turned to the professor, who smiled in a pleased and mysterious manner.

"I didn't." was the admittance, "But it seems that Fate has brought us together, Tom. The wand proves this."

"Sir." Tom said seriously with blank dark eyes as Dumbledore paid for the wand, "I think I got lost somewhere around five minutes ago when you started talking about 'the two'."

The bell tinkled above them and Ollivander waved the duo goodbye before muttering to himself as he shuffled back into his shop. Overall it was a very odd experience and Tom felt like he was missing something rather important.

"Garrick collects his wand cores personally," the twinkling eyed professor explained as they passed the barrier of Diagon Alley and back into the Leaky Cauldron, "But sometimes he gets cores donated to him. The Phoenix that donated his feathers that reside inside your wand and that other wand is none other than my familiar, Fawkes. Hence why I wanted to try them."

Tom however was hung up on only one subject. He didn't understand much in the ways of Fate, not yet, so he filed those words away later. All he could focus on then was-

"Sir you have a pet Phoenix?" he asked the amused wizard in the plum suit excitedly, "What's it like having one? Is he always on fire? What does he eat? Has he ever accidentally burned one of your things? Can I meet him? Can he sense if I have his feather? What-"

This line of questions continued until they finally reached Wool's once more. Happy with his answers and high on the euphoria of discovering a world of magic, Tom Riddle settled into his threadbare bed with a wide grin on his face.

It never really left him for the remainder of the summer.

By the time September first had rolled around, Tom had already read through all of his textbooks. Twice. Then he went back to Borgin and Burke's to practice. He had found out from a couple of books in the not-library that he could get away with casting spells if the area was counted as 'magical'. Mr. Burke seemed to respect his drive to attempt most of his spells before the school year, and had allowed Tom to practice in the back.

Tom rose bright and early on the first day of September, packing away his remaining things, including his personal books and what few belongings he owned. Everything he had went into that trunk, grumbling slightly of how he had to lug the damn thing all the way to King's Cross.

The walk to the station was shorter than that of Charing Cross, though it took longer with the added weight. Still, he was right on time as Tom surveyed his ticket. Platform Nine and Three Quarters had been described to him already, so the lone orphan easily found the brick wall that separated to two platforms. With only a tiny bit of trepidation, Tom wheeled his trunk to face the wall and ran straight into it.

Though his entire body braced for impact, none came. Instead, he went right past it as if the wall wasn't there in the first place, and the child stood gaping for a second at the brilliant scarlet steam train that sat at the newly revealed platform, which already had a few people milling around. Getting out of the way just in case more people came barreling through the entrance (and then holding back a yelp when that very thing happened), the small rags-wearing boy wheeled his trunk down the platform in search of an empty compartment. Considering that he was still relatively early, he found one rather quickly.

Hauling his trunk (ah, the perks of training for the circus for most of his life - muscles!) into the car and then into the compartment, Tom Riddle sighed and rested his head on the back of the seat. The nervousness of going so far from everything he'd ever known returned to him with full force, but he wasn't going to stop now. He was a wizard now and he intended on being the best wizard he could be.

Still, Malfoy's tentative olive branch of friendship and subsequent recoil of disgust worried Tom. In a world that looked down on muggleborns, and Tom in his patched clothing obviously being one, would he even find friends?

"Um, excuse me? May I come in?" came a squeaky voice from the now opened compartment door.

Tom looked up, then slightly down. Now, he was no expert on the growth of children, but that was short for even regular standards. But this child had already taken in his 'muggleness' and had asked to join him. How could he say no?

"Sure." Tom told the diminutive boy with a shrug, "Take a seat."

The ridiculously short boy had done just that, taking the seat opposite to Tom's own after stowing his trunk away with a strength that was admirable for one of his stature. They awkwardly stared at each other before the orphan realized that he was supposed to introduce himself.

"I'm Tom Riddle." The boy said with only a hint of nervousness, holding his hand out to his new acquaintance.

"Filius Flitwick." The shorter child squeaked, taking the hand with vigor.

"Have you read any of the books yet?" Tom questioned, not really sure how to make conversation.

However, it appeared that he had struck gold, because Filius' smile widened. For some odd reason it reminded Tom of the sharp toothy grins of the Gringotts goblins, though this one was warm and full of energy.

"Oh yes!" came Filius' answer with a couple of rapid nods, "Twice over!"

This time it was Tom that smiled. They talked for quite some time about lessons and magical theory, going over certain spells that they would most likely be learning over the course of their education. In was during this time that it was revealed that Tom was muggleborn and Filius was half goblin, each happy with the fact that the other didn't care much about such things, replacing disgust and condescension with interest and curiosity. As a whistle blew from outside and the train started its journey toward Hogwarts, school for magic, the orphan boy grinned at what he hoped would soon be a good friend.

"I think I'm going to like you, Filius."

"I think I'm going to like you too, Tom."

The chugging of the train gradually sped up, and soon enough the grey skies of London was replaced with rolling green hills. Inside one of these compartments, a boy known as Tom Riddle was learning how to make friends. The locomotive flew past the landscape, a red blur to those who had to be looking, unstoppable now that it had gotten going.

Because that's the thing about trains. Once they've started chugging away they're very hard to stop.

AN:

Oni: That's all for now, folks!

Tom: If you are enjoying the story, please, Follow, Favorite, And Review. And if you have some ideas of hilarity you'd like to see, we'd love to hear it.

Oni: And we'll see you next time, My Pretties!