Oliver's battered suitcase looked even smaller when set at the foot of his narrow bed. It was hardly worthy of the word "packing" — more like gathering the few scraps of a life that had never been quite his to begin with. A few shirts, socks with thinning heels, a frayed jumper Mrs. Reed had mended more than once. They hardly filled the case, so he tucked in the old sketchpad he rarely showed anyone and, at last, set his guitar carefully across the top. The case wouldn't close over it, not really. But the guitar never went in the suitcase. The guitar went with him. Always.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, running his hand over the smooth wood. The soundboard was scratched, the strings dull from age and wear, but when he pressed a chord the vibration filled his chest like a heartbeat. Tomorrow—no, today—he was leaving. For a place that promised magic. For a place that said he belonged. He didn't know if he dared to believe it, but the letter still lay folded in his pocket as if the words might vanish if he looked away too long.
Mrs. Reed knocked gently on the doorframe. "You ready, love?" she asked, her voice thick with something he didn't often hear from her — reluctance. She had raised so many children not her own that goodbyes had become routine. But Oliver could tell, just from the way she lingered, that this one wasn't routine for her.
He swallowed. "As ready as I'll ever be."
She came inside and smoothed her apron as though she needed to busy her hands. Then, suddenly, she bent and hugged him fiercely, tighter than she ever had before. "Don't you let anyone dim that music of yours," she said against his ear. "It's who you are, Oliver. Don't you forget it, not even if the world tries to tell you otherwise."
His throat closed up. He could only nod into her shoulder, clutching the words like another possession to tuck beside the guitar.
The journey to King's Cross was a blur of gray pavements and rattling train cars. Mrs. Reed fussed with his collar, handed him sandwiches wrapped in paper, and reminded him twice to watch his bag. Oliver stared out the window, clutching the handle of his guitar case. Every mile seemed to carry him farther from the life he knew, closer to something so vast and strange he couldn't imagine the shape of it.
King's Cross Station hit him like a wave. Noise, steam, the smell of coffee and coal. The constant swell and ebb of voices from every direction. He gripped his suitcase tighter and tried not to look like a child who had never been anywhere on his own. Mrs. Reed squeezed his shoulder once and murmured, "You've got this." Then she kissed his hair, pressed a coin into his hand, and left him at the great brass clock, blinking back tears.
The instructions had been simple, but they gnawed at him. Platform nine and three-quarters. He glanced between the signs marked Nine and Ten, both quite ordinary. Crowds streamed between them, oblivious. Was it some sort of cruel joke? He scanned faces, desperate for a hint of someone who looked like they knew the secret.
And then he saw them. A group that could not possibly belong to the gray-walled station — a family whose voices carried over the crowd, ginger-haired and bustling with energy. The mother called out instructions, the children darted about with owls and trunks, and Oliver froze. He'd never seen people so blatantly, so proudly different. They made no attempt to hide it.
At the center of them all was a skinny boy with round glasses who looked just as uncertain as Oliver felt. The boy lingered near the youngest ginger-haired boy, staring at the barrier between platforms. Oliver drifted closer, pretending to study the departure board, his heart hammering. The ginger-haired twins sprinted full-tilt at the brick wall and—disappeared. Just like that.
Oliver nearly dropped his suitcase. He rubbed his eyes, certain he had imagined it. But then the mother placed a hand on the youngest boy's shoulder, spoke reassuringly, and urged him forward. The boy gathered himself, ran, and vanished as well.
The dark-haired boy with glasses stood alone now, visibly gulping. Oliver took a step toward him before he could think better of it. "You're going through there?" he asked, nodding at the barrier.
The boy startled, then looked at Oliver's guitar case. "I… I think so," he admitted. "They did." He gestured after the vanished family. His voice carried the same mixture of awe and fear Oliver felt.
"Well." Oliver adjusted his grip on his suitcase. "If you do it first and smash your head, I'll know not to try."
To his relief, the boy laughed nervously. "Fair enough. But if it works…"
"I'll be right behind you."
The boy squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and ran at the barrier. Oliver flinched, waiting for the crash. But the boy vanished into thin air, as though swallowed by the wall. Oliver's pulse thundered. His turn.
He sucked in air and sprinted forward. The wall loomed. Any second he expected stone to splinter his skull. Instead—he stumbled out into sunlight and steam.
The scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express gleamed before him, hissing and magnificent, like something from a dream. Owls hooted from their cages, cats wove between trunks, and voices brimmed with excitement. The air smelled of coal smoke and promise. Oliver staggered to a halt, gaping.
The boy with glasses grinned at him, a little wild-eyed. "We made it."
Oliver laughed shakily. "Guess so."
They fell into step together, dragged by the tide of families. Oliver felt the ache of it — the way mothers kissed foreheads, fathers lifted trunks, siblings argued cheerfully. He had no one beside him, except his guitar. He hugged it closer and tried not to mind.
The boy paused awkwardly as they neared the train. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
Oliver blinked. The name tickled a memory — hadn't Mrs. Reed once muttered something about that name in the newspaper? But the boy looked so ordinary, so uncertain. Not a headline, but a boy. "Oliver Reed," he said quietly.
They both hoisted their luggage up the steps and began to search for a place. Every compartment seemed crammed with laughing children. Oliver's stomach sank. But near the end of the train they found a door slid mostly shut. A lanky ginger-haired boy sat inside, nose red, a smudge on his sweater. He looked up hopefully.
"Mind if we sit?" Harry asked.
The boy shrugged. "Go ahead."
Oliver slid in, his guitar bumping against the doorframe. The ginger-haired boy's eyes immediately fixed on it. "Blimey," he said. "You play?"
Oliver nodded, settling it carefully across his knees. He wasn't sure if he'd actually play — not with strangers watching — but having it close steadied him.
Harry leaned forward. "Could you?" he asked. Not demanding, just curious. Something in his voice carried the same loneliness Oliver knew so well.
For a moment Oliver hesitated. Then, quietly, he plucked a few chords. The sound was thin against the roar of the train outside, but it curled around the three boys like a secret. The ginger-haired boy's grin spread. Harry's shoulders relaxed. Oliver felt the first fragile thread of belonging tug at him.
The train lurched, whistles blaring. The platform slid away. And for the first time Oliver Reed thought — maybe this wasn't a mistake. Maybe he really was on his way to tomorrow
The train had settled into its rhythm, wheels hammering out a steady beat that reminded Oliver of a metronome. The sound filled the pauses in conversation while the three boys sized each other up.
The ginger-haired boy introduced himself between bites of a sandwich that looked hastily packed. "Ron. Ron Weasley."
Harry nodded, as though he'd already guessed. Oliver noticed him glance at the owl cage propped by Ron's knee, feathers poking out through the bars.
The rhythm of the tracks and the clatter of voices from other compartments gave Oliver something to anchor his nerves against. He rested his fingers on the guitar, strumming softly as Ron launched into a story about his brothers, each tale tumbling after the next — Fred and George setting off fireworks under the loo seat, Percy forever pompous with his prefect badge. Oliver half-listened, half-watched Harry, who hung on the stories with wonder.
"Big family?" Oliver asked when Ron paused for breath.
"The biggest," Ron said, not without pride. "Six brothers. And me mum fusses after all of us. It's mad at home, but… better than being alone, I s'pose."
The words stung before Oliver could hide it. He bent over the guitar, letting the chords hum low to cover his silence. Harry caught his eye briefly, and in that glance Oliver felt something unspoken pass between them. Harry understood. He knew what it meant to be on the outside of warmth looking in.
They might have said more if the compartment door hadn't rattled open with a sharp slam.
Three boys filled the doorway like a shadow sweeping in. The one in front had pale hair slicked neatly to the side, his face pointed as if carved from marble. His grey eyes flicked around the compartment with cool disdain.
"Well, well," he drawled. "If it isn't the famous Harry Potter."
Oliver stiffened. He hadn't known Harry was famous — hadn't thought of him as anything but a boy as lost as himself. But the name seemed to ripple through the pale-haired boy like a challenge.
Harry blinked. "Yes?" he said cautiously.
The boy stepped in, flanked by two thickset figures who looked like they'd been carved from boulders. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he announced, as though expecting applause. He ignored Ron entirely, but his gaze snagged on Oliver's lap.
"What's this?" Draco sneered, pointing at the guitar. "Some silly Muggle toy?"
Oliver's fingers tightened instinctively over the strings. He didn't answer.
Draco smirked. "How charming. Potter, you'll want proper friends if you're going to survive here. Not—" his lip curled at Ron, "riffraff with hand-me-downs. And certainly not some little minstrel strumming away like it's a pub."
Ron flushed crimson, half-rising from his seat. Harry looked caught between anger and confusion. Oliver stayed still, hands gripping the neck of his guitar so tightly his knuckles whitened.
One of Draco's companions — Crabbe, or Goyle, it hardly mattered — snorted and reached down. "Let's see it."
Before Oliver had time to think, the thick fingers were closing around the guitar's neck. Something in him snapped. His whole body reacted before reason could stop him.
"Don't touch it!"
The words were a snarl, ripped from his chest. He surged forward, yanking the guitar back. His elbow caught the boy in the ribs with a satisfying thud. Crabbe (or maybe it was Goyle) wheezed, stumbling backward. The guitar's strings screeched under Oliver's grip, but he didn't let go.
Draco's smirk faltered. "Oi! Don't just—"
Oliver swung again, the heel of his hand connecting sharply with the other boy's jaw. Years of defending himself in crowded foster homes had taught him quick, desperate strikes. He shoved with his whole weight, and Crabbe tumbled into Goyle, both boys crashing into the doorway in a tangle of limbs.
For a heartbeat, the compartment was silent except for Oliver's ragged breathing. His guitar trembled against him, but unbroken.
"Don't ever touch it," Oliver said, voice low and shaking with fury. He didn't sound like himself. He sounded older, harder.
Draco's face twisted, pale cheeks blotching with anger and humiliation. He stared at Oliver as though memorizing every detail of him. "You'll regret that," he hissed. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
Ron snorted, breaking the silence. "Looked like we just saw who we're dealing with. Two great lumps knocked over by a guitar boy."
Harry bit back a laugh, though his eyes glittered with admiration.
Draco's lips pressed thin. He yanked the door shut so hard the glass rattled. The sound of their retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Oliver slumped back onto the seat, the adrenaline draining out of him all at once. His hands shook as he tried to loosen his grip on the guitar. He hadn't meant to fight. But the thought of someone's hands tearing at the one thing that was truly his had sparked something primal.
"You alright?" Harry asked quietly.
Oliver nodded, though his throat felt tight.
"That was brilliant," Ron said, still grinning. "Did you see his face? Malfoy won't forget that in a hurry."
Harry leaned closer. "You meant it, didn't you? About the guitar."
Oliver met his eyes. "It's the only thing that's mine. The only thing that's ever been mine."
Harry nodded slowly, as if he understood that more than anyone else could.
The train rumbled on, carrying them north. Conversation eventually drifted to lighter things — Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs leaping about the compartment. Oliver even dared to strum a tune, this time brighter, matching the hum of wheels on tracks. Ron laughed when the frog narrowly escaped onto the guitar strings, and Harry smiled in that small, grateful way of his.
But underneath the laughter, Oliver felt the weight of Draco Malfoy's glare still burning into his back. He knew that boy wouldn't let the insult rest. And he knew, somehow, that this fight wasn't finished.
For now, though, as the sun slanted golden through the train windows and Harry leaned closer to listen to his playing, Oliver allowed himself to believe in the fragile thread of friendship forming between them. He let the music speak what words couldn't — a promise, a plea, and a warning all in one.
The Hogwarts Express thundered onward, carrying them all toward destinies none of them could yet imagine.