The whistle of the Hogwarts Express still echoed faintly in Harry's ears long after the platform had vanished from sight.
He sat by the window, forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the familiar world of London melt away into a blur of green and gold countryside.
The sun spilled across the fields like liquid honey, and for the first time in his life, he was on a journey that wasn't just to another cupboard or classroom—but to something unknown.
Hogwarts.
Magic.
A future that might actually belong to him.
He wanted to believe it would all be different, a better life than the one he'd had with the dursley's.
The compartment door slid open with a rush of voices, breaking his thoughts.
"Hey, this one's empty!"
Three boys about his age tumbled inside.
Their laughter filled the small space as they dropped their trunks, talking all at once.
The tallest of the three had sandy blond hair and wore his confidence like a second skin.
He was already wearing his Hogwarts robes, badge perfectly centered.
"Name's Davis," he said easily, offering his hand. "Davis Gardner, muggle-born. You must be—oh wait, I know who you are."
Harry blinked. "You do?"
"Of course! Everyone does. You're him—the Boy Who Lived."
The other two boys craned their necks to get a better look.
One had sharp brown eyes and slicked-back dark hair.
"Ben Sharp," he said curtly. "Books say you were save by your grandmother when the dark lord came calling, only to then die in a car crash a few years later? You sure its really him?"
Harry stiffened, not sure how to respond.
Davis elbowed Ben with a grin.
"Don't listen to him, Potter. I'd know that scar on your forhead anywhere, they say that thanks to the powerful magic cast by Euphemia the dark lord was only able to make that scratch on you before being done in himself!"
"I… don't really remember," Harry admitted awkwardly.
The third boy, a wiry redhead with freckles—not the same as the one he'd seen earlier with a big family on the platform—laughed. "How could he? He had to be like one year old at the time!"
They all laughed, but Harry didn't join in.
He forced a small smile instead, hoping that was enough.
It didn't take long before conversation turned to things Harry couldn't keep up with.
"So, you think Ravenclaw'll win the Cup this year?" Ben asked, leaning back.
"Not a chance," Davis shot back immediately. "Gryffindor's got Wood back as Keeper, and he's brilliant. I heard last season he made the team train every spare minute they had even—blocked a Bludger one-handed while hanging off his broom showing real determinations!"
The red-haired boy—Devon, he'd introduced himself as—grinned. "Yeah, but Slytherin's sure to get some new Nimbus 2000's. Can't beat speed like that."
Harry frowned slightly. "What's Quidditch?"
The compartment fell silent for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Harry to realize he'd said something wrong.
"You're joking," Ben said flatly.
"No," Harry said, trying to sound casual. "I've… never heard of it."
Cormac's eyebrows shot up. "Never heard of it? Mate, you havent even seen it in a book?"
Harry shook his head.
Ben muttered under his breath, "Figures. future griffindor this one."
Davis shot him a warning look.
"Don't be rude."
Then, to Harry: "It's the best sport in the world. Flying, chasing, scoring goals—it's incredible. You'll love it at Hogwarts, imagine football or basketball for muggle sports but in midair on broomsticks."
"I guess I'll learn," Harry said, though it sounded more like a question than confidence.
As the remark about his placement in a house being all but guarenteed thanks to his ignorance of the magical world, even compared to the three muggle-borns who should be no better than he in knowledge.
The boys exchanged glances but didn't press the topic.
They moved on easily, launching into another conversation about brooms and players and statistics Harry couldn't even begin to follow.
He tried to listen.
He really did.
Names and numbers whirled around him like spells—Wimbourne Wasps, Chudley Cannons, Quaffles and Bludgers and Snitches—but none of it stuck.
Eventually, he just nodded when someone glanced his way, pretending to understand.
It was easier that way.
The train rattled on, sunlight flickering through the trees as the countryside blurred past.
Harry's reflection stared back at him—untidy hair, brand new clothes purchased just days ago with money left to him by his parents, and a faint scar shaped like lightning on his forehead.
For years, it had been a symbol of everything he wasn't allowed to know.
Now, in a world where everyone already knew him, it was somehow worse.
He wasn't "Harry" here.
He was The Boy Who Lived.
And from what he'd learned over the last month that wasnt a heroic title but more a mocking one, for someone who was willing to throw away the life his relatives had given their all to save.
Sometime around noon, there was a polite knock at the door.
"Everywhere else is full," came a voice, breathless but friendly.
A boy with messy red hair and a smudge of dirt across his nose stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding a half-unlatched trunk.
His robes were slightly frayed at the edges, his hand-me-down wand sticking out of his pocket.
"Mind if I sit here?"
The other boys exchanged glances.
Ben didn't hesitate. "Sorry, mate—already full."
The red-haired boy's face fell.
"Oh. Right."
He shifted his trunk, looking down the corridor.
"Er… thanks anyway."
Before Harry could even open his mouth, the boy was gone, dragging his belongings further down the train.
Davis shrugged.
"Poor bloke. Should've come earlier."
Harry turned back toward the window, guilt tugging at him.
He could've said something.
He should've said something, gotten everyone to squeeze together to allow the boy in.
But he didn't.
Minutes bled into hours.
Marcus launched into another monologue about the superiority of pureblood dueling styles of self-taught muggleborns, while Devon tried to demonstrate a flicking motion with his wand that sent sparks across the compartment.
Davis bragged about a broomstick he was going to buy if he made the Gryffindor team.
Harry just sat quietly, nodding at the right moments, trying not to let the ache of isolation settle too deep.
When the trolley witch finally appeared with a smile and a cheery, "Anything off the cart, dears?" the compartment lit up with excitement.
Ben stood first, tossing a gleaming gold coin into her hand. "Four boxes of Chocolate Frogs, please."
Davis followed suit, buying every type of sweet that caught his eye.
Devon ordered Pumpkin Pasties by the dozen.
When the witch turned to Harry, he hesitated.
He still had some money—Hagrid had helped him withdraw enough from Gringotts—but the way the others waved off coins like they were nothing made him feel… small almost like everyone had a good sum of pocket change, making him no different than anyone else.
nothing special.
"I'll just have one Chocolate Frog," he said quietly.
She nodded kindly, handing it over before leaving the compartment.
Ben tore into his haul immediately.
"Blimey, these are brilliant. Hey Potter, you want to trade cards? Got two Dumbledores already."
Harry glanced at the card inside his Frog's box. "I—I got him too."
"Figures," Ben muttered.
The laughter returned, rolling through the room, warm and easy—but never including him.
Harry leaned back against the seat, turning the card over in his fingers.
Dumbledore's picture waved at him briefly before walking out of frame.
He stared at the empty card.
For some reason, it felt fitting.
By late afternoon, conversation had died down.
Devon had fallen asleep, Ben was scribbling notes on parchment, and davis was flipping through a Quidditch magazine.
Harry turned back toward the window, watching as the landscape changed—fields giving way to wild hills and forests that shimmered faintly with magic.
He wanted to feel wonder.He wanted to feel part of it.
But all he felt was the quiet, familiar ache of being left out.
For a moment, he thought about what Hagrid had said: You'll have friends there. Everyone will know your name.
But now, sitting in a train full of laughter that wasn't his, Harry wondered if knowing his name would ever mean knowing him.
Maybe the wizarding world wasn't all that different from Privet Drive.
Maybe fame was just another way to be alone.
Outside, storm clouds began to gather over the northern hills.
The train roared onward toward destiny, and Harry Potter—the boy everyone knew—sat silently at the window, watching the rain fall.