The Hogwarts Express departed at eleven.
Tom had arrived early, so when he stepped onto the train, there were barely any students aboard yet. The corridors still smelled like polished wood and old steam, and the muffled quiet made the whole thing feel less like a school trip and more like a secret doorway into another world.
Even so, Tom didn't linger near the front.
He walked toward the back cars instead. If he picked a compartment closer to the end, fewer people would pass his door later, fewer interruptions, fewer curious stares, fewer chances for someone to decide he looked like trouble.
He reached the second-to-last carriage, chose a compartment at random, and slipped inside.
His suitcase went up onto the rack with a practiced motion. Then he sat by the window, pulled out a book, and opened it without ceremony.
Clever Responses to Countless Spells.
He didn't pick it for comfort reading. He picked it because it was useful. Anything that smelled like countermeasures, improvisation, and not dying when things went wrong was worth his attention.
A familiar voice rose in his mind.
Andros.
"So the Hogwarts Express is hidden inside a Muggle station," Andros said, sounding half impressed and half scandalized. "A bold choice. Aren't they afraid it will be discovered?"
Tom smiled faintly without looking up from the page.
"This is the single largest documented use of Muggle-Repelling Charms in wizarding history," he said. "Every year the Ministry sends people here to renew the enchantments. At this point, Muggle-Repelling is probably the one spell every Ministry employee can cast in their sleep."
"In my time, we didn't have a department for such things," Andros said, voice thick with amazement. "It's convenient. And more importantly, it restrains those black wizards who do whatever they please."
"Restraining dark wizards is also self-preservation," Tom replied, calm and matter-of-fact. "Modern Muggles aren't comparable to what they used to be. If the wizarding world is exposed, most wizards won't end well."
Andros went quiet.
He didn't despise Muggles, not in the crude way some purebloods did, but there was still the ingrained arrogance of a wizard in him. In fact, in his case it ran even deeper, because he wasn't just any wizard.
He had been the strongest of his era.
In his lifetime, Muggles had looked at powerful wizards the way people looked at gods. It would have been unthinkable, back then, for those same people to develop to the point where they could threaten wizardkind's survival.
Now he understood why the Ministry had been founded with secrecy as its core purpose. Not because wizards were ashamed, but because survival demanded it.
As Andros stayed silent, Tom also stopped talking.
He continued reading, comfortable in the quiet. He wasn't going to enter the Learning Space today for serious lessons. The time was too tight, and he didn't want to risk arriving at school mentally scattered. He was only keeping the connection open, letting Andros watch the modern world through his eyes like a curious ancient spectator.
Outside the compartment, the train gradually grew louder as more students boarded. The hallway began to fill with the rolling of trunks, the squeak of trolley wheels, the bright calls of names, and that particular edge of nervous excitement that only came from walking into the unknown.
Tom ignored it.
He turned a page.
That was when the compartment door slid open.
A girl stood in the doorway, and she visibly jolted when she saw Tom already inside. She clearly hadn't expected anyone to be there.
She was young, maybe eleven, with blonde curls that bounced at her shoulders and long eyelashes that made her wide eyes look even larger. She was pretty in a soft, polished way, the kind of face that made people assume she belonged somewhere safe and expensive.
After the first startled second, she stepped in anyway, careful and slightly hesitant.
"May I sit here?" she asked.
Tom looked up from his book.
"Of course."
He stood, not because he had to, but because he could. He lifted her suitcase onto the rack as well, moving with the same neat efficiency he used for everything.
While he did, his gaze caught details most people would miss.
The suitcase looked ordinary at first glance, but the corners were stitched with a dark gold trim, subtle enough to avoid attention unless you knew what you were looking for. Near one edge, almost hidden, was an intricate crest, ornate and old, as if it had been designed less to show off and more to remind the world that the family behind it had existed longer than most nations.
A family emblem.
Tom's mind clicked immediately.
Pureblood.
And not just pureblood. Likely old money pureblood. A girl raised with rules, expectations, and a name that meant something.
She thanked him quietly and took the seat across from him.
Then, because silence made some people nervous, she began to glance at him.
Not aggressively.
Not rudely.
Just small, careful looks, like she was trying to figure out what kind of person he was and whether she should be afraid.
Tom returned to his book.
The girl tried to do the same, but her eyes drifted back again.
He's really good-looking.
The thought appeared in her mind so suddenly it startled her, as if it had slipped in without permission. Her cheeks, still slightly round with childhood softness, tinted pink.
She quickly looked away.
Then, a second later, her gaze slipped back again anyway.
Tom Riddle was not unaware of attention. He'd lived in the Muggle world with a face that attracted stares whether he wanted them or not. People treated beauty like public property. They always felt entitled to look.
He didn't react.
He didn't need to.
Her gaze lingered, drawn to the dark hair that curled slightly on its own, the focused look in his deep eyes as they tracked lines of text, the clean shape of his features that seemed almost unfairly refined.
She felt a flicker of jealousy.
Why did a boy have more delicate features than she did?
He looked almost like he belonged in the kind of magazine her younger sister liked, the ones filled with elegant models and perfect lighting.
Tom didn't speak, and the girl shifted restlessly in her seat. Finally, she gathered enough courage to start a conversation. Her voice was polite, carefully trained.
"Hello. I'm… I'm Daphne Greengrass. First-year at Hogwarts."
Tom closed his book gently, giving her the attention that etiquette demanded.
"Riddle," he replied. "Tom Riddle. Also first-year."
Riddle.
Daphne searched her memory immediately.
Pureblood families drilled names into their children the way soldiers drilled commands. You learned which surnames meant alliance, which meant rivalry, which meant danger, and which meant disgrace.
She couldn't place his.
She was certain she'd never heard of it.
She hesitated, then asked carefully, like someone stepping across thin ice.
"Are you… half-blood? Or… Muggle-born?"
Tom shrugged lightly.
"I don't really know what I count as," he said. His tone was casual, but there was a sharp edge of truth under it. "I was abandoned as a baby. Maybe my parents were Muggles. Maybe they were Squibs. It doesn't matter."
Then he lifted his brows, voice turning slightly teasing.
"What, is the Greengrass family's young lady regretting sitting in the same compartment as me?"
He said it like a joke, but his mind was already running through possibilities.
In Cantankerus Nott's book, the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Greengrass family ranked high. They were praised as the model of a pureblood line: low-profile, dignified, quietly wealthy, aristocratic without being loud about it.
Tom's instinctive assumption was simple.
Pureblood princess plus pureblood upbringing often equaled the same bloodline nonsense Malfoy loved so much.
But Daphne's reaction didn't match that expectation at all.
"No, no, please don't misunderstand," she said quickly, hands fluttering in front of her as if trying to physically wave away the wrong impression. "I don't care about that. My mother says all pureblood families have Muggle ancestors somewhere anyway. I was just curious because I've never really… met someone connected to the Muggle world before."
Tom studied her expression.
It was sincere.
A little anxious, even.
No smug superiority. No hidden contempt. Just genuine curiosity and the discomfort of realizing she might have offended him.
Tom nodded once.
"Then I misjudged you," he said plainly. "I apologize."
Daphne blinked, then shook her head with surprising seriousness for a child.
"It's fine," she said. "You had a reason to think that way."
Then, as if relieved to escape the bloodline topic, she pivoted immediately.
"I have a younger sister," Daphne continued. "She loves Muggle fashion magazines. She only has one old copy she found years ago, and it's terribly outdated. If you ever have a chance… could you help me buy a few for her? I'll pay you, of course."
Tom's mind flickered through what he remembered.
Astoria Greengrass.
Low presence, rarely mentioned, but the name existed in his memory like a faint line of ink. If he recalled correctly, she eventually ended up connected to the Malfoy family. She also had health issues, serious ones.
But those were future scraps of information with no practical use right now, and Tom had no intention of saying any of it aloud. Not when it would only invite questions and suspicion.
He kept his face calm.
"No problem," he said. "But you'll have to wait until Christmas break. That's the first time we'll be back out in the Muggle world."
Daphne's eyes brightened.
"Thank you," she said, and meant it.
And just like that, the conversation flowed.
Daphne asked question after question about Muggle life, about shops, about newspapers, about trains, about what people wore and why. Tom answered, sometimes briefly, sometimes with more detail when she seemed genuinely interested.
When he described things like department stores, Daphne pulled out a small notebook and began to write. She wrote carefully, neat letters, pausing often to make sure she got it right.
"For my sister," she explained.
That alone told Tom more than any family crest ever could.
Daphne Greengrass was the kind of older sibling who loved fiercely, who took responsibility seriously, who could be cold to the world but warm to the people she cared about.
That sort of loyalty was rare.
And valuable.
The train started moving without either of them noticing right away. The slight lurch, the soft vibration underfoot, the faint change in sound as wheels settled into motion.
Outside the window, London slid past.
Brick buildings, roads, clusters of people, then gradually more open space.
The countryside opened like a slow exhale, greener and wider as the train pushed north toward Scotland.
The steady rhythm of the tracks became a background heartbeat.
Daphne kept talking.
Tom kept answering.
The noise outside didn't disrupt them at all.
Then Andros spoke again, suddenly, like a man who had been watching silently and reached a conclusion he couldn't keep to himself.
"I'll bet you one Galleon," Andros said, smug as anything, "that girl likes you. No, correction. She thinks you're good-looking and wants to stare at you. She's basically hungry for your face."
Tom's hand paused mid-page turn.
He didn't look up.
He didn't change expression.
But inside, he felt the faintest twitch of irritation.
Not because the comment was cruel.
Because it was accurate enough to be annoying.
Tom exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts back into order.
Across from him, Daphne was still writing, tongue slightly caught between her teeth in concentration, completely unaware that an ancient Greek wizard was currently evaluating her like a spectator at a sports match.
Tom glanced at her notebook.
Her handwriting was neat.
Her questions were thoughtful.
Her attention was genuine.
And yet Andros's words lingered in Tom's mind like a pebble in a shoe.
Because if Daphne Greengrass truly was taking an interest in him, even if it started as curiosity or admiration, it could become something else.
And Tom Riddle, with this name and this face and this future, could not afford careless connections.
Not at Hogwarts.
Not in front of pureblood families.
Not when every detail could be twisted into a weapon.
The train rolled on, carrying him toward the castle.
And Tom suddenly realized the real danger wasn't the spells.
It was the people.
He looked back down at his book, but his focus wasn't on the words anymore.
It was on the question that sat just beneath them.
When he stepped into Hogwarts… how many eyes would be watching him the moment someone heard his name?