September 2025
Hogwarts Express
@Clark Stellan

It had been the longest day of his life. Well, admittedly, he wasn't very old, but he was sure there wouldn't be another day like it.

He'd had to fight with his parents to keep them from accompanying him to London. The last time, it had only been for a weekend; In less that 4 hours, Mungo had gotten lost on the docks and his father had been ripped off, buying an old, supposedly magical watch for 150 euros. His parents weren't used to the big city. If now they had to be dragged into the wizarding world, he didn't even dare imagine what might happen.

The wizarding world... and that world was his. He didn't understand anything. And yet, he had been catapulted onto the big day without any compromise. Surrounded by all these excited teenagers, some of them a little too used to it all for his liking, he felt like a newborn thrown into the world without a lifebuoy.
With his swarthy, peasant complexion, his thick Scottish accent, and his complete ignorance of the magical world, he felt he stood out a bit and didn't dare socialize.

That's why, after recovering from the traumatic episode of running against the wall, after watching, still dazed, the students bustling about on the crowded platforms, after elbowing his way to a carriage, and after settling heavily into an empty compartment, he finally managed to breathe a sigh of relief.

He looked out the window, and his heart sank for a few steps at the thought that he would be crossing his beloved Highlands, but that this time, he wouldn't stop there. Eleven years old was the perfect age to leave the small village of Perth and see what lay beyond. But still... he was still having a little trouble getting used to it. He was afraid he wouldn't fit in. What if the owls had made a mistake? Drummond was a perfectly common name in Perth. He knew that girl, Olivia Drummond. A pointless brat from his primary school class, but one who could cross her eyes. What if she was the witch? Everyone said her mother was a healer... well, people said a lot of things about a lot of people in Perth. Not much ever happened there, so when it came to talking about this person or that one... He imagined coming back for the summer holidays and being bombarded with questions by the old folks at Saint John's Place when he went to have a lemonade with his friends.

His friends... he didn't even know if he'd see them again in the summer. Most of them had gone to boarding school in the south or even to England, as should have been his case. The thought warmed his heart somewhat: going to Hogwarts meant plunging into the unknown, but he would have given anything not to go to St. Clare's.

Suddenly, he jumped: the door to his compartment had opened.

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sic itur ad astra|thoughts, dialouge _______________☽°•°☾_________________

After arriving at Platform 9 ¾ with his Butler Finlay, who was pushing the cart, that contained his luggage for Hogwarts. They walked past the Hogwarts express, Clark taking in the lock, and it‘s following carriges. He could already see a lot of students of different age walking in those carriages, probably looking for a free or not to crowded compartment.

As they both finally reached one of the specific carriages for the lugagge, Clark watched as his Butler heavied his suitcases into the carriage. Around him the noises were overlapping with eachother, making the atmosphere rather suffocating, and already putting him on edge.

If it continues like that, Clark‘s journey to Hogwarts would not be a great thing.

But now after his luggage was stores the real problem only began.

Finding a compartment to sit in.

After a brief goodbye to Finlay, Clark was now met with the heavy atmosphere inside the train.

He walked past compartment after compartment without entering a single one.
Most of them were loud.

Too loud for his liking.

So he kept walking.

While walking he kept his hands inside the sleeves of his cape, while the silver rings on his fingers clicked softly against each other every now and then. Every few steps, his gaze flickered toward the compartment doors, taking in everyone that sat in them, before looking away again.

Occupied.

Occupied.

Definitely occupied.

Then finally.

One compartment that seemed almost empty.

Clark slowed down his steps, before he laid a hand at the door handle, and sliding the door open.

There already was someone inside.

Just one boy.

Clark blinked once, clearly caught off guard for a brief of a second, while the compartment door remained half-open in his hand. The Boy he was staring at, seemed to be around his age, having slightly wavy brown hair and green eyes. He probably didn‘t expect to get any company either, at his jumpy reaction.

For a moment, Clark genuinely considered apologizing and leaving again.

But every other compartment seemed more unbearable than this one.

So instead of turning around and walking away, he stepped inside quietly. Clark moved toward the seat across from the other boy.

“…Is this seat…perhaps…taken?“, Clark asked softly, his voice was careful and wathered slightly beneath the thick trace of his Scottish accent.

Kenneth looked him up and down, suspicious. But he immediately relaxed when he heard his Scottish accent. He was always a little afraid of being looked down on, outside of Perth. More relaxed but still a bit reserved, he nodded toward the seat opposite him:

"No, there's no one here... I didn't dare sit down in a busy position. You were braver than me... or perhaps less fortunate." Kenneth smiled at him, a smile meant to be reassuring, but he was probably just trying to reassure himself. He didn't dare speak for a moment, simply watching the boy, who was about his own height, settle down in silence.
Then there was that rather awkward moment between them, when neither dared to speak or look the other in the eye. Kenneth cleared his throat. "Maybe... well... Aye, my name is Kenneth. Kenneth Drummond. You can call me Ken, Kenny... but Kenneth is fine too." He blushed. It was perhaps the first time he'd said his name so often in a sentence. For a moment, he considered telling him a little more about himself, but something held him back, like a sixth sense. After a moment, the boy ran a hand through his wavy hair:

"I thought I heard from your accent... I might be wrong, but you're Scottish, aren't you? Well, you must have guessed that I am..." He chuckled, a little embarrassed.

"With an accent like that, it's hard to go unnoticed."

@Clark Stellan