Oliver's life fit into a single battered suitcase.
The case was older than he was, its corners frayed, one of its latches refusing to close properly unless he pressed it with his knee. Inside: two sets of new school robes, a stack of secondhand books smelling faintly of mothballs, a quill set, and a few clothes the orphanage matron insisted he pack "for appearances." Resting carefully on top, wrapped in cloth like treasure, was his guitar. The wood gleamed faintly even in the dim light of the orphanage common room, as if it carried its own warmth.
He carried it separately, of course. The suitcase was clumsy and heavy, but the guitar—he cradled it as though it were part of him. In truth, it was.
Mrs. Reed hovered nearby, wringing her hands. She was no blood relation, no family—just a caretaker too softhearted for her own good in a place that rarely rewarded kindness. Her eyes were damp, though she tried to keep her voice steady.
"Don't let anyone dim your music, Oliver," she whispered as she pulled him into a hug that smelled faintly of lavender and tea. "You've got something special. Remember that."
Oliver nodded, unable to answer without his throat tightening.
He left the orphanage quietly, before the other children could jeer or shove him one last time. The taxi McGonagall had arranged waited outside, and he sank into its cracked leather seat, suitcase at his feet, guitar balanced carefully across his lap.
By the time the cab pulled up at King's Cross, the morning rush had begun. Oliver climbed out into the chaos of Muggle and magical life colliding—though only he, it seemed, noticed the latter.
The station teemed with families. Ordinary businessmen with their briefcases and umbrellas mingled unknowingly beside witches in eccentric hats and cloaks that shimmered oddly under the fluorescent lights. Children tugged at their parents' hands, some pushing carts piled high with trunks and cages, owls hooting irritably within.
Oliver's chest tightened at the sight. There was such warmth in the families—mothers fussing with scarves, fathers lifting trunks with a grunt, siblings laughing or bickering. A world of connections.
And then there was him, with no one but Mrs. Reed's fading words echoing in his ears.
He tightened his grip on the guitar case and followed the instructions tucked in his pocket: Platform 9¾, between platforms 9 and 10. Simply walk through the barrier.
Simply. As though smashing your face into a brick wall was the most natural thing in the world.
He hesitated, suitcase handle sweating in his palm. What if the magic didn't work for him? What if he slammed into the wall and everyone laughed?
Ahead, a plump woman with flaming red hair guided a gaggle of ginger children toward the barrier. He caught the words, "—all right, off you go, straight through, don't dawdle!"
And one by one, the children vanished into solid stone.
Heart hammering, Oliver picked up speed. He fixed his eyes on the wall, clutched his guitar tighter, and ran.
For one dizzying second, cold rushed over him—and then he burst through.
The scarlet steam engine loomed before him, magnificent and unreal. Clouds of steam hissed around its wheels, filling the platform with a tang of smoke and metal. The chatter of excited voices mingled with the hoots and squeaks of magical pets.
Oliver stood still, awestruck. This was no ordinary train. This was the gateway to tomorrow.
He hoisted his suitcase, weaving through the throng. Students hugged their parents goodbye; a tall boy complained loudly about his owl biting him; two twins were already trying to charm sweets into fireworks. Oliver slipped past them, invisible in the crowd.
Inside the train, corridor after corridor of compartments stretched before him. Most were already filling up. Laughter spilled out of one, the sound of clattering cards from another. He hesitated—he had always chosen the empty corners, the quiet edges, the spaces where no one could bother him.
But every carriage seemed occupied.
At last, he reached one near the back. Two boys sat there: one pale and lanky with a shock of red hair, the other smaller, with messy black hair and glasses. A pile of sweets sat open between them.
Oliver froze. Recognition hit him like a stone to the chest.
Harry Potter.
He remembered him clearly—the boy at the gymnasium, the boy with the scar. The boy whose presence had made Oliver's outburst of music-turned-magic blaze brighter.
Harry looked up, green eyes meeting his.
"Er—sorry," Oliver muttered. "Everywhere else is full. Mind if I—?"
"Course not," the redhead said immediately, scooting over. "Plenty of room."
Oliver slid in, placing his suitcase carefully at his feet and keeping the guitar in his lap.
"I'm Ron," the redhead offered, mouth half-full of chocolate frog. "Ron Weasley. This is Harry."
Harry gave a small smile. "Hi."
"Oliver," he said, voice lower than usual. His heart was still racing from the recognition. Harry Potter, sitting not three feet away.
The boys didn't seem to notice his awe. Ron launched into a running commentary on the sweets he'd bought—chocolate frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, pumpkin pasties. He shoved a box toward Oliver.
"Go on, try one."
Oliver hesitated, then picked a bean. It tasted like soap. He sputtered, and Ron howled with laughter.
"Better than earwax!" Ron declared. "Harry got earwax first go."
Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly.
Oliver chuckled despite himself. It felt… easy. Natural.
As the train lurched forward, he rested the guitar gently across his knees. His fingers brushed the strings almost unconsciously, coaxing out a quiet, wandering melody. Nothing loud—just a simple tune that drifted softly through the compartment.
Ron tilted his head. "What's that, then?"
"Just… something I play sometimes," Oliver said, shrugging.
Harry listened intently, his eyes thoughtful. "It's nice. Calming."
Ron snorted. "Mum listens to Celestina Warbeck on the wireless. Singing sorceress, dead dramatic. Not like that."
Oliver smiled faintly. "This is different. Less… wizard, more me."
For a moment, silence settled, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The train clattered on, the music filling the space between words.
Partway through the ride, the door slid open and a bushy-haired girl poked her head in.
"Have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."
Her eyes flicked to the guitar. "Oh. You play?"
Oliver nodded, but she didn't linger, already scanning the corridor. "Right. Well, if you see a toad—" And she was gone.
Ron made a face. "Bossy, that one."
Oliver chuckled. He hadn't missed the flash of curiosity in her eyes, but she hadn't stayed long enough to ask.
As the countryside rolled past—green fields blurring into darkness—the compartment grew quieter. Ron dozed with a half-empty box of beans in his lap. Harry leaned against the window, watching the stars emerge.
Oliver sat between them, guitar cradled in one hand, his wand in the other.
His reflection in the glass showed a boy caught between two worlds: orphan and wizard, musician and magician. He had no idea where he fit yet.
But for the first time in a long time, with the train carrying him into the unknown, he let himself hope.
Tomorrow was Hogwarts.