King's Cross Station on September first was, as always, a mess—steam pouring out from the engine, voices echoing in the haze, wrapping Platform Nine and Three-Quarters in a blanket of white fog.
Harry slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, ticket gripped in hand, and followed the flow of students toward the Hogwarts Express.
He didn't rush to find a compartment.
Instead, he walked slowly down the train, glancing into each open door—
Not because he couldn't find a seat, but because he was waiting.
Waiting for that familiar shadow of pale blond hair.
It wasn't until the second-to-last carriage that he finally saw him—Draco, sitting by the window with a copy of A History of Magic in hand. Sunlight washed over his pale blond hair, making it look almost white, his side profile cold as carved marble.
Harry took a slow breath and slid the door open.
Draco looked up at him. His eyes softened a little, and he subtly shifted his legs to the side, making room for Harry by the window.
"You're here." He closed his book, his tone calm, like he was greeting an ordinary classmate.
"Yeah." Harry set his bag down and sat beside him.
The window was open, letting in wind tinged with the metallic scent of rails. Neither spoke, yet the silence wasn't awkward—
Sometimes silence felt more like understanding than words.
Harry watched the platform outside. Parents calling after their children, offering last-minute reminders—exactly the same as in his previous life.
He remembered his first ride on this train, meeting Ron in a compartment, sharing snacks, talking about Quidditch. He'd thought he'd found his best friend.
But now those memories were like old photographs covered in dust, raising only one question—
Back then, did Ron and Hermione know about Dumbledore's orders?
If they knew, did Ron silently watch him be hunted?
Or—like Draco—did he try to save him, only to arrive too late?
"What are you thinking about?" Draco's voice cut through his thoughts.
Harry turned his head. Draco was looking at his hand—
Harry's fingers were clenched so tightly around the strap of his bag that his knuckles were white.
"Nothing." Harry let go and shifted a little.
Draco didn't pry.
Instead, he pulled something small and silver from his pocket and slipped it into Harry's hand—a two-way mirror, its surface polished bright, the edge engraved with a tiny "M."
"Just in case," he murmured, so quiet only Harry could hear. "Don't shoulder everything alone."
Harry closed his fingers around the mirror. The glass warmed against his palm.
He looked at Draco, wanted to say thank you, but the words felt wrong. Too distant.
So he only nodded. "You too."
Just then, the compartment door slid open with a bang.
A red-haired boy poked his head inside, suitcase in hand—Ron Weasley.
"Sorry—any seats left?" Ron looked around, then froze when his eyes landed on Harry. His expression brightened instantly. "Wait—you're Harry Potter! I'm Ron Weasley! I know you—you're the Boy Who Lived!"
His reaction was almost identical to the last life—chatty, awkwardly enthusiastic, hair a mess.
Harry stared at him, feeling nothing but a cold emptiness.
Whether Ron had known about the order in their previous life…
Whether he had participated…
Was irrelevant now.
After the Order's betrayal, after watching Draco die in his arms, Harry no longer had the ability—or the luxury—to trust easily.
"No seats," Harry said without looking up, his voice flat.
Ron blinked, thrown off. "Huh? But… there's one right there." He pointed to the empty seat opposite them.
"It's taken," Draco said abruptly—colder than Harry, with a hint of hostility in his eyes.
He knew exactly who Ron Weasley was, and exactly how much Harry used to trust this red-haired boy.
If Harry didn't want the boy near him, Draco would block him without hesitation.
Ron shrank under Draco's gaze, muttered something under his breath, and left, closing the door behind him.
Silence returned.
Harry looked at Draco, wanting to explain, yet unable to form the words—
He wasn't intentionally being harsh. He simply couldn't open himself so easily ever again.
Draco seemed to understand. He held out A History of Magic to him.
"Want to read? There are a few decent sections on Slytherin."
Harry took the book. His fingers brushed Draco's, and he pulled back quickly.
He opened the book, eyes on the text, but his mind drifted.
Ron's face kept appearing—
How Ron used to complain about his family, share homemade sandwiches, stand beside him when Malfoy bullied him.
But now those warm memories were drowned in the blood of the Forbidden Forest, leaving only an unbridgeable gap.
"Don't think too much," Draco said softly this time. "Don't force yourself."
Harry lifted his head. In Draco's grey eyes, there was no mockery, no coldness—only understanding.
His nose stung. He turned away to the window. "I just…"
Just fear.
Fear of betrayal.
Fear of being treated like a pawn by someone like Dumbledore again.
Fear of people smiling at him, saying "for the good of the wizarding world," while raising their wands against him.
Fear that someone he trusted would choose silence at the critical moment.
Draco didn't answer.
He simply reached out and brushed Harry's wrist—light as a feather, but grounding.
"I'm here."
A quiet promise.
"You don't need to be afraid."
Harry's heart jolted. He tightened his grip on the two-way mirror.
Yes. Draco was here.
The boy who died for him once.
The boy who came back with him.
The only person he could trust.
The train let out a long whistle and began to move. The platform slipped away, then disappeared entirely.
The trolley witch's voice echoed down the corridor. Draco stood, bought two boxes of Chocolate Frogs, and handed one to Harry.
"You used to love these."
Harry opened it. A card fell out—Dumbledore.
His hand paused.
He shoved the card back into the wrapper without looking.
"Not anymore."
He popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth. Sweet to the point of nausea.
Cold still lingered in his chest.
Draco watched.
He said nothing—just pulled the card from his own box and flicked it out the window.
A familiar face vanished into the wind.
"Nothing worth looking at," Draco said casually, pushing a few more chocolates Harry's way.
They ate slowly, watching the scenery pass, talking occasionally about classes, but mostly sitting in silence.
Laughter drifted from the corridor; the compartment door opened and closed; no one else entered.
Harry looked at Draco's profile—the pale blond hair glowing softly in the sunlight—and felt something settle inside him.
Maybe he still couldn't trust others.
Maybe the nightmares of the Forbidden Forest would never fully fade.
But right now, he wasn't alone.
The train kept moving, carrying them toward Hogwarts.
Harry tightened his grip on the mirror and glanced at Draco again, strength gathering in his chest.
As for Ron, Hermione, and the so-called "friends" of his past life—
They could stay where they were.
His world didn't need so many people anymore.