An eleven-year-old boy that looks substantially less stretched opens the door to that particular compartment. "Mm mhh," he says around the chocolate frog filling his mouth. He drags his luggage in without waiting for an invitation and finds somewhere to put it while he works on chewing and swallowing the chocolate. "Older kids are cool but they don't think young kids are cool and all the other compartments only have older kids." He flops down onto a seat in front of the painfully bored boy. "I'm James," he says, and extends a hand.

He has a noticeably American accent.

"David," says the stretched-out boy, tucking his arms into his sides as his wand vanishes up his sleeve. "I don't... shake hands. But it's nice to meet you. Are you American, then?"

His accent is plummy and elevated, but his clothes have the shiny, thinned-out look of too many cleaning and repair charms.

"Born and raised there, mostly. But moved here a few years ago. Why don't you shake hands?" he asks, withdrawing his own hand. He reaches into his robes and grabs another chocolate frog, still in its box. "Want one?"

"Sure!"

He plucks the box from James's hand and unboxes it, his hands moving precisely and giving off the faint impression of a very large praying mantis. "I don't shake hands because I have a debilitating magical condition that causes... you know how in the winter, sometimes you'll try to touch something and it'll shock you? It's a bit like that, but worse. Not a good first impression."

"...well now I wanna try it! Unless you mean it's bad for you? But I'm curious."

He fetches a second (third?) box from his robes for himself.

David extends his left hand wordlessly, his right hand holding the chocolate frog by one unmelting foot.

Ooh cool! He extends his left hand there.

And as their skin connects -

electricity isn't like this. Fire isn't like this. Magic is like this. Not the nice domestic magic James has been surrounded by his whole life, but raw, untamed magic, the stuff that creates and destroys and ruins and reshapes.

It fucking hurts.

It's over after a second, as David snatches his hand back, hissing. "...stronger than usual," he notes, then bites the head off his chocolate frog.

James flinches and blinks but doesn't immediately pull his hand away. Instead he looks at it for a few seconds, then says, "Coooool. Can we do it again? —I mean, if you're cool with it."

Definitely from New York.

David swallows hastily before his incipient giggles can give him a coughing fit. "Cool with it. Was a bit rich for my blood, honestly, but maybe I'll prod you again at a later date. Perks for good behavior."

He bites off a leg and lets it sit on his tongue a bit meditatively. "Most people regret it. Even the aurors - 'specially the aurors, really."

"Why does it happen? What is it? Can you make it stop, or stronger? How do you kiss girls with this? —or boys if you like boys."

"Don't know why it happens. It's basically just magic buildup that reacts with somebody else's magic, far as anybody can tell. I can't make it stop but I can make it worse if I try. And, I typically don't."

"How much worse?"

"Hard to quantify. I learned some truly dire words from the Auror who tested it, though."

"'Truly dire'. I wanna teach you new words, too!"

There's a hum. The air feels somehow thicker, more present. David pokes James in the forehead.

It isn't the Cruciatus. It's got that going for it. But it feels like something fundamental, something foundational within him, is being burned and blasted and ripped apart inch by inch. It spreads through him, like molten iron in his blood, for what feels like much longer than the few seconds it takes for David to withdraw.

"One of these days I suspect you're actually going to regret something," David says, shaking out his hand. 

Okay this time he pulls away and falls over.

He does however straighten back up and grin widely again. "I wanna learn how to do that!"

"Well, I'll tell the research healers to get right on figuring out how to inflict it on people. They so rarely get to do that, you know, people usually want things cured."

"Well I guess it would be good if you could figure out how to stop it. At least sometimes. Kissing people is nice."

"So I'm told."

An extravagantly tiny blonde child wearing muggle clothing and a military surplus rucksack opens the door and clambers in. "Hello hello - may I sit here please, you seem friendly and I would not like to sit in an empty compartment -"

"I can't imagine a more conveniently sized fellow traveler. Feel free."

"Would that make you inconveniently-sized?" he asks David before turning to the tiny one. "Hello, I'm James."

"I am manifestly inconvenient. And my name is David," he adds to Tintin.

"But I am sure you will be magnificent when it is time to retrieve our luggage! Tintin," he introduces himself. "Henri Saint-Martin is my Christian name, but I do not often call myself that."

"What's a Christian name?" asks James. He also fetches another chocolate frog from his robes. "Want one? Also what are you wearing? —oh wait are you a muggleborn?"

"I am muggleborn, or at least that is what they tell me! A Christian name is one's first name, and I am wearing short trousers and a shirt, and I would very much like a chocolate even if it is frog-shaped."

"How many of those do you have?"

Here's a chocolate. "It jumps. Once. Make sure you don't lose it. Why is it called a Christian name, I thought Christian was a name?" To David: "I think I have another ten... I have other stuff, too."

"It jumps. Wizards have such ideas. Ah, it is the name you are given at baptism, the name you have in the eyes of God, thus your Christian name. I suppose it is not really my Christian name, since I have not found a priest who would baptise me again, but if God is paying any attention then He knows that my name is Henri, and if He is stupid enough not to know that then I see no reason to care."

Tintin opens the box one-handed, keeping his other hand by the opening, and snatches the frog from the air as it jumps. He bites it in half mercilessly.

"Who's God? What's a priest?"

"...I am not sure I am qualified for this," Tintin warns. "God is... the one who created the world, and who Christians worship. I suppose He is also worshipped by the Musulmans and the Jews, but it is mostly the Christians. Priests are people who have learned a great deal about God, and who tell people what He wants, and perform various rituals like weddings and baptisms."

"Someone created the world?"

"It is what the nuns told me. It seems the kind of thing that must have happened at some point, though I am not sure they are right in the details. - nuns are like female priests, but instead of always telling people what God wants they do more useful things sometimes, like taking care of orphans."

"I thought the world just... always existed. You know."

"I suppose it is possible! The nuns would say that nothing can be without first being created, but frankly that begs the question of who created God, and they have never had a satisfactory answer to that."

"How would the nuns even know that though."

"Supposedly many years ago God told some men wandering through the desert, the Jews, and they wrote a very long and very tedious book about it. And then He had a son, and sent the son down to the same desert, and His son wrote some additions to the book which were mostly also very tedious. And then the Jews killed His son, very unpleasantly, and for some reason this made God forgive the sins of humanity, except that we must still be very careful not to sin. It is a very confusing religion."

"What's 'sin'?"

"It is when you do something very bad. God does not like this. But God thinks many things are very bad, and I do not agree with all of His opinions."

"...well lots of people think things are bad, why would anyone care what this one guy thinks in particular? Like sure I guess he made the world but you know, sometimes you disagree with your parents and they made you, right?"

"Oh, I do not have parents. But yes, I think I would disagree with them on many things."

"Wait, what do you mean you don't have parents? Surely you do."

"Well I had them at some point, but I do not remember them and they died when I was young, and I did not have any other family, and so I was sent to les Soeurs du Sang Sacré. And they raised me, along with a few other children, until it turned out that I was a wizard, and that I had done magic for the first time in the British Isles, and now I am a ward of Hogwarts. Which I think is rather nice."

"Oh. Wait so you might not even be a muggleborn, right? If your parents were wizards."

"If they were wizards he'd've been put with a wizarding family," David says. "Even the French don't put wizard kids with muggles."

"I am Belgian."

"My sincerest apologies."

"Maybe they were hiding from the government? Maybe Henri's parents were secret agents from a secret society."

"Tintin, if you please. I suppose if my parents were secret agents from a secret society in hiding from the government I might like them better."

"Tintin, right, sorry. Anyway point is, I have no reason to care what this God person wants, right?"

"I am sure you do not."

"So this whole thing is really weird," he concludes.

"I will not argue that it is not weird. People take it very seriously, though. -what kind of holidays do wizards have, if you have never heard of Christianity?"

"Uh... Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's? I guess?"

Tintin looks absolutely bewildered.

"What?"

"How do you have Christmas without Christ?"

"What's a Christ?"

"The son of God. Whose birth you celebrate every December 25. Do you understand why I am confused."

"...that's not what Christmas is, Christmas is for presents and family and stuff." He turns to David. "Right?"

"...I mean, birthdays are also about presents and family... I wonder if our Christmases might come from the same root? Like how English has the word 'rendezvous' even though it was a French word originally, or how the French word for beef is 'boeuf'? Wizards and muggles weren't always separated. And the muggles put their religion in it, and the wizards just have a big party with presents."

Tintin looks profoundly unsatisfied by this compromise.

"So like... wizards got this—what is your Christmas like, then?"

"Well, it is... a big party, and your family comes to visit, and you eat lots of good food and give each other gifts. And sing songs, and give to the poor. And you go to church and listen to the priest talk about how very important Jesus Christ was, and there is a little play about his birth. Also you decorate a tree."

"Okay... we have those except the priest and Jesus Christ things. I guess giving to the poor, I'm not sure there is a lot of that?"

"There is not as much of that as the nuns would like in the muggle world either," Tintin says. "Anyway, enough talk about Christmas in September. What is Hogwarts like, do you know? I was not allowed to visit before term started, they wanted to let me say goodbye to the friends I did not have."

"Oh it's so cool, my sister's two years older and she tells me all sorts of cool things. The walls and stairs all change and there are secret passages and the ghosts all over—she said there's no way to explain it, you gotta be there, but I'm so excited."

"Secret passages! Ghosts! I think that is even better than learning magic, maybe - a place like that sounds made for adventure!"

"Moving walls sound a bit inconvenient, honestly, but it does sound interesting."

"I know, right???" he says, beaming at Tintin. "Do you know what House you'll be?" he asks, straightening back up a bit to direct the question to both of them. "I wondered but Deborah said if I am put anywhere but Gryffindor it's because someone bribed the Hat—there's a talking hat, did you know? It figures out where you go."

"Wizards have such ideas - I do not know, no one told me about Houses. It sounds very English, frankly."

"Green's my best color," David says noncommittally.

James thinks that's very committal, personally.

"So Gryffindor is the one for brave people who like adventures, Ravenclaw is smart people who like books and learning and discovering things, Slytherin is ambitious people who are good at secrets, and Hufflepuff is friendly people who like building communities." He hikes a thumb in David's direction. "Green is Slytherin's color."

"Slytherin has its advantages, I'm told. Good atmosphere, fewer stairs to climb getting to the dorm, nobody pillories you if you don't go to the Quidditch games..."

"If I am not put into the house of adventures there will be a riot. What is Quidditch, please?"

"Slytherin sounds cool if, you know, you're like that. I'm not like that." To Tintin: "Quidditch is a sport played on broomsticks. Each team has three hoops and three players who can throw one ball, the quaffle, to one another and past the goalkeeper into a hoop to score ten points," he explains, gesturing and motioning about the size of the ball plus extra special effects. "Then there's the two bludgers," small ball, "that chase people around and try to push them off, the two beaters have bats that they use to try to throw bludgers at other people or away from their team. And then there's the golden snitch," tiny ball, "which is golden and has wings and flies really quick and the game only ends when the seeker catches it and it's worth a hundred and fifty points."

"A hundred and fifty! That seems very silly - unless, I suppose if one team's beaters were very good they could eliminate the other team's ball-throwers and then score fifteen goals? But still, it seems like the seeker's role is too great. It cannot be so hard to catch a little ball."

"It's really hard, it can take days in professional games. And the beaters can also beat the seeker. And the keeper."

"Days. I think I am not going to be a sportsman, even if I am a bit curious about how a little ball can be so hard to catch."

"It's really smart and flies away and the other team's seeker can try to stop you and feint and stuff. You should probably try it just because if you were raised by muggles you never did, did you, so you should see what it's like, but first-years aren't allowed anyway. Dunno why."

"...suddenly I want to play Quidditch. That is a silly rule."

He laughs. "I think it's because first-years are still figuring magic out? And flying? I flew at home, of course, but they have actual lessons there and I think they do not trust families to really teach their kids how to fly properly even though I totally can, and there are also muggleborns and stuff."

"I suppose. How difficult is it to fly?"

"Easy to do, hard to do well."

"Yeah, what he said."

The door to their compartment opens, and an older boy pokes his head in.

     "You'd better change into your robes," he says to Tintin. "We're approaching the castle."

"Ah, thank you!" Tintin nods.

The older boy leaves. Tintin immediately unzips his rucksack and pulls out his robes, then starts pulling them on over his muggle clothing.

James blinks. "You're gonna wear them... over your—" He gestures in Tintin's direction. Well, Tintin's clothes' direction.

"...am I not supposed to?"

"No, you're not. You just wear the robes."

"What if I trip and everyone sees up them?"

"...then they see up your robes? If you wear muggle clothes under your robes people will mock you relentlessly. If you trip, people might make fun of you for being clumsy, but I don't see how it's connected."

"I don't know that much about how kids are here in the UK but back in America it would be really weird to have muggle clothes under your robes."

"...alright."

Tintin takes the robes off and strips off his muggle clothes efficiently, then dons the robes as quickly as possible. It's probably not quick enough that the other boys don't get a glimpse of his body, which is painfully thin and lacks certain significant boylike features.

He makes a face once the process is over with. "There is too much air. It feels like I am still half naked."

"—oh were you worried that people might think you're a girl if they saw up your robes?" asks James. "There's probably a potion you can get at the infirmary to fix that for you."

"Yes, I asked about the potions. I cannot take them until I have started to bleed, and we do not know when that will happen. It will be very exciting, I'm sure."

"Huh. Why not, do you know?"

"The healer I spoke to said something about the body needing to know what it will become before its path can be changed safely. It all seemed very mystical, but I suppose magic can be like that."

"It can," James agrees. "Let's hope it happens sooner rather than later then."

"Thank you! It's nice of you to say that, when you don't have - how do you say it - a personal stake."

"Uh, yeah, sure. Hey unrelated but do you need a hug."

"Sure! I do not need one, I do not think, but it does sound nice."

Okay he can give this tiny boy who seems to have had it kinda bad a hug! Hugs are nice.

Hugs are nice! Tintin hugs back slightly awkwardly, not having had a ton of experience with it.

David will just be over here then.

James notices David over there. "Do you want a hug? I can give you a hug even if it hurts."

"Hurts?"

"It burns people to touch me. ...I don't know if I want a hug. It doesn't usually come up."

He lets go of Tintin and says, "If you can figure out how to do the opposite of the painful one please do that."

And then it's time to hug David because gosh it seems like everyone in this compartment other than James is depressing doesn't it.

Touching David hurts a lot. Possibly more than before. He stiffens in James's arms.

In addition to the burning, crackling energy flowing through James's body, there are tears splashing in his hair.

Ow. Ow ow ow.

Owowowowowowowowow hurt hurt hurt hurthurthurtpainitburns he pulls away for a second and then he notices David is crying and yeah okay back to hug owowowowowowowowo hurt pain burn fire burn it feels like fire and like lava and like lightning and like he's going to die and it would be very stupid to die here but on the other hand apparently he is hugging a kid who was never hugged or something?

He faints, and he has zero regrets.

He wakes up with a pounding headache, several of his limbs tingling, and a boy maybe two years older moving his wand in swirling patterns over his body.

"Oh, good," he says, not sounding particularly enthused. "It worked."

Abruptly, he is hugged. "Oh, Dieu merci, tu vas bien - you collapsed it was very frightening do not do that again!"

James blinks, then looks around, then remembers, then looks around for David.

David is huddled in his seat, occupying as little space as physically possible and looking distinctly miserable.

"Wait come on I just hugged you to make you less sad, don't be more sad," is the first thing he says.

"You also revealed fascinating new ways in which I can hurt people. Or - you haven't seen them yet, have you - roll up your sleeves."

...okay? He rolls up his sleeves.

His arms are patterned with a branching, fractal system of scars, like the root system of a tree. If he focuses, he might notice that this scar is the source of the tingling sensation. Judging by the extent of the tingling, it extends all the way up through his torso.

"That's a curse scar. I have cursed you, in the most literal possible sense."

"In fairness, he really seems to have cursed himself."

"—that looks so cool." He looks up at the older boy. "Do I get to keep them?"

The boy looks him over appraisingly, then chuckles. "You do! Curse scars are notoriously difficult to remove fully, and that's if you want them gone. That said, go to the infirmary after the Sorting feast, we don't want you keeling over dead before your first Charms lesson."

"'We' who? You're not old enough to be a prefect."

He rolls his eyes. "They'd tell you the same thing. I just happened to be close enough to help when they weren't."

"Well. Thank you."

(Tintin has not unhugged.)

"I'm fine," he tells Tintin, nodding. "Thank you," he adds to the not-prefect. "I'm James, by the way. —wait, does this mean I can't hug him anymore?" he thinks to ask, hiking a (still kinda awkwardly hugged) thumb in David's direction. "Ooh, or am I like extra immune now, that'd be cool. Like look at him he needs lots of hugs."

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. As fascinating as the experiment might be, I'd rather you try it with a healer on standby. And I'm not a healer."

David shrinks in on himself a bit more.

"Okay, we are going to try it again with a healer," he decides, then he looks at David again. "Unless you don't want to, I guess? But only if you don't want to because of you, I get to decide if I want to get hurt again or not, this body is mine."

"...fine. After the healers check you out, and with a healer on hand, and - carefully."

"Okay!" he suppresses the impulse of hugging David again and tries to sit up, in spite of the gremlin he's got attached to his torso.

The gremlin unhugs reluctantly.

"It is true that David needs hugs," he admits, "but I wish they could happen without all the fuss."

The train gradually rolls to a halt. "Oh, excellent," Tom says, "I was about to suggest you try walking and see if you're dizzy or anything. Come on, up we all get."

Up he gets!

Dooooown he goes and catches himself on a rail. "Okay, a bit dizzy." He pauses then laughs to himself. "Deborah is gonna make such a face." And he giggles some more.

"Oh, you're Deborah's little brother? I'm sure she will, but she'll be trying to look cool in front of her friends, she can't lecture you. And you've managed to arrange an infirmary visit before even getting Sorted, that's bonus points in Gryffindor Tower. I don't think you'll have any trouble."

(Tintin gets his shoulder under James's arm and supports him, demonstrating surprising strength for someone so prodigiously tiny.)

Cool! Hup! He can walk with Tintin's help.

David walks a few feet behind them.

     "First years, over here!" shouts a man as they get off the train.

"That's my cue to leave you," Tom says. "Enjoy Hogwarts. I'm sure we'll see each other around."

First years are a go! Hogwarts awaits!

They pile into boats. Tintin and David and James end up sitting with another boy, who introduces himself as Edmund. "Hullo!"

"Hi! I'm James he's Tintin he's David," James introduces all of them.

"Good to meet you all! Are you excited for Hogwarts?"

"Yes! I wanna find all the secret passages!"

"Oh, that does sound fun. I'm looking forward to learning proper magic. I've practiced a bit, but only what my older siblings could teach me."

"You get to practice magic at home? I thought that was illegal?"

"Um. It's pretty well warded."

"It's only illegal to do it unsupervised, although it's hard to do magic without a wand."

"Yes, that. I meant over the summer."

Nod. "My birthday is in March and my parents took me to Diagon Alley day of," because if they hadn't there would have been explosions, "but they did not really... let me use it... Um, they said I would probably set the house on fire."

"My siblings and I went on holiday to our great-uncle's estate over the summer, and he has a room in his house for spell research. Rated for a lot more than an eleven-year-old messing up Hover Charms."

"I guess you'll be the class showoff, then? Put the rest of us to shame?"

"Seems the thing to do."

"I suppose you two will compete for grades while we have exciting adventures, then," Tintin says. "We shall see which is more fun."

"I volunteer for guinea pig though."

"What, for spell research? I'm not a researcher, that's Susan's job all over. She's the Ravenclaw. I'm just going to learn what they teach me and spend the rest of my time in riotous living."

"'Riotous'. Is that Slytherin or Gryffindor?"

"Slytherin, probably. Peter's a Gryffindor, and I'm nothing like him." Edmund sighs. "It was a joke, I don't do - riotous. I want to learn what I can and become a healer. If I have to I'll go into the Ministry, I guess."

"What's wrong with the Ministry?"

"It's a bit miserable, isn't it? It's a good way to make things better, and I'll probably end up there because there's a lot to fix, but - most of the people who want to be politicians don't want to make things better, they want to have power over people. So it's a lot of dealing with those bastards, and a lot of trying to solve really hard problems where people get hurt if you can't get the right answer, and not a lot of what I want. But what I want isn't as important as what helps everybody."

James raises both eyebrows. "What a Slytherin," he says, but he's grinning. "You could be a travelling Healer, maybe? Or, um, I dunno, I guess St. Mungo's is part of the Ministry isn't it..."

"It's about scale. A healer would have to work nonstop to do as much good as one politician who managed to get a proper ban on the books against Muggle-Baiting. Or repealing the Statute - well, the Statute's untouchable. Still, though, can you imagine? You'd have to heal every wizard in the world half a dozen times to match that."

"...why, what's wrong with the Statute?"

"...In 1918, fifty million muggles died of a flu. My younger sister, who is eight years old, can brew a flu-cure potion, the ingredients to which cost three knuts for ten doses."

"Oh."

"Rather."

"Sorry for snapping."

"It's fine.

"That's so many."

"There's a lot of them. People don't understand that. That's - not the only problem - but it's a big problem. They're important. And vulnerable. It's like - we've all got a little sister who we abandoned in the woods and we're trying not to hear her screaming because if we helped she'd want to know why we left her, and we don't have a good answer."

"Don't we? —why do we have the Statute?"

"Reason I was given was that the muggles would want us to help them with every little problem. I've also heard 'they'd burn us at the stake' and 'they've got nothing to offer us, why should we put ourselves out for them'."

"Those are stupid reasons."

"Rather."

"What did you mean when you said it's untouchable?"

"Most wizards... don't think of muggles as people. Half of them have never met one, not and really talked to them. To them, those reasons you dismissed sound perfectly sensible. If the muggles aren't people, and they don't have anything to offer us, and they'd try to kill us or get us to solve all their problems, what'd be the point in showing ourselves?"

"That's stupid, what would they be if they're not people?"

"Like moving pictures," David says darkly. "Things that act like people but don't matter."

"Yes, that," Edmund agrees.

"...okay but it's different, moving pictures don't, they don't remember and, and stuff?"

"And muggles don't do magic, and stuff. There's always a reason for things, even if it's a stupid reason."

"It's very stupid."

"Yeah. I-"

The boat turns a corner, and Hogwarts comes into view.

Edmund stares at the castle, his eyes full of wonder and shining with sudden tears.

...wow.

It's huge and it's beautiful and James cannot wait to see it all and—!!!!!!!

David's face is unreadable as he beholds the castle.

"C'est très beau..."

James scoots closer to Tintin and leans over to whisper, "Can you imagine all of the secret passages?"

"So many! It is so exciting!"

"Y-yeah," Edmund says, tearing his eyes away from Hogwarts and wiping his eyes with one sleeve. "Peter knows about a few, and he never even went looking for them, far as I know, they just sort of happened to him."

"—happened? How do secret passages happen."

"I think that's one of the things we'll learn when we get there."

The boat docks in a small, apparently natural cavern lit by glowing crystals and ensconced torches. There's a massive set of double doors across from the pier.

This is already extremely aesthetic; the way James falls on his face the moment he gets up and tries to exit the boat unassisted is perhaps less so.

He might need gremlin help.

Gremlin is available.

"You alright, mate?"

"Yeah, got some temporary nerve damage, the hospital wing will figure it out after Sorting." He rests his weight on Tintin.

"Right then."

After a few minutes of the crowd of first-years slowly accumulating, a tall man steps out of a side door. He's wearing plum-colored robes covered with silver stars and moons, his hair is rust-red streaked with silver, and he has a beard tied with a golden cord.

"Good evening, students," he says brightly. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, deputy headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and head of Gryffindor House, and it is my privilege to welcome you all to these hallowed halls. You are all to be Sorted, which I regret to inform you is a very simple process not involving combat with any trolls. The House into which you are sorted will be your home for the next seven years, and will continue to influence your life long after. Your Housemates will be your family, even more than Hogwarts itself. That said, I encourage you all to make friends outside your own Houses - but know that you will always have a place where you belong."

He waves his wand, and the doors open. He strides through them.

"I guess realistically now would not be a good time for a battle against a troll."

"I do not know, it would have to be rather badly handicapped to be a fair fight for the average eleven-year-old. I think you could do it."

Tintin more or less carries James into the Great Hall as he whispers back.

"Are you flirting with me?" James asks with a half-smile.

Tintin blushes intensely. "Do not make me drop you."

"So I should wait until I'm sitting down before I flirt back is what you're saying."

"At the very least."

Professor Dumbledore pulls out a battered old hat and places it on a stool on a raised dais in the center of the room. It begins to sing a song explaining the merits of the various Hogwarts houses.

It's not a very good song, and the hat does not sing it well. Edmund can be seen wincing and trying not to cover his ears.

James can appreciate it. ...from a distance. In a more abstract sense.

The hat finishes its song eventually. Dumbledore consults a list of names.

"Ashford, Milicent!"

A girl goes up to the stool. The hat is placed on her head. After a few seconds, it shouts "RAVENCLAW!" The trimming on Milicent's robes changes to blue and bronze; she puts the hat back on the stool and heads to the table dressed in those colors, whose inhabitants are clapping.

"Axton, Terrence!"

The process continues through the alphabet. Soon enough Dumbledore reaches "Fawkes, David Launcey Morgan!" The hat deliberates only for a few moments before sending him to Slytherin.

A while after that, Dumbledore calls "Orland, James Augustus!"

"That would be me," he sighs to Tintin.

The hat settles over his head. Oh, this'll be hard, it scoffs. "GRYFFINDOR!"

James sporfles in surprise when he hears the Hat's voice in his head but he supposes it was pretty obvious wasn't it.

There is one particularly enthusiastic applauding third-year girl with a family resemblance to James over there.

Continuing through the names, Dumbledore comes to "Saint-Martin, Henri!" Tintin rolls his eyes and scampers up; the moment the hat touches his head, it roars "GRYFFINDOR!"

He nods decisively and scampers to the red-and-gold table. 

He left a space next to him for Tintin, and when the smaller boy approaches Deborah tries to play the fact that she was quietly lecturing James about the scars she noticed cool.

He extends a hand. "Hello! My name is Tintin. I have befriended your brother."

Lots of emotions cross her face there and then but she settles for amused and pleased. She extends a hand as well. "Then you must know I'm Deborah. Nice to meet you. And perhaps reconsider whether you really want to be friends with this little imp."

"That is racist."

"I stand by it."

"He has been very nice to me," Tintin says. "And I do not mind carrying him when he does something that results in his being unable to walk."

"Yes, about that," she says, politely clapping for another person who has just been Sorted, "he said he hugged someone."

"Yes. He has - some kind of accidental magic that hurts people who touch him. It is very sad."

"And he didn't warn—no, of course he warned you, you just decided to do it anyway," she sighs.

"Right in one."

"Probably if James had not hugged him I would have," Tintin admits. "He is terribly sad."

Deborah facepalms, but she's smiling. "May the two of you find happiness in your wanton self-destruction."

"Always have!"

Eventually "Winslow, Edna!" is sorted into "HUFFLEPUFF!" and Professor Dumbledore waves his wand, removing both stool and Hat from the dais, which sinks back into the floor. He then takes his seat at the teachers' table.

As Dumbledore sits, an old man rises. He introduces himself as Headmaster Armando Dippet, and gives a rather lengthy speech about Hogwarts and its values.

Yawn.

How's David doing?

Seems to be chatting with Tom and Edmund over at the Slytherin table. He's smiling, a bit, which is better than it could be.

Oh good.

He turns to Tintin. "So, about that flirting."

Deborah chokes on her spit.

"Mind your own business, sis," he says without looking at her.

Tintin blushes again. "I am not sure if I am the best choice to flirt with," he cautions. "I am sure there are plenty of boys who are... I do not know how to say it. More... Less..."

He gestures vaguely at himself.

"He's going to flirt with them, too," cautions Deborah.

"Debs, don't you have better things to do right now than being the opposite of an overprotective older sibling?"

She laughs and ruffles his hair but she does also make a point to turn around to look at other people and stop inflicting herself on James.

"More to the point, I observe your objection is not that I am a boy, too, so I will make my own choices about who to flirt with, thank you very much."

"I would not dream of stopping you. ...if we are going to flirt I think I would like to start it better than 'I think you could defeat a handicapped troll'. Perhaps 'you are very pretty'."

He waves a hand vaguely. "Anyone can be pretty, just get some potions, killing trolls is way cooler." Pause. "But thank you, you are very pretty, too."

"...you are right, it feels less - like something that matters. But it is nice to know that you think so."

"Of course I think so, I have eyes."

Tintin looks - confused, maybe.

"—what?"

"...it has not always been very obvious. Or at least people have not said it."

"Deborah says I am too small to worry about this kind of thing. You know, boys, girls, kissing. Maybe the other kids just are too young." Shrug.

"...yes, perhaps."

Dippet finishes his speech, and the tables fill with food. Tintin gasps with delight.

James knew this was coming but it's still rather incredible to actually see it.

He dives in.

Tintin doles himself out a heaping portion and sets about it. It seems possible that he has never had food before. It seems certain that he has never had food like this before.

James is also a growing boy and as such will eat as much as he's able.

Tintin eventually slows down. "I should leave room for dessert," he observes. "That is important."

"We are growing boys and we need to eat as much as we can," recites James—although it is unclear if he just made that up right there and then—as he stuffs his face some more.

"Dessert is also important, and I want to see what it is like in this place of wonders."

"Sure, sure, I'll eat it too."

But he does stop eating right about then anyway.

Dessert arrives after a few more minutes! It is, as predicted, wondrous.

"I love this place," Tintin says upon tasting some kind of pink meringue-like substance.

James is making a pile on his plate. He has lost track of what-all is in the pile but there sure is a lot of it.

Dessert can only last so long. Eventually, they have eaten all they want or all they can stomach, and the firsties are shepherded off to their respective dormitories.

Tintin immediately claims the bed adjacent to James's, James being great and his only current friend.

That sounds fine to James!

"This is more people than I'm used to, I'm excited," he confides in Tintin.

"Yes! So many people, and we will be learning magic and having adventures! It is certainly the most exciting thing that has happened to me."

"Deborah says there aren't that many adventures to be had but I'm sure she just didn't look hard enough."

"The failure to have adventures is often a failure of imagination," Tintin nods. "I managed it in an orphanage, and can most certainly manage here."

Right then there is some commotion at the door and a girl strides past the boys' beds in the boys' dormitory and stops before James's bed.

"I've been told you had been told you were meant to go to the infirmary. And guess what this place is not."

...oh right that.

"The infirmary?" he guesses.

"Mmhm." She places both hands at her hips. "And now because of this I am going to have to go to bed later than usual. I hope you're happy."

"...can't say I care much."

Deborah flicks his nose with a finger.

Tintin hops off of his bed, grumbling slightly. "I will come with you. For moral support."

"Very Gryffindor of you but we don't need three of us to have to go to bed too late because of this one's bad choices."

She's smiling, though. This unreasonably tiny boy will fit right in.

"How exactly do you intend to stop me."

That startles a laugh out of Deborah and she shakes her head. "Come right on, then."

James starts to follow and: faceplants.

"Oh you minuscule idiot," she sighs then reaches for him to help him up.

Tintin supports him as well. "I make an excellent crutch," he reports to Deborah.

"You're just thirteen!" he protests to his sister, though he accepts both of their help.

"Yes, and you're eleven and have the ego of a fourteen-year-old Slytherin so I figure I could take you down a peg or two."

Grumble grumble.

"I think he is welcome to an ego," Tintin says loyally. "He seems to handle it well."

"Where did you find him?" wonders Deborah.

"Hogwarts Express. And I'm keeping him."

Limp limp limp onwards.

They make it to the Hospital Wing between the three of them, and the healer in residence opens the door. "Hullo. Feast disagree with you, something to that effect? ...limping and curse scars, that's not gastronomical. Come in, come in, tell me who hexed you and I'll set Dippet on them after I've fixed what-all's wrong."

"Hexed himself," mutters Deborah.

James shoots her a glare then turns to look at the healer. "There's a boy who has a magical condition that makes him accidentally magic whoever he touches, but he looked like he needed a hug so I gave him a hug. —and I want to keep the scars they look cool."

The healer laughs. "Gryffindors. Give me a moment to look you over - and I'll want to be looking at that boy too, what's his name?"

As she speaks, her wand flickers through the air, leaving intricate traceries of magic behind.

Tintin looks entranced. "They called him David Launcey Morgan Fawkes, at the Hat," he offers distractedly. "And he was sent to Slytherin."

"Excellent, I'll call him in tomorrow. And what's your name, mister wants-to-keep-his-scars?"

"James. Uh, Orland."

"It's James Augustus Orland," Deborah clarifies.

"Good, good. I can fix the nerve damage, mister Orland, and that'll take care of the weakness and most of the tingling. That scar system is actually rather interesting, though. It looks as if - well - would you close your eyes?"

"...sure?"

He does.

Silently, the healer holds a lumos near his arm.

(It tingles. The closer it gets, the more intense - eventually it's a bit pins-and-needles uncomfortable.)

He does not have enough self-control to keep his eyes shut, at that.

"Was—was I—I never felt it—sis do people normally feel magic on their skin like that?"

"—feel?"

"They do not. It's a relatively rare complication that crops up in curse scars that haven't been or can't be removed. Since the magic was directly affecting your nervous system, your nerves - got a taste of it, learned what it was. If I leave you with those scars, you'll have something of a sixth sense. On the other hand, anything stronger than a lumos might do worse than tickle."

"How much worse?"

"No. James, it's one thing if they just look like that but if they're going to hurt you—"

"It's my body!"

"You're eleven! What if you change your mind later?"

She shrugs. "It's true that the scars would be harder to remove once they've had time to settle in. Maybe impossible. But I'm not going to fix them without permission."

"James. Little brother. Please. If you want your scars later you can just, just hug your friend again—"

"I'm totally hugging him again anyway!"

"What would dad say!"

"What would mom?"

She throws her hands up in the air. "Fine. Have it your way."

(Tintin is pleased not to have had to intervene. He's not entirely sure how he would have intervened, but it would probably have involved shouting, and Tintin doesn't like shouting.)

"I should get to fixing the nerve damage before that sets in, though. Can I Body-Bind you from the neck down for this, it's easier that way."

"—okay, sure," he says, sounding more curious than wary.

She flicks her wand at him, and suddenly he's paralyzed - he can move his eyes and lips, but nothing else.

Also, everything tingles. It's like his entire body fell asleep like a folded leg, and a gentle, even weight is being put on every part of his skin - at least, below the neck.

The healer starts weaving her wand through the air some more, this time more purposefully.

...he starts giggling. "Tickles," he explains to Deborah's raised eyebrow.

"Well, that's good to know."

The wandwork continues for a good several minutes, and the tingling feeling intensifies in some areas and weakens in others according to some obscure pattern, until eventually she flicks her wand again and he regains the ability to move. "Alright, the rest of it'll be potions. I'll be sending the elves with a vial every day at breakfast for two weeks, and if you don't drink it I'll find you and pour it down your throat myself, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"And- you, tiny boy. Who're you?"

"...my name is Tintin?"

"I want to give you a checkup, you're too tiny for my comfort. You others can go if you don't want to stick around."

"I wanna stick around. ...um, he might be tiny because he was born a girl?"

"I'd expect him to be taller for that. Girls grow earlier, as a rule. Come on, don't be shy."

"I am not being shy!"

Tintin approaches hesitantly.

Wandwork wandwork wandwork -

"Malnourished," the healer diagnoses. "I'm sending you potions as well. Unlike almost any other potion you care to name, these ones taste nice. Drink them. You can all leave now."

"Thank you, ma'am!" James says brightly.

"Thank you very much," echoes Deborah before starting to shoo the other boys away. They've wasted enough of their precious sleep before their first day.

"Well, that was an experience," Tintin opines.

"It was fun! And I get to keep my cool lightning scars!!!"

Deborah scrunches her nose up but does not deign to comment.

"You do! And I will be less malnourished, and possibly less tiny, though I have my doubts."

"If nothing else we'll grow to grownup height, although you may stay a small grownup."

"Being a large grownup would be very strange and I would not like it."

"Even small grownups are bigger than you though."

"Just so long as I am small enough to be underestimated."

"Ooh that's a good thought. I want to be big though."

Here's the Fat Lady portrait, ready to let them in after Deborah gives her the password.

"Being big is a good strategy for many people! But I think I am better at being small."

"You boys can discuss strategy later, for now just shoo, Debs needs her beauty sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," salutes James.