Chapter Text
Standing in King’s Cross Station was surreal to eleven-year-old Zira Fell. His new shoes were uncomfortable, but they clinked on the stone floor in such a way that the sound echoed all across the station and was able to be heard even though the room was crowded. The cat on his cart made a small noise of protest as the boy sped up to keep pace with his father. His cat. Zira had gotten her as a present for his eleventh birthday alongside the shoes and his school supply trip to Diagon Alley. He’d named her Angel because despite her black fur she had a pair of white spots right along her back that he imagined wings could sprout forth. Zira nearly tripped as his father came to a stop at the brick pillar between Platforms Nine and Ten.
“Zira, you can go first since it’ll be your first time on the Platform.” His father, Gabriel Fell said. He made a sweeping hand motion towards the pillar. Zira’s mother, Michaele Fell, tapped her husband’s arm and in a whisper told him to be careful that the Muggles don’t see him acting this way. Gabriel gave an exaggerated look around at the Muggles going on about their daily business.
“Look Zira, my boy, it’s Platforms Nine and Ten! There are no hidden Platforms between here!” he said loudly. “Surely nothing would happen if you walked right into the wall here!” Many of the bypassers gave Gabriel weird looks as they passed by, but then again, many of them completely ignored him, so maybe he was onto something. The eleven-year-old got the hint of how to get onto the Platform. A train sped by on Zira’s left and one of his small blonde curls fell into his eye.
The boy took several quick steps towards the wall but as he got within arms reach, tried to stop himself from hitting it. Zira’s attempt to stop resulted in his right shoe colliding with the wheels of his cart, pushing it forward. This, in turn, pulled him through the wall and onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Angel yelped but stayed in the cart alongside his books. Zira breathed a great sigh of relief. (Maybe it was awe, how can we know?) The Platform around him was buzzing. He ducked as a flying book passed over his head and he nearly fell again as his parents stepped onto the platform behind him. A beautiful train was to his left and it had the words 'Hogwarts Express’ printed on the sides in golden paint.
“Muggles,” Gabriel said. “So easy to fool!” He smiled slightly. Zira did as well. His dad’s outburst had seemed brave to him. Zira couldn’t imagine speaking in front of that many people so confidently. It seemed even more brave to the boy, who knew from making friends with Muggle children, that his dad’s words had been far more odd to them then reassuring.
Zira’s mom leaned in close to him. “Look at my smart, brave little boy, getting onto the Platform without a worry! Be sure to remember not to hesitate, lest you end up in Hufflepuff.”
“Hufflepuff?” said Gabriel, “Surely not our Zira! He’s loyal as any Hufflepuff and he’s smart as any Ravenclaw, but we both know he’s gonna end up in Gryffindor, just as his ancestors have been for generations!” The two parents smiled at him.
“Mom, Dad?” Zira began quietly. “What if I don’t end up in Gryffindor? What if I’m not brave enough for it?” The boy looked anxious as he shuffled his hands together.
“Well. You know you’re great uncle Raphael?” His dad asked. Zira didn’t know his great uncle Raphael so he shook his head. “He got put in Slytherin and now none of us talk to him.” Zira’s mind raced with fear that he’d be like his great uncle Raphael.
Michaele nodded to the boy. “What your father is trying to say is that Fells have been Gryffindors for centuries and you’ll live up to that reputation.” She paused as the train’s horn sounded. “Why don’t you get on? I’m pretty sure it’s going to leave soon!”
And so Zira Fell got onto the Hogwarts Express with a bagful of books far too big for any eleven-year-old to hold, a small cat wrapped around his neck, and a pit in his stomach telling him that something was going to go wrong. Zira opened a window in the cart he was on and waved out to his parents on the ground below.
“Bye!” Shouted his father.
“Don’t forget to avoid the Crowley boy!” his mother yelled.
Zira closed the window the moment they left the station and sat down with a straight back and wide eyes on the train compartment bench.
His parents had been telling him for months that he and ‘The Crowley Boy’ were going to be in the same year and that he’s better off avoiding him ‘until Zira learns some good countercurses’. Both parents were convinced the boy would be more than adept at the Dark Arts by age eleven, as expected of their opposing family. While Zira wasn’t able to spot the flaw in their logic (that this eleven-year-old boy was incapable of knowing the Dark Arts based on the fact that he doesn’t know any magic yet) he did have another argument with his parents on the topic.
“But what if he’s nice?” Zira had asked.
“He most certainly won’t be nice!” his mother had snapped. This began an hour-long rant about how the Crowley’s were a good for nothing family and that the boy was not nice.
The same topic came up again a week later.
“Maybe I’ll be able to befriend him!” Zira said this time. He thought by putting the responsibility to convert the boy into his own hands his parents just might agree that he has a chance.
“He’s been training in the Dark Arts since he was six. If the poor boy still has a soul, it’s surely in pieces by now. There’s no way you’ll be able to get through to him.” His father had said.
The same topic came up again and again throughout the summer leading up to Zira’s first year at Hogwarts. Soon he became tired of arguing for a boy he’d never even met and began to agree with his parents.
Zira sat on the Hogwarts Express, alone, save for the company of the ginger boy who was sleeping on the chair opposite of him. He read one of the books he’d brought on board and bought hot cocoa from the cart when it came by. Zira got changed into his robes and packed up his stuff. Soon the train was in the station.
Zira took a step onto the solid ground off of the train and was almost knocked over by the ginger kid from his cart. He had on one sleeve of his uniform on and was frantically trying to find something.
“Sorry!” Yelled the boy as he ran past.
This very same morning had flown by for eleven-year-old Anthony J. Crowley. He was pushing a cart with an ornate cage carrying a long-eared owl in it. He’d gotten the owl from his parents for his eleventh birthday, and although his parents said the owl was named Snakeskin, (Because of the way the feathers gleamed like scales and the bird could eat snakes and the Crowley family crest and man it’s a terrible name but what else do you expect from Hastur la vista Crowley?) Anthony had secretly named the bird Centauri because it sounded cool to him and because it reminded him of the stars (So maybe the bad naming thing is genetic and Anthony Janthony Crowley’s also got the bad genes there).
The Crowley boy had also been lectured about the simplicity of Muggles, which he had ignored by listening to the music pumping through a set of Muggle headphones he’d bought while in London. Irony was his strong suit, and since he’d told them that the headphones improved his hearing (which if they believed that they deserved the result), they didn’t realize that he hadn’t heard a word they’d said on the topic.
He’d then been told that if he didn’t get into Slytherin he’d be out of the will and that the entire Crowley estate would go to his nine-year-old brother, Adam. He wasn’t worried about getting into Slytherin (The straightforward threats he was given were much less confusing than the ones that the Fell boy the Crowley family passed was getting, though Crowley wouldn’t know that).
So Crowley got on the Hogwarts Express after hugging his brother Adam goodbye and slunk off to find an abandoned cart where he could catch some sleep because interacting with his family was exhausting. It took him thirty seconds to fall asleep. It took thirty more seconds for eleven-year-old Zira Fell to enter the same compartment without waking him. His mother Dagon had yelled at the train for him to avoid the Fell boy but Crowley was dead to the world and wouldn’t have heard them over his music anyway.
When Crowley woke up again he woke up in an empty compartment of what seemed like an empty train and panicked. He wasn’t wearing his uniform yet, wasn’t sure where his stuff went and was halfway convinced that he’d been forgotten and was heading back to London and his family. Crowley didn’t like the feeling of being forgotten and wasn’t happy with the thought of having to return home, so he grabbed his uniform and slung one sleeve over his current outfit whilst running towards one of the many exits. If he almost pushed over one slightly chubby blonde boy on the way out then so be it. On second thought, he shouldn’t be so mean if he wanted to make friends here.
Crowley turned back and yelled at the boy.
“Sorry!” he said, before continuing onward to the rest of the crowd.
Crowley found that his stuff was being taken up to the castle by the carriages and that he was not heading home, so he composed himself as best as he could and put the robe which had been hanging off of his arm on. He held his head high, he was a Crowley, after all. The boats were ready to take the first years across the lake and Crowley got into one with another boy who looked a bit nervous about the boat in front of him and a girl who stared across the lake with starry eyes. The light from the castle, which was getting closer by the second, reflected off of her glasses and made her look almost ethereal.
Crowley looked up at the castle and tried to stop the excitement from entering into his mind. He was a Crowley, for someone' sake, and Crowley’s were always composed. He stretched out his legs a bit further and the nervous boy gave a nervous yelp as he got pushed around on the boat. The moon and stars were mirrored by the castle’s candles and the reflection across the lake water made it seem like four worlds were colliding instead of two. Crowley gave a good look at the castle that was to be his home for the next seven years. It looked a lot like his own house. The facade was foreboding. A shiver went up to the boy’s back. It looked cold to him. If the castle itself looked cold, he could only imagine how cold the dungeons would be.