Chapter Text
Eleven year-old Bill Denbrough was lost.
Not lost lost in the way that a kid gets when they’re walking around with their parents, look away for a second, and then they’re gone—No, for that to happen, his parents would have had to have been with him in the first place. Which, as he wandered through the unfamiliar parts of London, they were not.
He’d last said goodbye to them—and his five year-old brother, George, who he affectionately called Georgie—at the train station back home in Bristol, with Georgie promising he’d write.
The whole thing had been a whirlwind, really—because Bill, until earlier this year, had considered himself to be a relatively ordinary boy.
He performed well enough at school, even if his parents weren’t always completely inclined to care much about his studies—and for the record, he thought himself a bit of an above average reader and writer (but he’d never admit it aloud). He wasn’t particularly athletic, but liked sitting and trying to explain the rules of sports to Georgie or taking runs outside. He’d lived with his normal parents in Bristol all his life—his dad, an electrician, and his mum, a musician—and, despite his less than stellar relationship with them, he was happy.
Bill expected to continue his studies through further education, apply to a university to write, or maybe draw—he was ten, he wasn’t sure yet but he was positive he wasn’t going to study maths—move from home into a dormitory, or maybe a flat of his own, and go back home to visit Georgie every so often.
It’s not that he had his life planned out—he was far from a planner—but it’s just what he expected to happen.
It became very clear that was no longer Bill’s path on his eleventh birthday earlier that year, when an older man in strange clothes had knocked on Bill’s door. Called himself Professor Tudor Maturin, said he was from a place called Hogwarts —
Said Bill was a wizard.
Which was most definitely something that Bill thought was just a part of his wild imagination. Like when he wrote stories.
He said all the strange things Bill had done—things he’d never brought up to anyone else because he was sure it was in his head, results of an overactive imagination and far too little sleep—were magic. And that next school year he’d be headed to Hogwarts. A school for wizards, and witches and other not normal people.
And while newly minted eleven year-old Bill Denbrough was in awe at the words being spoken to him—the instructions given to him and his parents on how to get to a place called Diagon Alley where he’d get all his school supplies—his parents were less than enthused. Not in the sort of way that they would stop him from going, not anger or distaste, but, truly, it seemed, there wasn’t a way that they could manage to care less about this seemingly astronomical change in their eldest son’s life.
Bill would be more surprised if that hadn’t generally been their attitudes toward him his entire life—though there was a part of him that had hoped that this big, wild, revelation would finally sway their emotions in one direction or another. Any reaction would be better than nothing, he thought. Still, he was faced with apathy.
Georgie, on the other hand, had a thousand questions—ones Bill himself didn’t even have answers for, but swore he’d answer as best he could as soon as he could by letter, as long as Georgie pinky-swore to keep his secret.
Which his little brother had done, tears in his five year old eyes as he said goodbye to Bill at the Bristol railway station, pinky swearing on their secret and hugging his legs tight—causing Bill to nearly miss his train, and certainly agitating their parents, who’d already been off-put with the idea of having to take Bill and his things to the station, nonetheless that Georgie insisted on walking him to the platform. And while Zack and Sharon Denbrough were emotionally distant with their older son, neither particularly were fond of the idea of letting George run through the station on his own.
So Georgie had gotten his goodbye, shooting his brother a tearful, excited wave as he’d finally gotten on the train, even going so far as to run after it as it pulled away, as far as the platform would take him until he, his blonde hair and yellow raincoat were just spots in the distance for Bill.
He read most of the two hour train ride to London—
—But London, despite Bill never having been there, was not where he’d gotten lost. Nor was it in his travels into, and through, Diagon Alley. Professor Maturin had been quite clear—and really, Bill had been so eager, he doubted he would’ve forgotten a step of the instructions (though he’d written them that first night in a notebook, just to be safe).
He looked lost, sometimes—a lanky sort of a boy in his flannel and jeans, blue eyes constantly in awe of the people in flowing robes and tall hats, children his age and older all clearly at different stages of their own journeys, reading the signs on every shop as he tried to figure out where to get every item on his list.
It’d taken much longer than it should’ve—considering he’d had to backtrack after his first shop with the allowance for the year he’d been given, discovering that you couldn’t trade pounds for cauldrons—but once that’d been fixed, he found a sort of peace in wandering through the shops.
It was like everything in his life had suddenly clicked.
The discomfort at home, with his parents, with other children at school—it was because this was where he belonged. A tug at his heart reminds him that he hopes—really hopes—he’d be able to show this all to Georgie someday. His brother was the only thing from home, the only thing about being alone that he really felt like missing.
Bill tries to push to the back of his mind the idea that he might, though, be the only child here on his own.
Still, the messy auburn-haired boy in a little too large flannel pushed through, gathering his things into a luggage cart he’d gotten—first books, then robes, supplies (including a grey owl he delightedly named Silver , after his bike, his constant companion back home)—cauldrons, quills, parchment, a wand of his very own, giddy in a wonderful nervous sort of a way as he weaved his way through the unfamiliar shops, looking up and down at the list that came with his letter.
So maybe, yes, eleven year-old Bill Denbrough was a little lost in Diagon Alley. And alone. But in a content sort of way.
The contentment seemed to wash away, though, as he started to realize quite how long he was taking—the leisurely gait he’d previously established becoming a bit more hurried as he gathered the last few things on his list, gloves he’d forgotten, a winter cloak—before making his way back out of Diagon Alley the way he’d come, towards Kings Cross Station.
Diagon Alley wasn’t where he’d gotten lost.
No, the regular-world train station was where he found himself absolutely confused and flabbergasted with approximately zero idea of where he needed to be going beyond a simple platform number on the ticket. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Which, according to the list of platforms on the arrivals and departures boards...didn’t exist.
If it weren’t for man who’d come to his home, knowing so much about him, and the place he’d just been shopping, surrounded by other kids and their families and so much...magic, for lack of a better word, he’d be more convinced, distraught that he was the victim of an awful prank. Goodness knows he’d been subjected to more than a few in his eleven years.
But there was too much evidence that this was real for Bill to immediately write this off as a prank and hop on a train back to Bristol. Professor Maturin, the students walking through Diagon Alley, the wand that was now packed among his trunks, Silver, his new owl, asleep in her cage on top of it all—
No, Hogwarts and everything that came with it—including Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—was real. Bill just...had to figure out how to get there. There were a few options he’d already checked off his list—asking a station manager, who seemed convinced between the question and his stutter that he was playing some sort of prank, looking on a map (several maps, really), which all produced no better result than the list of arrivals and departures—and going to Platforms Nine and Ten himself, because logically, between them would be situated Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
It wasn’t.
Which left Bill only minutes from departure time, lost, alone—a small boy with a cart of things triple his size—looking distressed and confused among the midday crowds, a short distance from Platforms Nine and Ten. It wasn’t that he’d given up—he was just in a stalemate. Without options, until—
“Tryna work up the courage t’run through?”
The voice is close to Bill’s ear—too close, and he practically jumps out of his skin, grip tight on his cart as he turns to see the person who spoke to him. Relief floods his system when he sees another boy about his age with a similar cart, a mop of black hair on his head, thick glasses and a delighted smile on his face, clearly thrilled at Bill’s reaction.
“Wh-what?” He quickly asks back, eyes spotting similarly delighted, if more confused, adults—the other boy’s parents, clearly—behind him, focused furiously on a map in their hands.
“Running through the wall to the platform. You’re just kinda standing there staring and y’kinda look like you might throw up on the ground, which, gross —”
“—I-I’m not about to th-throw up, I’m just lost —” The beginning of the other boy’s words finally catch up in Bill’s head. “—R-running through the w-wall?”
“—Am I wrong in assuming that the birdcage in your cart means we’re going to the same place? Because if I am wrong , I really wanna know what you're gonna do with th’owl.”
“N-no—I mean, yes , I th-think—” He pauses, letting his mind get on the same page. “—Yes, if y-you mean Hogwarts, but you completely lost me on r-running through the wall.”
A sharp grin spread across the other boy's features, his grip tightening on the cart. “Y’know, you shouldn't just go around telling every crazy person who's saying you should run through the walls about some secret wizard school.”
And, without hesitation, the dark haired boy charges at the wall. What Bill sees hardly processes in time for him to tell the other boy to stop—really, his body just tightens, awaiting the crash, the sound of collision, the falling cart—but it never comes, his new companion simply disappearing into the slab of brick.
“What?” He gapes only a moment before he’s snapped out of the haze by other voices—the glasses boy's parents—behind him.
“—Richard’s always been a bit eager, go on, dear—” The woman coos, causing Bill to jump just slightly.
He casts the woman a cursory glance, still stunned by what he had just witnessed. And, despite having just seen this other boy —Richard , his mind helpfully supplies—run through this wall, he can’t help but hesitate for a moment.
“It’s alright,” The man chimes in, a warm smile on his face, “you’ll make it.”
Something about that smile—the tone in the man's voice—is all the confidence he needs. Maybe because he never really had a parent talk to him like that, or because at this point, after everything he's seen, why was this the craziest, and...really, what else did he have to lose?
(A lot, his rational mind thinks—there's Georgie, and his owl, Silver, and... somehow, yes, this strange new friend he's made. But Bill Denbrough had also always had an excessive—occasionally stupid—brave streak.)
So, returning the older man's smile with a small nod, he takes a deep breath, knuckles white on the handle to his cart—
And runs.
The next thing he knows, the light is warm. There's a faint scent of smoke. Crowds of people talking. When his eyes adjust, he's certain he's not in King's Cross anymore—surrounded by hundreds of other families whisking children onto a massive red train.
The station already felt more like home than Bristol ever had. He'd really like to bring Georgie here, someday.
He'd made it.
“I was starting t’think you’d chickened out! Nice of you to join me!” Bill's head finally snaps to attention hearing the other boy call, spotting him on the edge of the crown, waving enthusiastically, a sharp grin still on his lips.
Bill immediately makes his way over to the familiar face, his eyes still unable to stop wandering distractedly in awe around the crowds. “I d-don't chicken out,” He mumbles back, the corners of his lips turned up into a small smile.
“You certainly proved that.” He remarks before sticking his hand out, “I’m Richie, by the way. Richie Tozier.”
”N-not Richard?” Bill replies, letting go of his cart to take the other boy's hand, a hint of teasing in his voice. The longer Bill stood in the crowd of people, it seemed more and more likely that he was right—
He was the only kid here on his own.
But suddenly, he wasn't feeling so lonely. He'd felt immediately comfortable with the boy, his too-large glasses, his excited parents, and this crowd of strangers.
“I'm Bill. Denbrough.”
Richie rolls his eyes at the comment, but his smile betrays him as he squeezes Bill’s hand firmly, “It’s nice t’meet you, Bill. I can guarantee that I’m going t’be the best friend you’ve ever had.”
Bill genuinely laughs at that—not because it's a preposterous concept, but... Richie just seems to have that sort of affect on him. “That w-won't be really hard,” He admits, grimacing. “B-but I think my little brother w-would probably try to fight y-you if he heard you s-s-say that.”
Richie’s eyes light up at that, “You have a brother? I always kind of wanted a sibling, you know, being an only child can get real lonely when your parents won’t laugh at your brilliant jokes. If I had a sibling, I know they’d appreciate my humor, but at least now I have you--”
“Alright, Richard, don’t exhaust your new friend already.” Richie’s mother jokes, as her and Richie’s father finally catch up with the two of them.
Richie groans, most likely from the use of his full name, and glances at her, “Ah, c’mon, Mum, Bill doesn’t mind. Do ya?”
“—I d-don't mind, Mrs. Tozier,” He agrees, unable to wipe the grin off his face, eyes wandering back over to the tracks. “—Sorry if I've b-been a hassle, I've just n-never done this before—”
Their gazes soften and Richie takes a step closer to sling his arm around Bill’s shoulders, “You don’t need to apologize, mate. It’s my first year, too!”
Richie’s father smiles warmly, “It’s a new experience for all of us. It’s no bother at all to try and help you learn, too.”
“We didn’t want to leave you there alone, dear. Please don’t worry yourself about it.” Richie’s mother adds, softly.
Bill opens his mouth to respond—assuredly some ramble with too many questions and apologies they wouldn't have time for—but the loud noise of a steam whistle from the train interrupts him first, his blue eyes snapping over to the Hogwarts Express as a conductor starts to shout about a ten minute warning.
“—Thank you,” He simplifies kindly, looking at the two adults before turning his attention to Richie. “D-do you wanna get on to get s-s-seats, then?”
Richie nods, “Don’t want t’get separated if the cabins start to fill too much.”
He steps away from Bill, towards his parents, throwing his arms around their necks as they lean down to hug him.
“ Behave .” They both say and Richie pulls back with a grin.
Well, if the whole magic thing wasn't Bill's first indication, at least the next few years wouldn't be boring. (Or lonely.)
“I will. Besides, I got good ol’ Bill to watch over me now, too,” He hurries back to Bill’s side, taking his hand, “Let’s get going!”
Before Richie manages to drag Bill off, though, his mum's voice cuts through the chaos. “—Richard,” She hums fondly, pushing his glasses up his nose again. “I know this is exciting, and new, but for goodness sake, don't forget to write.” She turns her attention to Bill. “Do remind him, would you, Bill?”
He gives her a firm nod, elbowing Richie lightly as he rolls his eyes, causing the other boy to jut his bottom lip out, in an obvious pout, grumbling, “Yeah, yeah, jeez , so embarrassing sometimes--”
He can't help the slight pang in his chest at the sheer difference between this goodbye and Bill's goodbye with his own parents at the train station back home.
“—And feel free to write us too, any time you like,” She adds.
He wonders to himself if this was what people called mother's intuition.
“I w-will,” He replies, almost embarrassed at how quickly he does so. These people are practically strangers—though all friendships start somewhere, he thinks—but the warmth and welcoming in their demeanors and actions spoke volumes.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Richie starting to rock back and forth on his heels, grinning at the impatience in his voice as he asks, “Alright, now can we go?”
“—Right, y-yeah—” He laughs, grabbing onto his cart again and starting to pull Richie away this time. “Thanks again! It was n-nice to meet you!” He calls back, giving a short wave as they disappear into the crowd.
He follows Richie’s lead as they weave their way through all sorts of families— some in normal clothes, others in wizard clothes, some with owls, others with odd pets— on their way towards the baggage car.
Richie rambles the entire time about this and that in a way that Bill already finds entirely too endearing—even if he's distracted enough to only be paying half attention. The two of them make quick work of loading their trunks before slipping onto the train itself.
It feels as crowded on the train as it did off of it, packed with students, in varying years, reuniting and finding cars to sit in. Bill isn’t all that bothered by it, though—really, his mind is still somewhere else entirely, taking in every detail of the train around him.
The train feels like something out of an old book, all old fashioned wood and history, the same way the shops in Diagon Alley had felt. Like there was a story. And maybe it was just his excitement, but Bill would swear he could feel magic in the air as he and Richie continued to make their way through, slipping between the bustle of students.
“Keep your eyes open for an empty compartment,” he hears Richie say, glancing over his shoulder to nod, letting the other know he’d heard him.
His eyes scan the panes of frosted glass that look into each cabin as they go by, seeing shadows of other students one by one until about the third car through, where finally, peeking through the crack in a sliding door, he finds one.
Bill stops in front of the empty compartment, pulling the door open completely for Richie to go through. “—Off to a g-good start.”
A toothy grin spreads across Richie’s face as he enters the compartment, Bill laughing as the other boy drops into the seats on one side and stretches his body across it, hands folded behind his head. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Billiam.”
Bill sits across from him, letting the door slide shut and finally exhaling. He realizes then it's the first time he's really sat down since the train he took to London. It feels like years ago.
Since then, he'd gained a wand, an owl, some books, robes, a new friend, and the comforting sense that he'd likely never feel quite as lost or alone as he had earlier ever again.