Chapter Text
“Take care of yourself, okay?” Patrick murmurs into Grindell’s hair. “Don’t get into any trouble you can’t get out of.”
Grindell swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s never been away from his brother so long and yeah, he was excited, but the nervousness is starting to set in.
“I’ll do my best,” he promises, words muffled by Patrick’s vest. “Promise.”
“Liar.”
Grindell laughs, pulling away reluctantly.
“I better get on the train,” he says, reaching over to give Angela a final hug. “I’ll see you guys at Christmas, okay?”
“Definitely,” Angela agrees, kissing his cheek. “Write us when you get there, okay? I wanna know which house you’re sorted into.”
Grindell nods.
“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, I… Bye, Patty. Annie.”
“We’ll see you soon,” Patrick promises.
Grindell doesn’t say anymore, because he can’t, but… but Patrick knows. His brother always knows.
So, he keeps his head down, picks up his trunk (a clunky, probably unnecessary purchase), and boards the train. He takes the first empty compartment he can find, throws his trunk up into overhead, and curls up into the corner by the window with his newest read— Etiquette for the Most Pure and Noble.
With any luck, nobody’ll bother him.
*.*
There’s a knock on his compartment door not ten minutes later, and a painfully handsome boy peers in.
“Hello,” the boy greets. “Do you mind company? The other compartments seem a bit crowded.”
Grindell pauses, taking the information as quickly as it comes.
Straight-backed, careful, upper-class English with a hint of an Italian accent. Some kind of African descent, but mixed over time, good quality clothing, but previously unworn. Either the boy normally wears robes or his parents made a point to buy him something nice to wear on the train. Regardless, the pink button down suits him rather well.
“Please,” Grin says, gesturing at the empty seat across from him. “Make yourself at home.”
The boy smiles, revealing unusually sharp canines.
“Thanks very much,” he says, shuffling into the compartment. He holds out his free hand to shake. “I’m Blaise Zabini.”
Grin reaches out to shake.
“Grindell Jane,” he says. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Blaise nods, glancing at the book in Grin’s lap.
“A Muggleborn with an interest in Magical social standards,” he says. “That doesn’t often happen, I understand.”
“Nobody told me there were books on the subject,” Grin admits. “Personal curiosity and luck had me find this. It’s proved to be quite informative. How did you know I was a Muggleborn?”
Blaise shrugs, tossing the trunk into the overhead too easily to be natural and taking the seat opposite him.
“A few reasons,” he says. “For one, Magical families rarely leave the country, and you have an American accent. For another, there are no old families by the name of Jane. For a third, you wouldn’t be reading about etiquette if you were anything else.”
Grin smiles inwardly. He’s clever, this Zabini. Grin loves clever people.
“You’re a Pureblood, I imagine,” Grindell says after a moment. “Or at least raised like one.”
“The first,” Blaise agrees. “The Zabinis aren’t too well known in Britain. We have a stronger presence in southern Italy.”
“Never been,” Grin admits. “I heard it’s lovely, though.”
“It is,” Blaise says. “How about you? You’re American, obviously.”
“Oh, yes.” Grin shifts slightly, crossing his legs. “I’m from California, on the west coast. Sacramento, to be exact.”
“Sacramento?” Blaise clicks his tongue. “I’ve never had the pleasure. I’ve been to San Francisco a few times with my mother, and Los Angeles.”
“Pretty cities, to be sure,” Grindell says. “But I like Sacramento. It’s a pretty quiet place.”
Blaise chuckles.
“I suppose every hometown has its charms,” he says. “How did you get to the platform, if I may ask?”
“Portkey,” Grindell says. “Professor Snape supplied my brother with one when he brought me my Hogwarts letter.”
“Professor Snape?” Blaise asks, surprised. “The Head of Slytherin House?”
“Mmm… yup,” Grin says. Snape hadn’t mentioned anything like that.
“That must have been intense,” Blaise says. “I’ve heard he’s got a bit of a stick up his arse.”
Grindell lets out a startled laugh.
“Ah, he seemed alright,” he says. “Not much for kids, but he’s probably a good teacher, provided you do your reading.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Blaise glances out the compartment door. “Oh, looks like we’re getting company.”
There’s a sudden jolt as the train begins to move, and whoever it was about to knock on the compartment door topples in.
“Ah, hell!” The boy yelps in a thick Irish accent. “Sorry, sorry—”
“It’s no problem,” Grin says, reaching to help the boy up. “You alright?”
“Fine, fine,” the boy brushes off his touch. “Thanks. Er… mind if I stay here? Since the train’s moving, I figure it’s probably best to just sit tight.”
Grindell glances at Blaise, who shrugs.
“Yeah, of course,” he says.
“Thanks.” The boy doesn’t bother putting his duffle— a duffle, so probably a Muggle— overhead, instead shoving it behind his back. “The name’s Turner, by the way. Lark Turner.”
“Grindell Jane,” Grin says, then, as per Wizarding etiquette, he introduces Blaise. “That’s Blaise Zabini.”
Lark nods amiably at both of them.
“Hey,” he says. “So, magic. Who knew, eh?”
“I did,” Blaise says snidely.
“Me too,” Grin agrees. “But that’s because I had a relative with some books.”
“Lucky bastards,” Lark says, ignoring Blaise’s tone. “It came out of nowhere, for me. My family’s all normal people— well, travellers, but none of them are real magic.”
“Travellers?” Grindell asks. “Like gypsies, then?”
“That’s not a nice word to use,” Lark informs him. “But yeah, a bit. My family runs a travelling fair through Great Britain and France. Ferris Wheels and candy floss and clowns… you know how it goes.”
“Wait,” Grindell says, frowning thoughtfully. “You’re not related to Garrett Turner, are you? Of the Turner Travelling Show?”
“The very same,” Lark says, nodding. “He’s my uncle.”
Grindell smiles brightly.
“My family’s a part of the Southwestern circuit in America,” he says. “Ever heard of a guy called Pete Barsocky? He’s got an elephant called Daisy, travels with the Bachman’s Carnival of Wonders?”
Lark blinks.
“Uncle Pete’s my Mum’s cousin,” he says. “You— really? Well, damn. I didn’t think I’d be meeting family in this world. Jane, you said?”
Grindell nods.
“My brother and I left the show,” he says. “He’s a psychic.”
“Once a boy wonder, always a boy wonder,” Lark says, grinning. “What about you, have you got the gift?”
“Not like he does, but…” Grindell shrugs, glancing at Blaise’s intrigued expression. “I’m working on it.”
“What do you mean by psychic?” Blaise asks, tilting his head curiously to one side. “Like a seer?”
“No, not quite.” Lark pulls a leg up onto the seat. “He can’t tell you the future, exactly, but if you want him to, I dunno, contact the dead or read minds, he’s probably the one to talk to. Right, Jane?”
Lark winks at Grindell, who hurries to add,
“I’m not as good as my brother, yet. I still need practice.”
“But you still have the skill,” Blaise says, impressed. “An ability like that can make you many friends, if the knowledge is applied appropriately.”
There’s no question as to the validity of his abilities, just calm acceptance. Have these people never heard of a charlatan before? Well, whatever. It’ll probably just make Grindell’s life easier. His kind of skills usually do, nowadays.
Lark is a cousin, in a way, an only child and a carny. Probably isn’t a part of the show, but he’s got knowledge, and that in and of itself is priceless. Grindell had been worried about it, for all that he didn’t mention it to Patrick. Being alone in this big new world, his brother halfway across the world and essentially useless at a distance, was a scary thought.
Grin wonders if Lark would be willing to help if he finds a particularly juicy scam to run.