The Onset of a Beautiful Friendship

First Impressions

I suppose it all started when he asked my Mum how to get onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. At that moment, we didn't know who he was or what he would mean to the Wizarding World, except for the fact that he seemed to be nothing more than a little muggle-raised runt with a predilection for wearing ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes. His glasses overwhelmed his pale narrow face, his hair had cowlicks all over the place, and he stood, half-dwarfed by his trolley, almost quivering with nervousness and uncertainty.

He looked...lost.

Eventually, he got on the Hogwarts Express and I was bidding my Mum and sister farewell. I remember trying to rub the dirt off my nose at around the moment that Fred and George scampered down from the train to tell the rest of us, excitedly, that the boy we just helped was none other than Harry Potter.

To say that I was disappointed was an understatement. Of course the name "Potter" made me excited and curious, because I am about to go to school with someone so famous, even before he can walk and talk...but still. Dismay was eclipsing all other positive feelings.

I mean, honestly. That--runt--was Harry Potter?

So I thought, you've got to be kidding me. He barely reached past my shoulders, and he's so skinny I can probably wrap my entire hand around his upper arm! He was the one who miraculously saved us from You-Know-Who? He was the saviour of the Wizarding World--the little baby who succeeded where so many adult witches and wizards failed?

Him?

Well, ten years after You-Know-Who's defeat, the victor still looks like a baby. I was suitably unimpressed. I, along with my siblings and just about any child who was raised by at least one Wizarding guardian or parent, grew up to hearing the legend behind The Boy Who Lived. As a child, I idolized him. Imagine a baby so gifted with power that he has repelled the most Unforgivable of all forbidden curses. Now, it embarrasses me to admit that the mental image generated by all those bedtime stories was of a boy so blessed: world-famous parents (Mr. And Mrs. Potter were world famous for being an Unspeakable and Curse-breaker, respectively), vast fortunes, unbeatable courage, ravishing good looks, and a stately manor--you know, all the luxuries that a fictional protagonist should own.

At first glance, that hesitant little boy at the train station was nothing like I imagined he would be.

First, it hit me then that my image of Harry Potter was more than a myth. Mum, like most storytellers, had romanticized and idealized his character too much. He might have been the stuff of legends, but the reality of his existence didn't quite match the much-lauded descriptions of him in books and word-of-mouth.

It was quite a shock.

I reckon it's silly, but when I was eleven, I'd always imagined that Potter would be this incredibly butch young man with an incredibly commanding presence, and that he'd sweep into King's Cross Station in all his regal, knightly finery (perhaps with a dramatic cape, sword, and armour...), parting the crowds with just his intense green gaze alone. Potter would be my age, sure, but incredibly strong regardless and grown beyond his years, with an aura of sophistication and power, with his wand confidently clutched in one hand and unspoken intellect behind his eyes...

I'm sure that I wasn't the only one who thought that's what Potter ought to have looked like. After all, he's a hero--meant to be idolized, worshipped, and adored.

Instead, what the Wizarding World got was nothing more than a tiny pile of skin and bones that is mostly hidden underneath a huge pile of rolled-up ragged clothes. Parts of the package were a lightning-bolt scar and a pair of taped-up glasses covering those supposedly famous green eyes. A ragged mop of fur that was supposed to be his hair topped off his entire being.

So yes, it was quite a shock.

Eventually, fascination got the better of my dismay. I reckoned legends, especially this one, were always based on some semblance of truth. So, if he is a saviour, then there's got to be something inside that puny being that is worth being idolized, worth being a hero.

Hence, I set off to sit with him in his lonely little compartment. I figured, so what if he didn't look particularly heroic? The source of his greatness merely had to be something intangible...something hidden.

And I was right.

***

Although a lot of the finer details of that day have already escaped me, I do remember feeling uneasy when I was right outside his compartment door. Amidst my incredulity and dismay over the news that the boy was supposedly Harry Potter, I began thinking that maybe it was all a hoax. I kept repeating to myself that there's no conceivable way that The Hero of the Wizarding World could be that...well, short.

Being quite tall for my age, height has always been an issue. How could anyone of greatness be any shorter than myself? How can the world expect its people (i.e., me) to look up to a hero when he's barely a few inches taller than a goblin? What am I to do? Kneel?

Virtually everyone who can count from one to eleven knew that Harry Potter was my age, which meant that Fred and George could have lied to us. I thought, maybe the boy in that compartment wasn't the Boy Who Lived at all, but someone who--albeit loosely--fit Harry Potter's description.

After all, black hair...eyes that could have been green behind those hideous glasses...

Could have been anyone, yeah?

So I was having monumental second thoughts. My brothers were notorious for their jokes, and this might have been an attempt to embarrass and annoy me, Ginny and Mum. The twins knew that Ginny and I, in particular, wouldn't have lived it down if we went tearing into the wrong boy's compartment just to ogle his nonexistent scar.

The longer I lingered, the more convinced I was that the twins were merely having us on. It would make more sense that way, wouldn't it?

Eventually, I got enough of my courage back to slide the door open. I asked if the seat across from him was taken. He shook his head no, and I sat down and tried not to blatantly stare.

Surreptitiously, I noticed that he was trying not to stare back. Probably at the black smudge that was still on my nose.

Up close, I noticed that he did have green eyes. Unfortunately, he was even more of a midget from this vantage point.

It wasn't until the twins came back and introduced themselves (and me) that I was almost convinced that the person sitting across from me was who the twins said he was. When Fred and George left, I asked again to verify it (after all, you couldn't be too sure, and the boy may have been in on the twins' joke). He answered that yes, he really was Harry Potter.

The dismay only increased tenfold, along with the fascination.

He really wasn't much to look at--I think that only increased my curiosity. Since, to my disappointment, his identity has been confirmed, that left me with the pretty obvious hunch that he's not at all what he seems. If what I thought was really true--that his greatness stemmed from something mysterious and intangible--Well.

Never let it be said that Ron Weasley doesn't know how to gnaw on the proverbial bone.

Woof.

So I had a compartment seat, a seatmate, a budding theory, and a chockfull of rude and unanswered questions.

Other than that, other recollections from that train ride have been blurred by time. Oh, except for the moment Malfoy interrupted us and introduced himself in his own arrogant sodding way. If there were one victory I still relish with crystal clarity until today, it would be the instant Harry turned down Malfoy's handshake--and consequently his friendship--on my behalf.

Although I freely admit that I insulted the blonde brat first, I've never felt a half-knut's worth of guilt over it. After all, for someone who grew up with hand-me-downs and pre-owned stuff, and who was raised in the shadows of his famous, successful brothers, it was highly gratifying for me to be considered first, like Harry did.

Someone so famous had the luxury of picking anyone out of the whole damned crop, but he picked me.

I won't be modest and lie to you. I won't tell you that although humbled by Harry's show of schoolboy solidarity, I don't understand his choice. Because I do understand. Furthermore, any one-up over Malfoy isn't really a humbling experience--it's a cause for malicious gloating and gratuitous celebration.

Harry's choice wasn't a matter of pity. One remarkable thing about Potter is that he never felt above anyone enough to experience that feeling. On a superficial level, it's as simple as this: Draco Malfoy was a scumbag who reminded Harry of his cousin. I befriended Harry first.

Malfoy was a scumbag who tried to befriend Harry second.

And even though I insulted Malfoy first, it wouldn't matter, because Malfoy's name deserved laughing at, the bloody git.

On another level, perhaps Harry stood by me because he knew, instinctively, that I would be one of the precious few to truly understand him. He found an...equal...in me, just as I found an equal in him. Despite the fact that nobody else would think so, I'd like to believe that he saw a little of himself in me: a boy who has never had something of his own, and who only wanted a choice over what to own and where to belong. Throughout our short lives, we had to put up with someone else's cast-offs; someone else's used goods.

Life has always handed us its leftovers. That incident with Malfoy was our chance to stake our property over each other before anyone else can have a chance to. He gained my loyalty and friendship (for all that they're worth), and I enlisted myself as Harry's unofficial sidekick, bodyguard, and guide to the Wizarding World. In return, I was the first boy to ever claim the title, "Harry Potter's Real Friend," something not very many people can attest to, even to this day.

He had me--I gave him all of me (although he didn't know it)--even though in my standards, he was still more than a foot too short. If I wanted to look up to him, I'd have to go down on my knees. (Bleurgh. Why did Potter have to be so short?)

That day on the Hogwarts Express--perhaps the very moment Harry fatalistically proclaimed, "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks"--was the cornerstone of a very strong bond between us, only to be tested an occasionally pulled taut by our collective stupidity, pride, and bullheadedness.

That bond has been through a lot of abuse over the years, and it hasn't ever snapped.

I doubt it ever will.