Quote:
Originally Posted by
Felixir 
Milo knew people on this train. Two also-first-year friends, or so it had (allegedly) turned out, were around here somewhere. There had been talk of sharing a compartment and then a boat, but so far he'd made little effort to follow up on that. Then there were his kin; uncles mostly, four of them, ranging from seventh year to second. Maybe cousins too. Didn't know. Hadn't asked. He traversed the train alone.
His shoes were tied together at the laces, and he swung the pair lightly at his side as he walked on invariably odd-socked feet. In his other hand, a biscuit - Milo didn't know who had made it, but the story went that the batch was homemade - the edges already nibbled away as he spiralled his way to its centre. The biscuits concealed variously about his person would see him through the day, and the evening that followed it.
Milo didn't know where he was going, or who he was looking for, but he knew that he'd know once he found it. As well as the odd sock situation, all of his clothes were worn back-to-front, front-to-back. Halfway through the front cars, he turned one hundred and eighty degrees and seamlessly transitioned into a backwards walk down the narrow train corridor. Better.
He took another tiny bite of the chocolate chip cookie. Not great, but not poison, so that was okay.
Moose had kept the door to his compartment open. Not as an invitation, but as a warning. He didn't want to bother with shocked faces when they saw who was in it. He'd rather they look quick, see it's him and instantly decide that this Moose's temper was not worth the trip up to Hogwarts. First Years beware, unless his visage was enough to strike fear into them. He had yet to change into his School Robes. They were sitting out on the bench in his compartment beside him ready for once they got closer. For now, Moose had the appearance of a Greaser who had just rolled out of bed. He had found an affinity for leather jackets as of late, fake obviously. His mother was very particular about that. His slick dark hair was a disheveled mess falling over his forehead and covering one of his two piercing eyes.
He was nursing a wound on the back of his left hand. Putting a bandage over a large scratch, and muttering obscenities under his breath.
He looked up for only just a moment. The briefest of glances toward the hallway outside his compartment as he watched a younger kid just walking backwards. Their clothes were not how they were meant to be, and the shoes were loosely tied together. He got a lot of information just from the brief look of this person. Every fiber of his being told him to stop watching this, but what started brief turned into a stare. Then it became a
"You're gonna fall and hit your head, mate." Like he cared? Maybe the words would be enough to actually startle them, and make them trip on their own feet.