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He was clearly Muggleborn. Poorer too, if those clothes meant anything. There were bruises clenched around his wrists and the purple memory of a slap crawling it’s way up his neck, the barest tips of fingers puffing up his jawline. Logan didn’t have to ask to know that the hands were female- it was obvious by the shape and faintest impression of fingernails digging into his too-thin skin.
“You should report your mother to the authorities for that kind of abuse,” Logan said conversationally.
The boy jumped. He instantly drew his hoodie around himself, attempting to cover the obvious bruising- and only further proving Logan’s hypothesis.
“What- What do you mean?”
The boy's voice was lower than Logan expected, considering his small size. It took Logan longer than he would’ve liked to realize why, but he still did so faster than a large majority of the population. For some reason, the eleven-year-old was attempting to scare him off. Appear more aggressive than he was capable of being.
Acknowledging why was a bit of a blow to Logan’s pride, but there was no point in holding one to a higher esteem than one was worth at the cost of false information. So it was easy for him to take the hit and try again.
“My apologies for frightening you. That was not my intention.” Logan held out his hand to the boy. “My name is Logan Berry. I’m a mainly pure half-blood, which for your intents and purposes, means I know my way around the magical world. It’s nice to meet you.”
The boy hesitated before reaching out and grasping his hand. That was to be expected, though Logan believed the length of it was mainly due to his earlier failing. Still, the shake happened and Logan learned more from his touch than he had in the few minutes he had to look at him.
The easy thing to pick up on was the shakiness of it. Plain and simple, the boy was terrified though since he had reached for his hand Logan didn’t believe he was afraid of him. There was a multitude of things it could be, most likely being thrown into a magical world he had never known of before mixed with the fear that Logan knew about his home life.
But that was simple. Anyone could manage that. The harder thing was the firmness of the touch- despite his nervousness, the boy wasn’t scared of making an impression. He wasn’t shy, he was introverted and that was an important difference. It made him all the more interesting.
Then there was the actual touch. His hands weren’t soft, they were worker's hands, which further provided evidence for the theory that he had grown up poor. Despite only being Logan’s age, he had already worked hard enough and often enough for thick calluses to mar the palms of his hands. And, judging by the almost unnoticeable burn between his thumb and pointer finger, his work wasn’t very high paying. Most likely a kitchen boy.
The quality of his fingernails pulled other things into question. They were chewed down to almost stubs and a couple on each hand had been made to bleed from it. Anxiety-prone then, badly enough to need pain to bring oneself back. Not uncommon, considering how he had grown up.
Finally, Logan considered the color of his skin when compared to his own. Most would’ve named him black, and that would’ve been the end of it, but he was too light for that. Mixed then, and if Logan were to guess, a complete mix. One parent had been purely African and the other purely English.
Which probably meant he had been bullied as a kid, neither completely here nor there, especially since England was mainly white and he would be first judged as black. Since his shake had been so firm, Logan was willing to bet he stood up for himself which had led to more social shunning.
So not only had he been bullied, he probably never really had a friend before.
All of this, Logan recognized, was appealing to his sentimental side. He could still hear the whispers of the other children as he skipped up to the last grade at age four and still managed to correct the teacher every class. Too pure for the half-bloods and muggle-borns, but not pure enough for the purebloods. He was a puzzle piece without a puzzle, an equation without an equal sign.
And apparently, so was this boy.
“My name is Virgil.”
The boy's voice dropped on his name. So that was something he had been bullied on at his old school. Easy and remarkably childish, though Logan could recognize that as his own opinion rather than fact.
“That’s a great name,” Logan said, both to soothe Virgil's worries and to express a very real opinion. “Origin Latin, meaning protector. Also similar to the name of an impressive poet. Do you enjoy poetry?”
Virgil was staring at him. He supposed it was a bit odd, to know where and when Virgil's name came from before ever meeting the boy. He didn’t think he would judge him for it though.
“... not really.” Virgil seemed to both want and not want to participate in the conversation. Which meant he wasn’t only an outgoing introvert, he was an outgoing introvert who hated people.
Logan had never related to someone more.
“Why do you think my mother hurts me?”
Ah. Of course. Logan has known that topic of conversation would come up again, but he had hoped he would’ve had a bit more time to come up with a proper response.
He used the turn of the train as time to think of a way to not scare off the boy he had rather come to like- and came up empty. There was nothing to do but tell the whole unfiltered truth, and by past evidence, Virgil wouldn’t want anything to do with him after that.
“The handprint on your neck and face is smaller with thinner fingers, making it likely to be a female. There are fingernail markings just under your jawline, deep enough to have bled. Judging from how dark the purple of the bruise is, you revived this recently, my guess this morning. There has been no attempt to clean up the blood, as a loving parent or guardian would’ve done so because I can see some on your neck. Could be orphaned, but the size of the hand says an adult and the possessiveness of it- she did hit your neck, which is an incredibly vulnerable place- says she believes she owns you. Therefore, most likely a parent, which leads me to maternal abuse.”
For a second, Virgil just blinked at him. Logan waited for him to leave, as what had happened for the past eleven years- but the boy just shook his head, black bangs falling even more into his face.
“So you guessed.”
“I made several hypotheses, backed up by evidence you provided me.”
Virgil brought his finger up to his mouth and bit into it. There was a brief ache in Logan’s chest, knowing he had caused that need for control, but it lowered when he noticed that Virgil hadn’t drawn blood. He hadn’t caused much anxiety then.
“Don’t tell anyone.” Virgil met Logan’s eyes. “I can’t help you knowing- frankly, you seem like a genius so even if I denied it I’m sure you would be able to figure it out- but I don’t want her getting in trouble.”
It was Logan’s turn to blink. Despite the topic of conversation, he had this strange urge to smile, which he quickly forced down. That would merely scare Virgil away and Virgil was the first person Logan’s age he had ever met not to run the moment Logan opened his mouth.
Frankly, he was fairly close to the first person overall.
“I know you-” He cut himself off. Actually, he didn’t know Virgil loved his mother. Nothing Virgil had said or done pointed to that fact, and while it was statistically likely, the way Virgil wasn’t jumping to defend her actually pointed the other way.
So something else kept him from getting his mother in trouble. Someone he did love, and who would be heartbroken to learn his… something belonged in jail.
“-love your father,” Logan guessed, “but she shouldn’t be allowed to hurt you like that.”
Virgil smiled slightly. Perhaps smile wasn’t the right word- it was more of a bemused grimace and it told Logan all he needed to know about his hypothesis.
But it also offered him a new one.
“Sorry. Older brother,” Logan supplied.
Virgil shook his head. “Second time’s a charm, I guess.” He leaned back in his chair. “Roman is my half-brother on my dad's side. He already goes to Hogwarts.”
Logan’s brain lurched as that sentence registered and he immediately attempted to grab it and keep it from spinning out of control.
His brother already went to Hogwarts. Had Logan misjudged? Was he sitting across from a half-blood like himself, or a Pureblood?
No. Logan answered that question before he had really asked it. It was coincidence and coincidence only that had both Roman and Virgil heading to Hogwarts.
Second question, why would Virgil want to protect his mother for Roman's sake if Roman wasn’t even related to her?
That actually said more about Roman than it did about Virgil. The easy jump was that both of Roman's parents were dead (which meant Virgil's father as well) and Virgil's mother had taken him in. Which probably meant Roman was something of a romantic storyteller, to have fallen so deeply in with a woman he would’ve only known as the other woman.
And it also said something about Virgil's mother. She didn’t touch Roman because he wasn’t truly her son. Everything she did to Virgil was under the impression that she could because he was hers. It was all possessive.
“I don’t think I’ll like Roman very much,” Logan decided. “He seems remarkably oblivious, and quite fanciful.”
Virgil stared at him. “How…? I’ve said one sentence about him. How is that even- Nevermind. Yeah, Roman can be annoying. And mean. And unhelpful. And much too energetic. But he’s loving and protective, and he really does mean the best.”
There was a quiet shifting and Logan watched Virgil almost bite his nail four times. This time, Logan was able to figure out why in an instant and he quietly smiled to himself. Even though noticing things generally made everyone stay away from him, he would never choose to be without it.
“I can tell you a bit about myself if that would make you feel more comfortable,” Logan said. “After all, I know much about you and you barely know anything about me. It’s probably a bit unnerving.”
The train thudded over the tracks and Virgil tightened his arms around himself. It was a minuscule movement, but also one that spoke lengths about his anxiety.
Logan decided to keep the observation to himself.
“Well, I know you’re smart,” Virgil said. “And um, a mostly pure half-blood but I don’t really know what that means. All Roman ever describes were Muggleborns, full Halfbloods, and Purebloods.” Virgil paused. “He seemed to really hate Purebloods.”
“Gryffindors generally do,” Logan told him.
Virgil jumped slightly but then a resigned look of “of course he knows” fitted neatly across his face. He waved for Logan to continue.
“The social spectrum has more layers than that. For example, if you were to marry another Muggleborn and have a child, that child would still be called Muggleborn despite not being born to muggles.”
For a second Logan paused. Normally these kinds of long-winded explanations left his audience glossy-eyed, mouth hanging open and jumping when he said their name. Virgil on the other hand had leaned forward and a spark glistened in his pupils that Logan had never seen before.
He would have to look into that spark later.
“Then there are layers to half-bloods. If your family has been Muggleborn for generations and one Muggleborn marries one half-blood and then the generations continue to be all Muggleborn, you’re still classified as a half-blood. You’re a mostly muggle half-blood.
“On the flip side of that, if your family is Pureblood, they have a child with a Halfblood, and then the generations continue, you’ll be a mostly pure Halfblood. And that’s me.”
“So you’re mixed.”
“I am. Similar to your skin color, if I guessed correctly.”
Virgil shifted into the train bench. Logan’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like the shifting from before, all nerves, and no comfort. No, this shifting was because he was settling in, maybe even beginning to enjoy their surroundings.
That shouldn’t have delighted Logan as much as it did.
“At this point, I’d be surprised if you could guess wrong.”
Logan pushes his glasses up with one finger to hide the butterflies that leaped into his stomach at that compliment. That compliment. Logan had never received recognition before when it came to his brains. Just a lot of “shut up,” “stop showing off” or “the freaks talking again.” Nothing like this.
“Do you like stars?” He blurted. Instantly, his face flushed but he managed to keep himself from looking down at his shoes.
Virgil nodded. A strange expression crossed his face, one that said he was deciding how much to say.
“They’re scary,” Virgil said. “But in a good way. Like Halloween. It’s interesting to learn about them and see them up above, but it comes with knowing how big our universe is. And that part can be a little nerve-wracking.”
And just like that, Logan decided that he was going to make this boy his best friend. No matter what.
He leaned forward, eyes alight, and adjusted his tie. “They’re amazing. They have the potential to give and destroy life, they can tell us the time and help us navigate overseas— and then there’s everything they’re made of! Did you know some magical scientists are claiming that they think the start of magic came from stars? Isn’t that amazing? Because we’re all made of stardust! He says that some people can awaken the stardust and that’s what gives us abilities!”
Suddenly he froze. He was doing it again. Talking too much. Explaining too much. Getting hyped up over something normal people wouldn’t care about. Slowly, Logan turned to the floor, too scared to meet Virgil's eyes and see the judgment he knew would be staring back at him.
“My apo-“
“Why does it only awaken in some people?”
All of the air left the room at once.
“I mean, we’re all made of stardust,” Virgil reasoned. “So why is it that in some people it awakens and in others, it doesn’t? Plus, it continues down family lines. How does that work?”
Logan could feel his heart beating. And while he knew it was impossible, a part of him wondered whether Virgil could hear it from the other side of the train compartment, beating and beating and beating. It almost hurt, with its unsteady pumps, and yet Logan wouldn’t have it any other way.
“How much do you know about DNA?”