What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron think. Finally he said, “Now, don’t be offended or anything, but neither of you are that good at chess —” “We’re not offended,” said Harry quickly. “Just tell us what to do.”                                                               “Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione, you go there instead of that castle.” “What about you?”                                                                                         “I’m going to be a knight,” said Ron.

“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said.
“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman,
you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?”
“Sorry, George, dear.”
“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went.

“And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”-Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger.-Draco Malfoy looked at him.
“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”
He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding
families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go
making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”
He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry didn’t take it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he
said coolly. Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale
cheeks.

“You’ll understand later, Neville,” said Ron as they stepped over
him and pulled on the Invisibility Cloak.
But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn’t feel like
a very good omen. In their nervous state, every statue’s shadow
looked like Filch, every distant breath of wind sounded like Peeves
swooping down on them.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very
strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell’s turban, which
kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at
once, because it was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t
want to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull
it off but it tightened painfully — and there was Malfoy, laughing
at him as he struggled with it — then Malfoy turned into the
hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold —
there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and
shaking.
He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day,
he didn’t remember the dream at all.