Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, and the basic framework for this story is taken from "An t-Ádh" by Padraic Ó Conaire.
Luck
"Wait for me!"
Michael ran towards them, his arms flailing and feet stumbling down the muddy path.
Tom Riddle laughed as Michael landed in the puddle before him with a splash. The hem of Michael's robes had been soaked through and his light blond hair stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were red and Sammy patted him on the back, clearly glad of his late arrival.
It was a cool April day. The sun shone low through the trees, dazzling the three young adventurers as the walked. The path gleamed with morning rain, and birds sang high above their heads.
Tom looked back at the castle, still as foreboding as ever.
"Do you think they'll notice we're gone, Tom?"
Tom sighed. This was the fifth time Sammy had asked him. As first years, they were not allowed to leave the confines of the school grounds. But the bright spring day had drifted through the castle walls, tempting them to come out and enjoy it.
"You know Clarkson's a duffer – he'll never notice!"
Picking up a stick, Tom trailed it along the ground, a thin line forming behind him in the dirt. Their Charms teacher was not of the sharpest sort, and roaming around the school grounds was a far more attractive way to spend two hours than sweating in that classroom, adhering to Clarkson's silly methods.
As they wandered along the forest path, the air grew warmer. The deep blue expanse above them was interrupted by fluffy wisps of white cloud. Insects buzzed in their ears, and every now and then they would run, seeing who would be first to the next stone.
Sammy would still not relax. He continued to remind them of the last time he was caught skipping class. He had received such a beating that day, that he swore he could still feel the pain on his back. His ink-stained hand rubbed it gingerly.
But Tom longed to see Hogsmeade. It was a wizard-only community that he had only read about in books. It seemed that every one of his fortunate classmates had been there at least once, on family trips and holidays. He would visit the shops and restaurants, even though he had no money to spend. He would explore the streets and rows of houses, only so that he could return and say yes, he'd been there too.
Michael had been. He knew the way.
The three friends sauntered past the thick columns of trees. Every now and then, a bowtruckle would eye them carefully. On these occasions, the boys would pick up some crawling woodlice or spiders from the grassy bank and offer their gatherings to the bowtruckle, who would proceed to accept their gifts gratefully.
It seemed they had walked for hours by the time they reached the gate. It towered above them, its ornate black ironworks shining with raindrops. This was the faculty-only exit, covered in ivy. Michael ran forward and pushed it with his freckled arms.
It was locked. A rusty bolt limited their adventure to the well-known school grounds. A high stone wall continued on either side, and Tom knew that any magic they had garnered in their first eight months of schooling would be useless against it.
He climbed the grassy bank, and sat down, trying to maintain an undefeated expression. Even Sammy looked disappointed; his head hung down. The mud on Michael's school robes had dried and he leaned against the wall, picking it off.
Tom sank his hand into the wet grass, and pulled up a fistful. He let it go, a light breeze catching it and taking it away from him on its flying path. The long green stalks then fell, separated onto the path, several feet away.
"What's that?"
Michael pointed to his left, and Tom quickly swung around to see what he was referring to. He followed Michael's finger into the trees. In the shadow, he saw the outline of a large object.
"It's a coach!"
On identifying the immobile Hogwarts method of transport, Tom ran towards it, twigs snapping beneath him. He heard his friends' quick footsteps behind him as he approached it.
Panting, Tom leaned against the cool metal wheel. He surveyed the coach. It had a trailer attached to the back, floating still in mid-air. Tom had grown used to things not always appearing "the muggle way". Nevertheless, he rapidly moved his arm underneath it – just to make sure.
It was too high for any of them to look into, even for Sammy. In their usual way of coping with the height restrictions induced by their eleven-year-old frames, they worked together. Their laughter echoed through the woods as Tom, his foot on Michael's cupped hands, was elevated to the side of the trailer.
Clutching the thin trailer wall for support, Tom looked curiously inside...