It's the first of September, around a quarter to the eleventh hour, and the Weasley family – minus Arthur, who was unfortunately called in to deal with a case of muggle baiting near Uptown-on-boat just before they were ready to leave the Burrow - are just beginning their final baggage checks before exiting the muggle station when Molly Weasley sees the poor boy on the muggle side of the platform
With his owl in a cage stacked on top of a proper trunk - not like the muggle nonsense she's become accustomed to seeing every September first – and is that his wand she sees sticking out of his pocket? Alistair would have an apoplectic fit – he can be nothing but a first year. He is also, almost certainly, muggleborn. The Weasleys are the only wizarding family she knows of that don't travel directly past the barrier, thanks in part to Arthur's fascination with muggle artefacts, but also partly so she doesn't lose her brood in the throng for a few extra minutes. She takes care, year after year, to never mention having the smallest of interests in the changing appearance of the trains and the Muggles that crowd them each year, or they'd never ever leave the station afterwards.
Obviously, what he ought to be doing is moving through the barrier and onto the train and off to Hogwarts, but he's just standing there looking lost as a confounded post owl, the poor dear. She can't approach directly, knows well enough that that might do the opposite of what she wants and scare him off. Young boys are so skittish at that age. On the other hand, they can also be remarkably oblivious.
It takes several tries for her brood to catch his eye, loud as they are. The boy isn't the quicker niffler on the gold pile. It's a good thing the express doesn't actually depart until half past the hour, or they'd be cutting it rather close.
As it is, they parade endlessly back and forth along the platform, yelling about Muggles at the top of their lungs. It's amazing they don't bring obliviators down on their heads.
They've almost run out of children to answer her increasingly rhetorical, "now, what's the platform number?" and she has slowly and steadily decreased the distance between them until they're one knut away from being on top of him before he finally notices.
It's Ginny's turn to answer, at the very top of her lungs, before he works up the courage to approach. Her youngest can't help but tack on yet another request to attend a year early, despite her lack of letter.
"Nine and three quarters, can I go this year, can I Mum, please?"
The lad's frightfully earnest. "Excuse me, do you know – "
"Of course dear, are you off to Hogwarts? Its Ron's first year too."
"Yes." He nods, eager as a pixie in a toyshop, then slows. "The thing is – I don't know how to – "
"How to get to the platform, dear?" He nods, and she rattles off the same spiel, minus some insights into the details of the wards involved, about Platform 9 ¾ that she's been reading as a bedtime story to her sprouts since Bill was old enough to express a preference.
All things being equal, it's not even the most effort she's ever put into an introduction. Let it not be said that Molly Weasley isn't always happy to help poor unfortunate souls, when and wherever she may find them.