"Come on Harry, the train's about to leave!"
A boy of about 16 with unruly black hair and startling green eyes was suddenly jolted from his musings. He shook his head, bringing himself back to Kings Cross Station where he was standing, the distant look fading from his green orbs. A worried teenage girl with bushy hair left her trunk and its cart and a violently shuddering basket to touch his arm. He turned, still slightly puzzled, as if unsure how she had gotten to be there.
"We've got to get going Harry," she said softly, a strange look on her face. Was it pity? He couldn't tell.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry Hermione, I just— I was just thinking." He fell back into thought, seeming to affirm his comment. He couldn't tell her what he thought he had glimpsed in the shadows of the large building. How many black, bear-like dogs could there be in the bustling Muggle-filled station, especially on the first of September? Harry shook his head again. Sirius has been dead for over two months, he told himself, get a grip. Despite this, Harry still caught sight of him in his animagus form in the oddest places. It was hard to believe Sirius was gone, even now. A lump rose in his throat and he turned from his friend to hide it, pretending to make sure Hedwig's cage was tightly fastened to the trolley.
Hermione sighed sadly and went to stand with Ron, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Tonks, and Lupin, all of whom crowded near the entrance to the wizarding world. Harry didn't go after her, and deliberately focused his eyes on the clock above the arrivals board and acted as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. They had tip-toed around him all summer; now was no different. Sirius wouldn't have acted this way— but then, Harry wasn't himself because of Sirius, because he was gone. But that wasn't his fault, it was Harry's. He felt his stomach tighten uncomfortably and a feeling of melancholy engulfed him. It was his fault, all his fault... He shook his head again. There was no use dwelling on things you couldn't change.
"You all right there, Harry?" a gruff voice whispered in his ear and Harry found himself face to face with the old and scarred Auror. Moody was a comical sight, a bowler hat sitting jauntily on his head to hide his magical eye, and Harry had an uneasy suspicion it was also staring intently at him.
"Couldn't be better," he said without much conviction. Seeing the doubt on Moody's face, he managed a wan smile.
"Right," was the reply. "We should at least get on the platform, we can say good-byes then." He clasped Harry's shoulder briefly, stood, and walked briskly to meet the rest of the group. The troubled teen followed him, pushing his trunk slowly, with little enthusiasm.
"Well," said Mr. Weasley, taking charge as Harry tried to avoid Mrs. Weasly's concerned motherly gaze. "I think it would be best if we did it in groups. Hermione, Ginny, and Tonks, you first..."
Soon only Harry, Alastor Moody, and Lupin were left. They casually strolled up to the barrier between platforms nine and ten, and leaned against it. They slipped through into the wizards' Platform 9 3/4 unnoticed by the crowds of Muggles walking quickly by. It was like they had never been standing among the throngs.
And so they seemed to vanish from all conscious thought of every Muggle that had seen them. Every Muggle, save one. A teen Muggle or a girl dressed in their usual attire had noticed the odd gathering from her seat on a bench in a dark corner. She was watching the large clock which the often- late Muggle trains tried to abide by, and as it stuck fifteen minutes before eleven, the girl left her spot, picked up a ragged rucksack, and walked over to a spot just between the signs that read "9" and "10." She threw back her head to stare up at them, first the number nine, then the number 10, and then back down at the barrier between the two. Glancing to check no one was coming, the girl carefully put her hand against it. It was solid.
The girl appeared to not be disturbed by this, but if one had been close they would have noticed the disappointment in her gray-blue eyes. One would have seen the way her shoulders slumped slightly, as if there was a new weight upon them.
"Of course it wouldn't open for a Muggle," she muttered. "What did I expect?" Sighing in despair the girl ran her hands through her long, reddish-brown hair. As she looked up at the clock that now showed eight minutes to eleven, a small tear of — frustration?— ran down her cheek. "Why won't you open?" the teen whispered angrily, raising her fist to hit the divider. But it did not stop her hand as before, and it slid through like there was nothing there, the barrier swallowing most of her arm. Once again the girl glanced around furtively to make sure no one had noticed her antics, and carefully went through. She was in.
A boy of about 16 with unruly black hair and startling green eyes was suddenly jolted from his musings. He shook his head, bringing himself back to Kings Cross Station where he was standing, the distant look fading from his green orbs. A worried teenage girl with bushy hair left her trunk and its cart and a violently shuddering basket to touch his arm. He turned, still slightly puzzled, as if unsure how she had gotten to be there.
"We've got to get going Harry," she said softly, a strange look on her face. Was it pity? He couldn't tell.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry Hermione, I just— I was just thinking." He fell back into thought, seeming to affirm his comment. He couldn't tell her what he thought he had glimpsed in the shadows of the large building. How many black, bear-like dogs could there be in the bustling Muggle-filled station, especially on the first of September? Harry shook his head again. Sirius has been dead for over two months, he told himself, get a grip. Despite this, Harry still caught sight of him in his animagus form in the oddest places. It was hard to believe Sirius was gone, even now. A lump rose in his throat and he turned from his friend to hide it, pretending to make sure Hedwig's cage was tightly fastened to the trolley.
Hermione sighed sadly and went to stand with Ron, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Tonks, and Lupin, all of whom crowded near the entrance to the wizarding world. Harry didn't go after her, and deliberately focused his eyes on the clock above the arrivals board and acted as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. They had tip-toed around him all summer; now was no different. Sirius wouldn't have acted this way— but then, Harry wasn't himself because of Sirius, because he was gone. But that wasn't his fault, it was Harry's. He felt his stomach tighten uncomfortably and a feeling of melancholy engulfed him. It was his fault, all his fault... He shook his head again. There was no use dwelling on things you couldn't change.
"You all right there, Harry?" a gruff voice whispered in his ear and Harry found himself face to face with the old and scarred Auror. Moody was a comical sight, a bowler hat sitting jauntily on his head to hide his magical eye, and Harry had an uneasy suspicion it was also staring intently at him.
"Couldn't be better," he said without much conviction. Seeing the doubt on Moody's face, he managed a wan smile.
"Right," was the reply. "We should at least get on the platform, we can say good-byes then." He clasped Harry's shoulder briefly, stood, and walked briskly to meet the rest of the group. The troubled teen followed him, pushing his trunk slowly, with little enthusiasm.
"Well," said Mr. Weasley, taking charge as Harry tried to avoid Mrs. Weasly's concerned motherly gaze. "I think it would be best if we did it in groups. Hermione, Ginny, and Tonks, you first..."
Soon only Harry, Alastor Moody, and Lupin were left. They casually strolled up to the barrier between platforms nine and ten, and leaned against it. They slipped through into the wizards' Platform 9 3/4 unnoticed by the crowds of Muggles walking quickly by. It was like they had never been standing among the throngs.
And so they seemed to vanish from all conscious thought of every Muggle that had seen them. Every Muggle, save one. A teen Muggle or a girl dressed in their usual attire had noticed the odd gathering from her seat on a bench in a dark corner. She was watching the large clock which the often- late Muggle trains tried to abide by, and as it stuck fifteen minutes before eleven, the girl left her spot, picked up a ragged rucksack, and walked over to a spot just between the signs that read "9" and "10." She threw back her head to stare up at them, first the number nine, then the number 10, and then back down at the barrier between the two. Glancing to check no one was coming, the girl carefully put her hand against it. It was solid.
The girl appeared to not be disturbed by this, but if one had been close they would have noticed the disappointment in her gray-blue eyes. One would have seen the way her shoulders slumped slightly, as if there was a new weight upon them.
"Of course it wouldn't open for a Muggle," she muttered. "What did I expect?" Sighing in despair the girl ran her hands through her long, reddish-brown hair. As she looked up at the clock that now showed eight minutes to eleven, a small tear of — frustration?— ran down her cheek. "Why won't you open?" the teen whispered angrily, raising her fist to hit the divider. But it did not stop her hand as before, and it slid through like there was nothing there, the barrier swallowing most of her arm. Once again the girl glanced around furtively to make sure no one had noticed her antics, and carefully went through. She was in.