A.N.: Wow, you guys are so awesome, all two of you who reviewed. xD It gives me great pleasure to know that you're liking my crap. ) It really does. Special shout out to Pokes/Sayvorie, because she's the best, best, best and she has the best, best, best fanfic ever. 3

She didn't choose this role
But she'll play it and make it sincere
So you cry, you cry
But they believe it from the tears
And the teeth right down to the blood
At her feet
Boys will be boys
Hiding in estrogen and wearing Aubergine dreams

It came upon Nyx with settling finality that Platform Nine and Three Quarters was fake, and that was that. It was a test to sort through the clever and the dimmer; and, of course, she fit into the latter. There was simply nothing she could do about it, and at this point, it was fine by her. With an inward groan, she tugged the cart forward, cowering like the teenager she was at the odd looks. The soot black cauldron rested merrily on top of a suitcase, and the odd names of her school books didn't help the matter. People were trying to give subtle glances—at the corner of their eye they sized up Nyx and her large load of luggage, who tried to look as small as possible.

The wall loomed before her like a monster, and the only thing Nyx could do was to stare back at it defiantly. Five minutes 'till the train would leave.

"Forget it!" She gave a small cry, though it was drowned out from the many murmurs and shouts of other people, the creaking of carts and turning of rusty wheels. She gave a noise of exasperation, and shoved the cart forward, expecting a satisfying bang against the wall, and a huge crash to settle her nerves.

"HOLY—" through the wall she tilted, cart sliding silky smooth through the brick wall, eyes widening in horror as her own body dug into the wall, simply moving through it as easily as walking through a door. People, luckily, had become bored with her oddities and kept their eyes away—and with that, Nyx slid through the wall, entering platform Nine and Three Quarters.

I'm changing trains the station remains
Footsteps in the stairwell echo
I lost track of days
I found thousands of ways
But how to quit you, nobody knows

The owl gently vaulted from his outstretched arms, wings opening, the pale outline of the letter strapped to its leg. Harry's eyes watched him as he left, swooping upward, wheeling once, and catching a shaft of air current, speeding his flight. Elbows propped against the window, he followed the owl until he was little more than a speck of black against the rolling gray clouds outside. Errol had finally decided enough was enough, and kept himself in his cage. He looked half dead, but the poor guy didn't need to be flown once again. Pig was an option, but only a small spark. He didn't know if Ron would really like him using his owl, however he complained about him. It may take as long as Hedwig and that wasn't fair to Ron.

Then, earlier this morning, a letter came from The Ministry, and shoved against the large, tawny owl's leg was a large letter to accompany the head bobbing in the fireplace, in case Amos Diggory's bobbing head in the fireplace. Though it was probably not allowed, Harry had taken the owl, and used it for himself, probably violating some rule or another, but he was growing scared and impatient. The two emotions didn't mix, and he hastily carried the owl to the top floor of The Burrow, wrote out a second letter, and let the owl fly.

Now he sat, still watching the gray sky, as rain gently cascaded down, growing heavier and heavier. The droplet slid down his arms and hands, balanced on the stone of the windowpane as his glasses fogged. At least if Sirius didn't get the first letter, he'd get the second. Or so he hoped.

"Harry, dear, we're leaving!"

He could barely make out the sound of Mrs. Weasley calling him, he was up so high. With a glance back out the window he shut it, the thud it made bringing his mind back from the fog. He stood up, balancing himself as best he could (he could swear he was standing at an angle), and tried walking forward. The house was teetering gently, groaning against the will of the woodwork, but magic twined itself taut around each fiber, reflecting off the forceful gravity yearning to bring it down. Harry dug his heels to the ground, trying to keep himself upward, succeeding as best he could, and flung himself through the doorframe, stumbling down the steps, and onto the landing of The Burrow.

"Harry, dear," snickered two forms hovering at the stair's railing, "be a dear and come down whenever possible. We have all day, you know. Take a shower—why not?" There was a chuckle, and a head of flaming hair suddenly came into actual view. "Grab a bit to eat, brush up on your charms!" Squealed the other voice, taunting smirk dancing across his face. The twins jumped from the railing that hid them, blowing kisses in the process. Harry grinned back like a fool, hopping down the last step with newfound gusto. Fred and George's jokes and teases never really angered him, but usually brought his spirits up. It was a good thought to know some people can be good natured in tight spots. Easy to count on Fred and George for that.

At this point the twosome were dancing around Harry, squealing and hopping, blowing kisses and brushing off unseen dust.

"Harry, don't you mind. We'll wait right here while you go prune the trees. Do some Zen gardening, if you need to relax. Yoga's an option."

They danced and mocked until Ron parted through the wall of Fred and George, dragging Harry by the arm out through the front door, and without hesitation into the cascade of cold rain. The only difference in their pace was they broke into a trot, and finally a sprint as they neared the taxi—or the three of them—being filled up with huge suitcases. Hedwig's empty cage was nestled in there, and Harry felt a twang of guilt and anxiety from it. Would Sirius ever get the letter? Would he get the second—would Hedwig be alright?

"Harry!"

The sound of his name broke his flurry of thoughts, and he slid into the stuffy and wet seat of the taxi, crammed against Hermione, and felt the wet of Ron's jacket against him as he slid in. Crookshanks didn't enjoy the blast of rainwater seeping through as they opened the door, and they enjoyed a few minutes of scratching until he settled down. There was silence after his name was shortly called to him, and through his fogged glasses he studied his wrist. Hermione was staring at Harry with a look of mild concern, and, as usual, Ron looked half bewildered. In the stuffy silence of the taxi the three sat, each equally uncomfortable as the taxi driver slid into his own seat, giving a small, disgusted glance at Crookshanks, and then at Pig, who was twittering like mad.

"'Right-o, chaps, off we go. 'Ye mum's gonna pay for the drive 'eh? WOTCH IT!"

Crookshanks jolted up, flying off Hermione's lap and landing on the dashboard. Confused and scared, he ricocheted off it, spitting and hissing back on Hermione's lap. There was a rumble of thunder, and a large flash of lightning.

"We'd best be off, 'eh?" Murmured the driver, unanswered and unquestioning. The key was slipping into the ignition, and Harry saw Hermione slip from her robe pocket her wand, weighing it in her hand.

"Hermione!" Hissed Harry, leaning against her shoulder, whispering as soft as he could in her ear. "We're not supposed to do mag—I mean…er…magazines…out of Hogwarts!"

It was unlike Hermione to even test the waters holding her wand out in the open, while a Muggle was sitting in the front seat. Hermione's brown eyes shot at Harry, both eyebrows arching. "I was given permission by Mrs. Weasley." Enough said. Harry didn't want to worry much more about it, rather letting it lay on Hermione's shoulders. He had enough to worry about at the present, though he gazed on skeptically at Hermione's outstretched wand. "We need to talk," She whispered, and Harry jolted upward. Did they know about his scar burning? Did they know about the letters sent? "And what else do we talk about but Hog—I mean, our school and…magazines?" Her voice lifted in more of a question to his crummy excuse of a substitute for magic. She gave a small grin, and Ron chuckled softly. Harry scowled. "Look, we can't talk about anything but magazines—" Another chuckle from Ron, "so I asked if we could…oh, drat, Harry, you'll see. I thought you'd be at least proud of me for this." Her mouth tilted in an upset manner, though Harry knew from experience she wasn't upset. He had gotten an owl from the Ministry for doing magic when not in Hogwarts, and it was the least that they needed right now. With a shrug, and leaning back into the leather, smelly cushions of the taxi, he relented. Hermione's wand was lifted a bit, enough that the driver couldn't see without physically moving, that triggering Hermione to give a forgetting charm. For now, she raised the wand, and under her breath murmured, "Silencium!"

Ron opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Hermione cut in.

With an ear splitting scream.

It carried and bounced and lingered in the car, a high pitched, breath-taking scream that did, in fact, take the breath from her. As Harry and Ron stared in disbelief and wonder, Hermione double over, knocking Crookshanks, who was sputtering like mad, claws digging into her legs. He jumped into the front, nestling uncomfortably into the passenger's seat.

"What?" She panted, inhaling once—a long, holding breath, before exhaling through her nose. "It's—a new spell…better than…other silencing charms…needed to see if it would work…" Understandable. Though Ron and Harry both were amazed Hermione had lung enough to give a scream such as that, and they were both slightly shocked.

"Oh—let it pass. Anyway. We can talk freely now." It seemed as though a weight lifted from Hermione's shoulders, for she leaned gently in the seat, eyes sliding to the rain bouncing off the windows. The driver was staring placidly ahead, as though nothing had happened, probably enjoying the silence. To him they were sitting in their seats, staring blankly out the window or down at their toes, barely shifting positions.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione remained silent, though Hermione dragged her eyes from the rain dripping down the window. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it, instead, shooting a half hearted glare at Ron.

"…AND DID YOU SEE THE WONSKI FEINT? DID YOU? Blimey, Harry, if you could try that with your Firebolt—HOY! D'you think—I mean you don't have to agree—but—" out of breath, Ron's freckled face flashed into perfect view, eyes dancing hopefully, "I mean, maybe I could try it on the Firebolt? If you'd let me, of course. Bloody—that thing's just as well sacred!"

Ron shot into babbling about how the Firebolt was amazing, and how awesome it would be to try it. With the silence broken, Harry felt a bit better, being swept into the normality of things. The less change the better. He had probably dreamed his scar was hurting—it probably was nothing. Maybe even a headache from lack of food.

Hermione's eyes lingered across Harry's face. Never once did it stray awkwardly where his bangs swept across the jagged cut in his skin. A symbol of forever being somehow linked with Lord Voldemort, of how his life was turned upside down and twisted. The small gesture was eagerly welcomed, and without noticing, he gave a small smile. A ghost of one. In this condition, with rain splattering against the car, jammed into a sweaty, wet taxi with seats that smelled like day old bologna, nothing was too great. Except the little things.

Hermione smiled back, obviously more satisfied than she had been since the beginning of the train ride. Leaning farther back into the cushions of the seat, thinking twice and lifting herself (while regarding the torn up smelly leather with a look of mild disgust), and turning to face Harry. "Harry, is something wrong?" She asked, softly. Harry refused to look away, but rather stared into Hermione's eyes with gusto, trying to look like he meant it. "Of course not!" His voice lilted into a squeak, and Hermione regained her skeptical look. "I mean, not much can go right when you're stuck in this taxi, right?" He gave a halfhearted grin to shake it all off, hoping it looked eager, and glanced away, deeply interested in cleaning his spectacles.