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𝕻latform Nine and Three Quarters was not how she remembered it.
Last September First, the liveliness of the place had been almost overwhelming, high spirits and excitement all-around. Whole families assembled for the legendary send-off the minute the clock ticks eleven.
What little families present this September First gather with spacious gaps in between. Missing pieces for missing loved ones. Parent's wishes of staying safe and keeping well out of trouble has a new meaning, a serious meaning. Hugs were longer, tighter, tears were bigger, heavier. Safety wasn't promised, on either end. Survival wasn't promised, on either end.
One of the very few remaining similarities linking the two years was the unbreakable security detail escorting Romie every step of the way.
Begrudgingly, she bites back any protests, aware this is the last time they'll see each other for a long while. The longest since knowing the four as one body, as thick as thieves. And it doesn't last long anyway, the formation beginning to crumble away bit by bit. Starting with Peter.
"I wonder if anyone's claimed our compartment yet. Maybe it's the new us"
From his leading position, James twirls around, walking backwards in a fashion so cool others giggle. But not as much as when he rakes a hand through his ebony hair, crowing through an unimpressed Romie to the blonde behind focusing hard on keeping his eyes trained upstairs.
"Don't be silly, Wormtail. There will never be a 'new us', no one could ever replace the great Marauders. But brilliant idea, let's check"
Swiftly swinging one leg around the other in a clean swerve, he changes direction and rushes towards the scarlet polished steam train waiting to be filled. Overtaking the other three, Peter scampers after him, never letting the bespectacled boy out of his sight.
Romie halts when Sirius randomly does, a frown crossing her features at the faraway look in his eyes as he adjusts the fit of the leather jacket he's currently rocking. His gaze wanders somewhere over the sea of heads she doesn't hunt down, already exchanging glances with Remus for when he mutters,
"Be back in a mo"
Their states of bewilderment only develop when, unlike presumed, Sirius doesn't advance towards the sparse crowd, instead retreating in the direction they came from once passing through the brick wall barrier hidden to muggles. All comes to light soon, when something that feels like shaggy fur brushes against the backs of Remus' weak knobby knees, disappearing as a big, black dog disappears into the herd of people.
Gruff swears Romie's heard more times than she can count leave her older brother, about to chase after him and put him on the leash he apparently needs. He would have. If it hadn't been for his own leash fastening on, restraining him from doing so.
Peeved, he squints down at the limber hand banding around his bicep, squints up at the face of the person's the limber hand belongs to when she orders,
"Leave it"
"If someone notices — he's unregistered, he'll be locked up in Azkaban" Remus urgently reminds, every muscle in his body filling with a paralysing dread at the mere notion.
A paralysing dread, that evidently, isn't by any means reciprocated because his baby sister's adamance doesn't back down one bit. Violet eyes roaring with fires that hurt to face without protection, she fiercely repeats,
"Leave it"
Because unbeknownst to Remus, someone has noticed Sirius disguised in top secret animagus form. A someone Romie imagines is free of any aspirations to see Sirius locked behind bars and kissed extensively by drifting dementors morning, noon and night.
Disinclined to a heated argument being their last face-to-face encounter for a long spell, Remus sighs, relenting. Romie tentatively nods and releases the grip on his arm when she realises he isn't going to go headlong into the crowd. No one could blame her for doubt, interference where not welcome is his middle name.
Yet the expression he's then sporting has no more Sirius centred reverie than usual, only a seriousness that hitches high Romie's eyebrows on her forehead. Initially, she scans the surrounding areas, searching for an escape that means she can get out of the upcoming speech. Lecture.
When she thinks she's out of luck and reluctantly returns attention to Remus, she spies something coinciding the seriousness that stops her still. Not resolve or irritation or concern — typical lecture qualities. Nervousness. He's nervous, eminently so, when his calloused hand slips into his fraying trouser pocket, fetching a commodity that sucks all the air out of Romie's lungs.
"I know I'm seven months late, but it's the thought that counts, hey?"
Speechless, Romie bobs her head up and down, her unstoppable smile staring back up at her in the intricacy's shiny reflection. Seven months late. Her birthday. Not just any birthday, her seventeenth birthday. He's stuck to Wizarding World tradition.
Her fingers trace along the smooth dainty case edge, a shade of gold that catches gorgeously in the morning light. It's nothing compared to the background beneath the ticking hands pointing to eight phases of the moon. Powerful flares of colour that give off the impression of flames. Purple fire.
This wasn't just any watch bought in a random surprise me. This was Romie Lupin's watch through and through. She didn't think it could get any better than this. The thumb of Remus' pressing down against the crown proved her wrong. Massively wrong.
In a wink, the purple fire came to life.
"See that? What was that like?" He asks, smiling encouragingly when Romie shrugs and guesses unsurely,
"The flash of a camera"
"Straight onto the pinboard on my fridge. Owls are so easily intercepted these days and I don't just want to hear about your last year, I want to see it. I want to see you living, having fun"
Romie swallows thickly, all too aware this next year, this new collection of memories he'll barely be apart of. A mere witness, not a contributor, a sharer.
"I'm not asking for every minute of every hour, just every now and then, it'll be nice to see your—" Remus is cut off before he could finish, fawn brown hair gaining entry in his open mouth.
He doesn't express disapproval, doesn't lean away and re-establish the distance. He shrinks it further, returns the embrace with just as much impact, just as much emotion. Hugs were longer, tighter, tears were bigger, heavier. Safety wasn't promised, on either end. Survival wasn't promised, on either end.
"Love it. Love you" Romie murmurs into the warm, chocolate smelling fabric of his jumper.
His head lowers against hers, planting down a tiny brotherly kiss as he replies quietly, "I know you do, you perfect pain in the arse. Love you right back"
Romie smiles and detangles herself, linking the golden clasp of the watch nicely around her right wrist. Not an accessory to distract from the unnerving shade of her eyes, an accessory to keep in touch with her brother, let him glimpse, share the memories she's making.
After hugging Peter and James, promising to do her little part in keeping alive their legacy, Romie approaches the train, sure she can spare a few minutes to greet her friends. She pauses, however, in front of the open doors, glancing down to the next set for the same carriage.
Twinning pairs of grey eyes find violet, one of which belonging to the shaggy black dog now departing from one stroking hand to another. Romie bends down and presses a firm kiss to his snout, making a loud noise of disgust when a big, fat lick is gifted to her cheek, leaving behind a wet slobber she doesn't hesitate to wipe off.
Tail wagging happily, Padfoot trots off, sitting at the converse clad feet of his established owner. He'll probably expect a treat when they get home. Romie shakes her head, waving one last time to the four older boys and then locking back in to the striking silver ten yards away.
Like the tension filled night of the Potter's Winter Ball, their eye contact no other could withstand never falters, never leaves each other whilst stepping on board the train, in a synchronisation so perfect it's daunting. On to opposite ends of the carriage.
The Gryffindor tunefully hums as she casually advances through, crossing him just over halfway. It's a split second, a twinkle of an eye, a heartbeat crossing of paths, but down at their sides, fingertips dart out, craving touch. They don't graze, catch and hold for the extremely brief duration. Too simple, too easy, too boring. Romie prefers a challenge.
A smirk twists at her mouth, ducking into the next compartment as he does the last she passed, feeling a burst of satisfaction. At both the low, disgruntled mumbles floating into her ears and the fact she no longer has to suffer loose strands of hair annoyingly sticking to freshly applied lip gloss.
Knotting the loose, low ponytail with a pretty bow, she grins at the bright faces of Hestia and Pandora, springing up from their seats almost immediately. Faster than she could process, four arms fling around her being, hugging tight. Faster than she could speak, tell them how much she missed them, her arms join the flinging, sealing around them both equally.
"For a minute, we worried Remus changed his mind and decided to keep you where he could see you at all times" Hesita jokes when they finally untangle their jumble of limbs.
Romie laughs quietly, remarking, "I'm certain it crossed his mind at some point this morning"
A few giggles bubble out of Hestia's throat, flopping down onto the seat previously occupied right next to the window. She pats the empty spot next to her, urging,
"Come sit. Panda was about to tell how she and Xenophilius met and talked to Celestina Warbeck"
Romie's eyebrows shoot straight to her hairline, looking to their Ravenclaw friend for confirmation. Celestina Warbeck was the closest thing the Wizarding World had to a celebrity, the popular singer referred to as 'The Singing Sorceress' often featuring on a radio show called the Witching Hour.
Mia doesn't identify as her number one fan, opining that her sound is more a bleating sheep rather than songful bird. James and Sirius have often been grounded for impishly cranking up the volume and joining in on her warbles, just to piss her off.
Romie smiles fondly at the memory, before the present fades back in and her smile turns rueful. With a hint of hopefulness, she asks,
"Postpone until I get back?"
"Get back from where?" Pandora wonders, absently toying with the nargle defence charm dangling loosely from her neck.
Without a word, Romie reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, displaying the little shapely something previously digging not so nicely into her arse. A front pocket would have been a wiser choice now she thinks of it. Her features scrunch slightly, when, at a stroke, realisation dawns on the other two girls.
Hestia's hands fly to her mouth in shock, chocolate eyes rounded to an impressive degree, "No! What the fuck"
"Exactly what we said" Romie snorts, only realising her mistake when Pandora sits up a little, parroting airily,
"We?"
"Got to go. Won't be long!" Romie rushes out, both in speech and compartment wise.
The very last thing she hears before their voices drown out is her name. Her full name, first, middle and last. Merlin help her when the prefect meeting's over and she's forced to return, answer questions. Complicated questions. She pushes that to the back of her mind for now, concentrating on making it to the designated carriage without any embarrassing bumps, trips and falls. The ride is just about as smooth as her broom steering.
Fortunately, she succeeds, reaching the other end of the train without making a fool of herself. That job is reserved for someone else, she thinks snidely. When her hand encloses around the rickety door handle, noise that makes Hestia and Pandora's calls seem like nothing crash into her ears all at once. Gossip, speculation. About who's going to boss this year. It's not loud enough to muffle something else, though.
Embracing that courage and bravery Gryffindor House values, Romie adds a steady pressure on the handle and pushes open the door, revealing twenty or so assigned prefects, revealing herself. The loud noise drops to a deafening pin-drop silence, numerous eyes widening, numerous jaws slacking. Romie almost extends her arm, snapping a photograph for Remus to see on his fridge the second he gets back.
Nothing could've prepared them for this.
Nothing could've prepared them for the dark, lofty figure, intimidatingly slow, emerging from the shadows into place.
Behind His Head Girl.
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That last part was so smooth in my head, I hope I did it enough justice! Chapter for the Monday blues :)