#hogwarts express

the hogwarts express was bustling in the way one would expect on a crisp september morning—when hundreds of magical children surged toward the scarlet train that would ferry them off to what many insisted was the pinnacle of their young lives. frenzied parents oscillated between screeching instructions and sobbing into their frazzled eleven-year-olds’ shoulders, students reunited with triumphant shrieks after the excruciatingly long summer apart, and every once in a while, a trunk would topple sideways, sending jumpers and textbooks flying—the whole sprawling paraphernalia of the genesis of a school year.

amidst the pandemonium stood y/n Scamander, fourth year and legilimens, currently being swallowed whole by your grandfather, Newt Scamander, in an embrace so fervent one might assume you were shipping off to war instead of school.

"write every day!" he bellowed. "every day, letters! do you hear me? letters!"

"grandfather,” you said mildly, tugging your trunk, “i can still hear you if i try."

"no, no, you mustn’t just hear me, you must heed me!" Newt said, flapping a hand as if he were conducting an orchestra of sheer panic.

Tina Scamander stepped in, adjusting the crooked scarf around your shoulders. the elderly woman then scoffed, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder in protest of his theatrics.

"you're squashing the poor girl, let her breathe!" Tina insisted, but even she couldn't help but pull you into an equally taut enfoldment.

"do write to us, dear,” Tina murmured into your hair. “you know how your grandfather gets. and if anything bothers you at school—anything at all—you tell us immediately. no dilly-dallying. just send word, and we’ll be there."

you blinked. you were about to gently remind your sweet grandmother of the technicality that they couldn’t simply materialize inside hogwarts even if you asked, but you were promptly interrupted by the piercing screech of the train whistle cutting through the air.

"i will write,” you said, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks before yanking your trunk toward the train. “i’ll write so much you’ll be sick of my handwriting. promise."

the whistle blew once more, signalling the final call. grabbing your trunk and hurrying up the steps with the grace of a disgruntled puffskein, you stepped in through the doors. truth be told, they were like this every year. your parents had passed amidst the first war—bless their souls—and ever since, you had been under the care of your grandparents. this, of course, meant that they were incredibly protective regarding every single thing you dared to do. it was unwavering, and at times, admirably melodramatic. at least they hadn't cried at the platform this year. small mercies.

shaking your head fondly, you squeezed down the narrow corridor, dragging behind you a trunk bursting at the seams with Newt’s rumpled old jackets—each declared "absolutely essential for the hogwarts cold," despite you knowing he hadn't visited the castle in decades.

you made it a total of five steps before feeling the warmth of a familiar hand on your shoulder. you whipped around, only to be met with... Luna Lovegood! a serene, almost seraphic smile had lit up the girl's face; she hovered joyously, eyes impossibly silver, radishes on her ears bobbing, expression tranquil as if the bedlam were an installation she had personally curated.

"y/n! i knew it had to be you," the younger girl murmured. "you smelled like mischief from afar. and your grandfather's jackets. magical, of course, but faintly smelly. like a nargle who's gone too long without a proper scrubbing."

you blinked, unable to repress the smile already blooming across your lips as you pulled your best friend in for a hug. you admired her strange candor in spite of yourself.

"Luna! i've missed your... peculiar commentary."

"you’ve been gone since may," Luna continued, patting your shoulder gingerly. "that's months. entire moons, really. and your hair is wrong. it's too mundane. something must be done."

you huffed out a laugh at the sheer brevity, unlatching yourself from the girl and lugging your trunk down the corridor. "i’ll try to fix it."

the two of you had been best friends for a number of years now: you had grown close in your second year and Luna’s first, your bond blooming the moment you realized you were the only ones who could see the oh-so-terrifying thestrals. in fact, you had been captivated by Luna from the start; her hair like snow, wide, searching eyes, and the dreamy lilt in her voice that made everything she said sound like a prophecy unveiled—captivating, even.

you were a rather peculiar pair, truth be told. but you had grown complimentary to one another amidst your many endeavours, and due to the fact that you sought catharsis in each other—hence your now close companionship despite being antitheses of one another.

finally, Luna announced she was going to have a word with Ginny regarding her violently purple pygmy puff, Arnold, and merrily skipped off (the girl either skipped or drifted, no in-betweens), leaving you to resume navigating your way through the criminally crowded corridor of the train in a hunt for an empty compartment in an attempt to appear equanimous. on a serious note, why was this train so crowded? were there that many students, or was this simply for dramatic flair, implemented by the writer? said writer shall not disclose the reasoning behind her choices.

further down the corridor—somewhere among Draco’s gang and yet another exploding suitcase—George Fabian Weasley straightened sharply, caught mid-sentence as something drifted into his line of sight. that "something" being you, whom he didn't seem to recognise despite apparently having gone to the same school as you for a few years now. this was not in the usual way of spotting someone, either. this was the kind of awareness of a presence that snapped the world into a brief, highly inconvenient focus.

George attempted to put on a semblance of normalcy. promptly failed. you were walking past now, trunk bumping every cart within a five-foot radius, hair mussed but elegant, dark grey jeans creased just enough to make him question everything he thought he knew about trousers.

"fuck, she's beautiful."

the thought swarmed his head, and the train whistle blew once again, just as your face, by instinct or some gift of supernatural hearing, turned on the pivot of its neck—as if you had deciphered exactly what the boy had just thought.

he felt your gaze pierce through his eyes. "bugger," he thought. however, the corridor bustled once more, and you hastily busied yourself with dragging your trunk towards a semi-empty compartment now comprising Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis.

George blinked. then blinked once more.

"oi," he said, elbowing Fred so abruptly his twin nearly dropped the chocolate frog box he was intently trying to open without the frog launching itself across the carriage. "Fred. Fred. who's that?"

Fred, ever the dearest, didn’t even look up at first. "if this is about stealing my chocolate frog card, you can forget—"

"no, not—look—there." George pointed with a rather deranged look. Fred followed his gaze, and promptly lifted a brow.

"oh," Fred said knowingly—far too knowingly, if you had the slightest idea of what Fred Gideon Weasley was like. “her.”

George stared at him. "her?"

"her," Fred repeated, folding his arms with great, unnecessary significance. "she's in Ron's year maybe, Scamander something."

George peered once again—this time for a much longer duration—as you leaned forward to say something to Tracey, the ever so soft hint of a smile curving your lips.

"right," he muttered weakly. "huh."

Fred took the opportunity to look as well, before turning back to his twin, a slow grin curling across his lemur-like face. "Georgie,” he drawled, “why exactly are you asking?"

George straightened far too quickly, and with frenzied grace. "no reason. simply wondered. intellectual curiosity. y’know. learning and all that pish posh."

Fred snorted, muttering a "sure, mate." but refusing to comment further. George looked away. then, looked back again almost immediately, as if his eyes hadn’t gotten the memo initially.

"…huh," the poor bloke murmured again, before making his way into a compartment with Fred in a moon-struck daze.

➽───────────────❥

⠀⸺ an : it's my first time posting any of my writing omg... let's all pay our thanks to my cousin who's obsessed with marauders poly fics—both reading and writing them—for introducing me to this rabbit hole of an app. I'm planning on writing the whole fic, but most probably won't as I'm gut-wrenchingly lazy and cannot coherently and eloquently articulate my thoughts for the life of me. but, who knows, maybe one day I'll actually have a number of chapters of this silly fic, complete with an ending and all. enough of my rambling now. george weasley's biggest apologist signing out lol ok bye