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Platform 9 ¾ is emptier than any of the Stark children had ever seen before. No eager students are rushing back and forth to fling their arms around classmates they haven’t seen in months or frantically grabbing their almost forgotten luggage from their tearful parents. There’s no buzz of excited chatter, no overwhelming joy at the prospect of returning to school. There exists only a distinct sense of nothingness and the cruel dread that follows any great loss. The death of a parent, after all, molds and changes any child, a fact that is especially true when such a thing takes the form of a violent and sudden murder.
The six children do not speak as they wait for the tell-tale clatter of wheels on tracks. They do not so much as even look around to see what each of the others might be doing, not that anyone can really blame them. The funeral had been a disastrous affair. Accusations not fit for human ears had been flung from barbed tongues to unwilling victims over and over again until the room had dissolved into shouting matches and a single, formidable fistfight. The eldest, Robb, still carries the bruised and scabbed marks on his face, and their mother had been so affected as to send them to King’s Cross for the late train unaccompanied, with naught but themselves and the Knight Bus’ staff for company. A dangerous and foolish endeavor, since they still do not know who had cast the worst of the unforgivable curses on their father. Any of them could become targets in an instant, though it is understandable that one would assume that children might be exempted from such a feud. After all, no one has targeted innocents since the fall of the Dark Lord all the time ago. The worst evil must have passed from this world by now, leaving only the mundane sort of cruelty in its place.
Mundane cruelty robs children of their parents, but it surely would not deign to rip children from their parents.
Or singular parent , as the case may be.
The clatter of an arriving train and a high, piercing whistle breaks through the quiet. Sansa -- the second oldest of the full-blooded children and the third oldest overall -- glances up from the stone beneath her feet, blue eyes locking on the approaching red gleam of the engine. It sends steam rolling through the air in swirling white clouds, buoyed by the wind that the train creates in its wake. That very same hair picks up her auburn locks, toying with them briefly, lacing white smoke and bright hair together before the train comes to a stop and the wind ceases.
For a brief moment, the silence reemerges, but mere seconds later, a loud whine grates against their ears. It is the first human sound that any of them had heard in over an hour. Rickon, who is still too young to comprehend the weight that had collapsed upon all of them in the wake of their father’s death, tugs at the hand of Robb, the oldest, attempting to drag him backwards, away from the very train that they had so long awaited.
“No,” The first instance of the word is strong and clear, but it very quickly devolves into a bubbling, sobbing, incoherent string. “Nonononono.”
"Rickon .” Sansa’s invocation of the name is harsh and scolding, and leads the other, younger sister, Arya, to pipe up as well.
“Merlin’s beard, Sansa, let him be.”
Sansa opens her mouth, ready to tell Arya off, but Robb interrupts her before she gets a chance to speak, shooting authoritative glances in their shared direction. “Quiet, both of you,” he says before lowering himself onto his knee, getting on Rickon’s level, still firmly grasping the young boy’s hand in his own. “It’s only a train, see? It can’t hurt you, and they’ll be back soon, and I’ll be here the whole time, okay? Everything will be alright, just you see.”
Rickon quiets, though tears still shimmer in the corners of his eyes, and a hint of a smile lurks beneath Robb’s mental armor as he reaches out a hand to brush a single, reddish brown curl -- the same as his own -- out of his brother’s face. He has always had a talent for connecting with others, the very skill that had likely compelled him to drop out of Hogwarts as soon as the news of their father’s death had come their way, insisting that his family needed him at home, and that as the oldest son and the only one of the children who is legally of age, it was his responsibility to be there. The Headmaster had sent a very kind owl back, citing the boy’s character, and saying that he would be welcomed back to the castle with open arms should he wish to return and complete his NEWTs. Robb had thanked him, and asked that time be granted to the younger members of his family to allow them to grieve and finish ordering the family’s affair before arriving on campus for term. That, too, had been graciously agreed to, and had led them here, to an empty platform, a full two weeks after their peers had done the same.
“Do you suppose we just get on?” Jon, the half-brother, muses from his place slightly behind the others, allowing Rickon’s emotional moment to pass without further embarrassment and drama.
“Would you rather fly there?” The second-youngest, Bran, is the last of the group to speak, and as he does so, he shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs the toes of his boots against the ground. He doesn’t do well with inactivity, and the prior weeks had been full of nothing but still, polite, stifling boredom. He’s itching to run by the lake or scale the castle’s climbable walls, out of sight of those who like to echo his mother’s warnings, insisting that he ought to be careful. He’s a wizard in training, he always replies. He has a wand. He can catch himself. Of course, he’s forgotten that as a second year, he only knows one spell that might do the job, and that he likely wouldn’t be able to muster up the appropriate swish-and-flick before he hits the ground.
Arya is the first to move, bending down to grab the handle of her trunk and drag it off towards the waiting train. Sansa had pointed out that there were plenty of carts that the dark-haired girl could have loaded it up on, but Arya has never been keen on following directions, regardless of their sensibility. Jon jogs forward, lanky, sixth year legs crossing the distance much quicker than the diminutive third year could possibly manage and picking up the opposite end of the trunk without bothering to ask if she wanted him to. It’s better not to ask stupid questions. He knows she’s too stubborn to say yes.
A conductor emerges from the first compartment as the pair draws closer, offering a broad, welcoming smile as he offers first his condolences and then help loading their trunks into the luggage compartment. His presence nudges the other children into action, and they push the rest of their luggage towards the train, leaving it in his care.
Almost immediately, Jon sneaks up the stairs and disappears into the compartment, not wishing to get in the way of goodbyes. As he sees it, he barely belongs among them. Their father is the only parent that he had shared with them, and he’s gone now. He wonders if Catelyn, their mother, will even allow him to come back after term. Surely not. She’s never shared particular fondness for him, and has been all too vocal about her distaste for the infidelity that he represents. It’s better that he lays low.
Arya, ever Jon’s shadow, watches his back as he leaves, and offers up only a quick “Bye, then,” before bouncing up the stairs herself.
Robb pulls Bran and Rickon in for a hug together, holding the youngest brothers long and tightly enough that Rickon begins to squirm, at which point he straightens and allows Bran, too, to bounce up the compartment’s stairs and out of sight.
Sansa is the last to leave. Her feet feel heavy as she crosses the space between them, pulling Robb in close and wrapping him in a hug born from fear and grief and a dozen other unpleasant things that are better kept far from the mind of one so young.
Surprise creases Robb’s brow. Sansa has always been colder than the rest of them, eager to shake free of the bonds of her family and move onto bigger, better things, but he does not dare disturb the moment and voice his doubts. A lot has shifted over the past several weeks, and it’s not his place to wonder why he suddenly feels welcome in her space after years upon years of distinct annoyance.
“Look out for them,” he says quietly, patting the back of her shoulder once before taking a step back, away from the embrace.
Sansa nods, swallowing a lump in her throat that she has only just become aware of. “You, too. Rickon needs you. Mother needs you…” her voice trails off as she considers all the things that might befall them. Will she have to stand next to their open coffins and stare at their prone bodies the way that she had been forced to gaze upon her father’s? She can hardly bear the thought, and hopefully, it will never come to pass. Father had enemies, but she does not see how anyone could bear a grudge against Robb. He’s only two years older than she is, and though that has often felt like a gaping chasm, she cannot grasp the concept of his mortality any more than she can comprehend her own. They are too young for such burdens, but the universe doesn’t seem to care.
“We’ll be fine. I’ll send you news as soon as I have it."
That hope is enough to steel her nerves long enough that she can finally bring herself to follow the others, but she casts one, last, mournful stare over her shoulder before Rickon and Robb vanish amongst the steam as the fire in the train’s engine is stoked to life, all luggage is loaded, and they set off in the direction of the school that will be their home until winter comes.
To Sansa, Christmas holiday seems to be a desperately long time away. She doesn’t know how she’ll hold herself together until then.
By the time the Hogwarts Express pulls into the final station, night had fallen over the countryside. It takes a moment before Arya realizes that the sound and movement of the train had ceased, and slowly, she eases her eyes open. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she’s curled against Jon’s side, who in turn, has his elbow propped up against the window and his head braced against his hand. By the looks of things, he’s still asleep, and she is careful not to wake him as she slides off the bench and stands up. Waking him up can be Sansa’s job; Sansa does so love ruining other people’s fun.
Arya leans back into a stretch before itching the back of her head, further tousseling the already matted and knotted mess of dark hair that’s only barely long enough to brush her shoulders. A bit more awake now, she glances around at the compartment. Her sister’s stuff is here -- one of the textbooks already open and placed face down against the fabric of the seat, saving whatever dull pages she had been studying -- but Sansa herself seems to have disappeared. Bran isn’t here either, but he’d vanished hours ago, probably to snoop around and see if there’s anything interesting stashed away in the abandoned corridors. She doubts he’ll find anything. Places like this have a habit of tidying themselves up when nobody’s looking.
Arya barely manages to slide the door open and turn the corner before she bumps into her missing sister.
"Do watch where you’re going, Arya,” the older girl chides, voice adopting the usual, smug tone that grates against Arya’s ears so harshly that it might as well be a weapon. She’s holding a lit wand aloft, probably so that she could see her way from wherever she had come from in the dimmed light. She already has her uniform on. It’s pressed and perfect with the bright blue and silver in her house colors knotted neatly at her neck and prefect’s badge shiny and free of fingerprints, the way it always is.
Sansa would never dare to break a dress code, especially not at a time when the entire school will be staring at them and whispering about Ned Stark’s death. Whereas Sansa likely dreads the gossip, Arya can’t wait to hear some snivelling idiot a year or two her senior say something smart. She’ll hex them so quickly that they won’t be able to see what’s coming, or drop her wand and break their nose the Muggle way. Doesn’t really matter to her, so long as someone else gets to feel the pain that she’s been subjected to. Revenge always gets her blood pumping.
“You’re the one with the light, stupid,” Arya mocks, before sidestepping the taller girl entirely. She wants nothing more than to get off this train and eat some warm food. Supper should be being served roundabout now, judging by the hunger gnawing at her belly. She thinks that she could probably eat enough shepherd’s pie to feed the entirety of Gryffindor House and still have room to spare for a pumpkin pasty… or seven.
“You really shouldn’t call names.”
Even though Arya can hear Sansa’s words, and the force of them is enough to curl her fingers into a fist, she doesn’t bother to turn around and reply. There’s no point, and besides, she probably won’t even have to see Sansa for ages once they’ve settled back in. After all, they’re in different houses, and different years. Aside from meals eaten at different tables, they have no reasons to cross paths.
She leans forward as she reaches the door to the outside, rubbing away some of the gathered fog with the cuff of her sleeve, trying to peer into the darkness and see if anyone is on their way to fetch them. She doubts that they’d take the carriages up to the school, but surely they have to send a professor down to open the gates.
After a moment, she catches sight of movement in the shadows, and she leans forward excitedly, rising onto her tiptoes, breath fogging up the very part of the glass that she had just wiped clean. As the figure draws into the light of the lanterns, she recognizes them, and breaks into a gleeful smile. It’s the first real joy she’s felt in weeks.
When they raise their wand and unlock the door, Arya almost comes tumbling out the door and down the stairs, running up and wrapping her arms around them without casting a thought to whether or not it’s appropriate for her to hug one of her professors. Either out of shock or patience, the man allows the hug to linger before prying the girl’s arms off of him.
Almost immediately, words begin tumbling out of Arya’s mouth, “Professor Forel. Someone said you’d quit, I didn’t believe it, but -- ”
A wave of his hand quiets her before she can keep rambling. “This is my home; why would I leave?” His accent spins lightly off his tongue. It’s an accent that Arya has never quite been able to place, and even though she’s asked more times than she can remember, he has never shared his history with her. Not that she has any real right to demand that he do so. No matter how much she might like to be his friend, he’s the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, a position that had once been cursed, according to rumors, but no longer seems to be, given that Professor Forel had managed to stick around for the start of another year.
There’s a brief pause of thought, before he adds, “Besides, someone has to look after the Stark children, yes?”
“Good evening, Professor,” Jon’s familiar voice sounds from somewhere behind them, and a twinge of embarrassment enters the pit of Arya’s stomach. She hopes that none of her siblings had seen the beginning of the interaction. She doubts that Sansa would ever stop telling her off for hugging a professor. She can hear her voice now: ‘It’s not ladylike, Arya.’ ‘Don’t be stupid, Arya.’ ‘He’s not your friend, Arya.’ Even if he is a professor, Syrio Forel makes her feel like she’s talented, like she can grow up and do incredible things. She can’t say the same for Sansa.
She glances back over her shoulder and sees the familiar auburn hair shine beneath the light of the platform, followed closely by a panting Bran, who looks like he must’ve run the entire length of the train. She’ll have to ask him what he was up to later, if she even sees him.
For the first time, she realizes that she’s the only Stark left in Gryffindor House. Robb would have been there, but he had dropped out to remain home. Sansa and Bran are both in Ravenclaw, and Jon’s a Hufflepuff, a fact that has always confused her, since he’s one of the bravest, steadiest people she’s ever met. Aside from a handful of people who might not even be her friends anymore, depending on what they think about her father, she’s completely and utterly alone.
It kills her previously voracious appetite, and she drags her feet as they trudge towards the enchanted gates that separate Hogwarts from the rest of the world, not quite ready to face whatever the rest of the school year may bring.