There is a station that doesn't exist. A platform called 9 ¾. Although he has nowhere to go, and the train will never return for him again, he waits in the light drizzle until all of the relatives and well-wishers have left. In his hand is a letter. Crumpled, scratched through in places, running with ink in others, it is a testament to all that he remembers. A controversy of loss and appreciation. The deepest affection carrying him through his darkest night. He hasn't come here for years, but he knows that he won't leave the station alone. Someone has been waiting for him all along.

He can imagine the impatient one leaning against the wall, just out of sight. Suit rumpled with haste, wand still in hand, as though he's just apparated from his office rather than paced the long hours until the clock struck. He'll be tossing his watch, rocking back on his heels, as though he's stood for mere moments. As though he hadn't left everything on his desk and ran the moment the letter appeared in his fireplace.

At last a figure detaches from the gloom three columns down. Dark hair and dark suit, he rather melds into the rain. His tread is light and unhurried, but he is indeed swinging a pocket watch, whirling his energy and impatience into that thin chain. His stature is confident but his eyes search the platform, reflecting the fear that only the one who wrote to him will understand. Perhaps he shall find himself alone this morning after all. Perhaps one could not be bothered to wait on the brink of hope and disillusion. Perhaps fear has driven one to leave while he may, lest the ceaseless pursuit run him down today. Perhaps.… Perhaps... Perhaps….

For all of his swagger and boasts, the one who approaches is truly an indecisive man.

He saves him from further uncertainty by stepping away from the column. A slight movement jars the unruffled air, and he imagines that he must look a sight. One simply cannot understand the cheer of a bright coat on a cold and bleak morning. He smiles anyways, remembering why he is here, and the rigid shoulders relax.

"I wasn't sure you would be here," the older one comments.

There. The truth is out. He was expected, but the elder dared not dream. Seventeen years is a long time to grasp for hope, but some siblings are notoriously clingy.

There's nothing to be said that hasn't already been written, and the words would stick inside of his throat anyways. He holds out the letter in reply. The dark eyes settle on it, wondering, and he inclines his head enough to indicate that it is meant to be read, but not here.

The message is understood. Wordlessly the elder takes it, tucking it into his inner coat pocket where nothing is ever lost. He tosses something in his hand, a bit sheepish if that is possible for him, and offers it in exchange. "For old time's sake."

It's nothing extravagant, or even suitable for someone his age, but he blinks anyways and tells himself that it is only the rain. Popping open the blue pentagon, he snatches up the wayward frog and lets it wriggle for a moment. It's almost too memorable to consume, but it only has one good hop in it and there's a childhood fable that the chocolate tastes better while it's still squirming.

"They put cards in the packs now," the dark one comments, snatching up the box as though it's his right as the eldest to claim first dibs. "I've started a collection. Davey still thinks he can buy Beatrix Bloxom off of me - as though anyone would want to commemorate that sordid story-teller."

He can't answer now, not without looking like a clumsy second-year with chocolate staining his teeth, but he nods and tries not to splutter as his brother speaks so avidly of an author who plagued both of their childhoods. So much has changed since then. He wishes he could sum all of it into one letter, but words alone cannot express a flood of grateful enlightenment. He knows that the letter will be read tonight, savored in the light of a warm hearth, with a loving wife bending over the dark shoulder as she recounts his days of trial. Every word will pondered and cherished, and so he took great care to express only what was intended. There will be no perhaps in this letter. Everything is written as it should be.

For now the message is tucked away, and the elder can jabber about all of his everythings and nothings. No longer must he choose his moments in which to speak, forced to judge what is most imperative for its time, for there are years ahead of them. Afternoon teas and suppers, evenings in the sitting room, morning jaunts to a platform that doesn't exist. One day he shall introduce a beautiful woman as though he's never set eyes on her before, and he need not fear for the elder's approval. After all, he was never difficult to please - he simply didn't know how to express that delight. For a Hufflepuff is like a badger: to prove its affection it must pursue and capture and hold on tightly until the struggle fades, and this one now understands that he shall never be released and never turned away. He has been running for all of his life, fearful of a dragon that existed only in his own doubts.

It's time to put that boggart back in the cupboard.

Laughing, letting it burst forth for no reason other than that he is happy and the dark one looks foolish with his damp hair sticking on end, he picks up his case and allows the elder to lead the way. He has no plans for the day: his brother has already meticulously thought out every minute of it, and he anticipates that it shall be wasted on trivial nonsense like sweet shops and sniggering over the latest attempts at ladies' fashion. For one day the office shall be neglected and the aurors shall wait impatiently for their leader to return, and for one day they shall be forced to bumble on their own. He could ask for this every day and he knows that he would be spared the time.

But for this morning, a few hours will be enough. They walk along together, shoulders bumping occasionally, wet and rumpled like two badger pups scampering about in the drizzle. One day they shall stand together like this against Grindelwald, when all else fails and they alone remain to fight. Perhaps that day is long down the path. Perhaps it will never come. Perhaps a day will arrive when one of them will wait at the station alone, and the rain will grieve with him.

Yet for now he is wanted and captured and loved, and he will not make himself suffer twice. He pushes aside his worries and listens to his brother's voice, letting it soothe him like the patter of a thunderstorm. One morning excursion cannot eradicate years of silence, but it is a start. There are many days ahead to heal their scars.

They walk along together as the sun peeks over the clouds, casting trails of gold in every puddle and gutter. Every sunbeam is a whisper of hope; every raindrop a symbol of perseverance. There will never be a wakeful day when all is glorious and bright, for such periods of childhood have passed them both by. For this moment, however, he is at peace.

This is all he ever wanted.

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End

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Thank you to all of my faithful reviewers, and again to John Smith for inspiring this lovely fic. I never imagined I could write something in the magical Hogwarts atmosphere, and I'm very happy with the results. Cheers, y'all!