my-parabatai-is-a-herondale:

marauders4evr:

marauders4evr:

scaredpotter:

tbh the most unrealistic thing in harry potter is when mrs weasley in the first book asks “now what’s the platform number?”

like this woman has been going to that school for seven years and then dropped kids off on the same place for nearly ten like why on earth would she forget the platform number

I still have the headcanon that Molly BAMF Weasley saw a scrawny underfed child with an owl who had no idea where he was going and looked lost and confused and was like, “Ah, yep, new son.” but didn’t want to scare him by outright approaching and asking if he needed help so she was just like, “MUGGLES, MUGGLES EVERYWHERE! DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT THE PLATFORM NUMBER TO WIZARD SCHOOL IS? WHAT’S THAT? NINE AND THREE QUARTERS? OH, YES, THAT’S RIGHT. THE PLATFORM NUMBER IS   N I N E   A N D   T H R E E    Q U A R T E R S!”

Of course seeing as how Harry isn’t the most observant bloke, she probably ushered her kids past him fifty times as different ones screamed the platform number until they finally got his attention.

With that being said, and I’m extremely sorry for taking over your post:

11:45:

They had just enough time to make it onto the platform, get their trunks loaded, and say their goodbyes. Molly ushered them all along, wishing that she could just Apparate them all onto the train and be done with it. There was too much to do, too much to say, too m—

All at once, she screeched to a halt. Percy crashed into her, causing the twins to snicker.

A tiny boy was being crossly turned away by a security guard. A boy whose ribs poked through his baggy shirt, whose glasses were broken, whose jaw was trembling as he tried to find his way. Well, surely she could be the person to guide him there? And did he…? Yes! He had an owl! He was one of them!

The poor child; he looked so lost.

Where were his parents?

Never mind, never mind. She would see to it that he would get on the train. But she had to be careful. She couldn’t startle him. He’d run off and that would be the end of it. No, no, they had to be crafty.

11:47 AM:

“Packed with Muggles of course,” Molly said loudly, ushering her very confused children past the boy. “What’s the platform number again?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Percy said. “Mother, how could you have forg—?”

It was George who nudged him as he understood what she was doing. She had done it before, after all, and she would do it again.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

The boy didn’t seem to notice them.

11:48 AM:

“Packed with Muggles of course,” said Molly again, marching her children past once more. “What’s the platform number?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Fred and George screamed in unison.

And still the boy remained lost.

11:49 AM:

“Mum,” Ron panted, tripping over himself as he ran to keep up with her. “Slow down!”

Molly ignored him as she practically flew past the poor boy. “Packed with Muggles of course! Now, what’s the platform number?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Ron bellowed.

11:50 AM:

Molly honestly didn’t care if her entire family missed the train and she had to set off across the UK herself like a mother leading a flock of ducklings: she was going to help this boy onto the bloody train.

She marched past him with a fiery determination and said, “Packed with Muggles of course!”

The boy looked up.

Yes! Okay, this was it, this was it, this was it. Play it cool. He was following them. Listening. Pretending not to.

They stopped.

“Now,” Molly said. “What’s the platform number?”

“Nine and three quarters,” piped Ginny.

Victory!

The next nine minutes were a whirlwind of chaos but they managed to get the boy through the barrier. At Molly’s insistence, Fred and George popped up and helped him get his trunk into the compartment. She handed Ron an extra sandwich and muttered, “Tell him that everywhere else was full.”

He dutifully nodded.

As the train took off, she waved to her children, including her newest one.

Bristling with pride, she began to head back to the Burrow. There was simply no time to waste. She had a jumper to knit.

If I ever don’t reblog this post – assume I’m dead

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