Chapter Text
The exams finally ended, as they always did, despite their feeling of dragging longevity.
The days found a new pattern, one where the castle had seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, one that had been pent up for months. The library emptied abruptly, and the corridors of the castle became deserted spare the odd wandering cat. The school seemed to empty itself into the grounds; students splayed out on the lawns by the lake and the ragged hills that led dizzily up to the Owlery and the Quidditch Pitch beyond. The flags about the stands warped idly in lazy breezes, its pitch deserted and waiting for September once again.
The last few days of term slipped by one by one with a suddenness that seemed cruel in Enjolras’s eyes. May had long since slipped into June, and the moment they were free of the grind of revision and examinations June had sped away, like one of the shooting stars that Jehan and Eponine recorded in the night skies in Astronomy.
They’d found themselves in a lazy rhythm of hot days; curtains in the common room billowing in warm breezes, bees hitting lazily into windowpanes. All lessons had wound down and ended, and eventually Enjolras found himself on the last day of term.
It had been a hot day, and they’d spent it down by the lake’s edge, under the shade of the willow tree that cascaded its trailing branches downwards to dip into the water and send ripples across is surface. Around two, Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire had gone down to see Hagrid, and to say farewell to the Augureys that had been stalking about his pumpkin patch for the last few months. Grantaire had introduced Enjolras to them last week, and one meeting was enough. They weren’t the friendliest of birds, which Enjolras could support with the nip on his finger which hadn’t quite healed.
The rest of them had wandered off at different points of the day; Eponine with Montparnasse to get Gavroche and Azelma packing their meagre belongings; Marius and Cosette towards the Owlery to send a last minute owl asking her stepfather if Marius could stay for the whole of summer; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta to the Divination Tower, in what appeared to be an attempt to secure a crystal ball to take back on the train. Given that last year they’d smuggled home a very-put out portrait, Enjolras thought this was preferable.
None of them had come back to their spot by the lake, and Enjolras’s last few hours of the afternoon had been spent between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They had all seemed rather subdued, but there was something to their silence that seemed warm and safe, the result of years of friendship that had turned them into more than friends but into something like the family Enjolras had never quite found at home.
They’d gathered their belongings when the bell tower began to sound six o’clock over the grounds, a merry rhythm of bells that meshed with the crows squawking in the branches of trees, and the sparrows that sang a softer tune. The rest of the students that had gathered outside began to get to their feet too, quick to begin the walk back up to the doors to the Entrance Hall, to reach the end of term feast.
“I,” Courfeyrac announced, entering the gap between Combeferre and Enjolras and slinging an arm around each of their shoulders, “am excited for roast potatoes.”
“I’m excited for sprouts.” Combeferre replied, and Courfeyrac scuffed a hand through his hair in despair.
They lapsed into a brief silence as they headed up the steep hill, towards the grey slate steps that began the Covered Bridge.
“Are you both still up for a trip to Diagon Alley after the train gets in tomorrow?” Combeferre asked them quietly.
“Combeferre needs to get his fix in from Flourish and Blotts.” Courfeyrac chimed in instantly, “Did you know he hasn’t been there in six months?”
Combeferre’s elbow found its way firmly into Courfeyrac’s ribs. Courfeyrac turned wounded eyes on Enjolras and he looked hastily away in a vain attempt to uphold a composed face.
The Entrance Hall was as crowded as he expected, students of all houses vying with one another to enter the Great Hall, and begin saying their goodbyes for summer. The thought set Enjolras rather blue, as he looked up at the arching ceilings of the Entrance Hall, a feature of the castle he’d grown so used to it was as common as breathing.
This summer would be different, he’d already promised himself, and he felt fairly certain he could keep that promise. This summer he had far more than his last year self. This year so much had changed.
The banners for the school were draped from the spanning ceiling rafters in the Great Hall, deep purple billowing in the soft draft that spiralled in through the doors to the Entrance Hall. Ghosts were drifting about the hall, conversing with one another and sometimes dipping down to skim over the heads of the students, and cause some unlucky people to experience a ghostly foot passing through their foreheads.
None of the others were there yet, and Courfeyrac bounded ahead to bag a place on the Ravenclaw table, hauling his bag from his shoulder and flinging it onto the bench on the opposite side of the table. The third year that was set next to the bag sent him an unimpressed look.
“I’m saving the space.” Courfeyrac explained patiently, “For ten people.” He turned to Enjolras and Combeferre as he settled into his claimed space, “I wonder if the school would grant a request for our own table?”
“No.” Combeferre and Enjolras told him in unison.
Entrance to the hall was painstakingly slow, and the three of them sat impatiently for the rest of the group. Courfeyrac's stomach started grumbling.
They passed the time with Courfeyrac prodding Combeferre to produce the spiralling, drawn lights he could send gently from his wand; images of butterflies or fish that darted out silver and gold before dissolving into showers of soft light, like the spray kicked up by the wind from waves. It was never quite as beautiful when anyone else attempted it, Enjolras thought.
He remembered the first time he’d seen them, when he’d visited Combeferre’s house, during his grandmother’s stay there. She’d hummed a low spell under her breath, and the small, packed house had been lit up with a thousand colourful enchanted lights, and Enjolras remembered thinking that this was what a magical house should look like. Not some cold house with high, empty dark halls. But a place that had a hundred colours squeezed into it, with Combeferre’s little sisters giggling as they drew henna on one another's wrists with their wand tips.
Enjolras had been raised in a house that had prided itself on its Pureblood ancestry, and the wealth of inherited gold that weighed down vaults at Gringotts. Combeferre wore handmade jumpers, and brought much used, handed-down textbooks to classes; remnants of his Half-Blood family who had lived in Maharastra until the turn of the century.
It was strange, Enjolras had once considered, how narrow minded magic could make some people, and how open and loving it could make others.
Marius and Cosette were the first to join them, their hands linked and faces bright. Cosette easily set herself down next to Courfeyrac, and the two somehow launched themselves into a discussion about Marius’s skill at Arithmancy, which could probably last them long into the evening. Marius went the shade of Cosette and Courfeyrac’s Gryffindor robes.
A pair of hands came down suddenly on Enjolras’s shoulders, and he jumped.
“Budge up,” Grantaire’s voice said, low in his ear and making goosebumps erupt over the skin on his neck. He could hear the smirk on his lips.
“There’s plenty of room on this side,” Enjolras pointed out, in an attempt to sound peevish, gesturing leftwards as Grantaire bundled himself onto his right side, a mass of tangled curls and long sleeves.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Grantaire replied, turning to meet his eyes, smiling, and Enjolras revelled in the way his heart slipped about his chest.
“How was Hagrid’s?” Combeferre asked, as Feuilly and Bahorel both sat themselves down on the benches. Feuilly was busy working a finger about his mouth, looking disgruntled.
“I think I’ve got rockcake stuck in my teeth.” He said.
“I think I’ve got teeth stuck in my rockcake.” Bahorel embellished.
“You actually suck.” Eponine informed him, arriving in time to catch the two comments. Gavroche was at her side, snickering under his breath as Bahorel looked mortally offended.
Their group eventually became complete, Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet rushing into the hall just as the speeches began. There was a suspiciously crystal ball- shaped lump under Joly’s robes, pushing out his jumper at a bizarre angle, and the three of them were in silent hysterics. Bossuet attempted to whisper to them what they’d been up to, and ended up getting the hiccoughs. They echoed about the hall in a rather woeful manner.
At Enjolras's side, Grantaire’s shoulder shook with surpressed laughter.
The end of term feast was not very different from the five that had preceded it in earlier years; in that they were hours that passed far too rapidly, and made Enjolras feel slightly sick from the force of the happiness that welled within his stomach. It felt stronger today, for a medley of reasons that he couldn’t make into a list. Perhaps most of it was due to Grantaire beside him, firing witticisms at anyone within earshot, or laughing loudly at Courferyac’s jokes. And looking over at Enjolras, an expression reserved just for him.
“I have an idea!” Joly said as he was piling profiteroles carefully onto his plate in some apparent kind of modern art recreation. “Let’s say our school year peaks.”
“Come again?” Bahorel asked, mouth laden with treacle tart. Apparently the rockcakes hadn’t quite cemented his teeth together enough. Musichetta and Bossuet, however, let out a collective fond groan.
“He made us do this last summer.” Musichetta explained, leaning forward to spear a finger of strawberry ice cream from Enjolras’s plate. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react to that. He settled for acquiescence. “You say your favourite part of the year. No points for being a dick.”
“But that’s all I was all year.” Grantaire sighed, pouting.
“My peak was the heavy make-out session a few hours ago with ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac said immediately, and Combeferre let out a low groan, hands coming up to hide his face. The back of his neck was scarlet.
“Well, that was…truthful.” Marius commented, and Courfeyrac leaned over to high five him.
“My peak was when Bossuet pushed Courfeyrac into the lake.” Combeferre said through his hands, and Courfeyrac let out a high-pitched gasp that sounded akin to him trying to suck all the air in the hall into his lungs.
“My peak was the detention Hagrid gave me for trying to steal a Niffler.” Bahorel said, an oddly misty look coming over his face, a hand cupping his chin, “We went out into the Forbidden Forest and just went looking for Porlocks and Unicorns most of the night. He didn’t take away the Firewhiskey I’d brought with me either.”
“That was not your peak.” Eponine informed him, with a flat severity that made Bahorel do a double take. At her elbow, Gavroche looked enthralled.
“I’m a liar.” Bahorel said after a long pause, face clumsily blank, and Feuilly dissolved into laughter.
“Marius?” Joly prompted, apparently keen to keep this on track.
Marius went very red, and muttered something about Transfiguration. Cosette must have understood it, for she smiled with the brightness of July sunshine, and kissed him on the cheek. It did little for his red face.
“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac chimed in, looking at him with an intensity that immediately set Enjolras's brain hurtling.
“History of Magic.” He’d blurted, before he’d really considered it. He immediately felt eyes on him.
“Every single lesson?” Musichetta prompted, arching an eyebrow. There was a definite smirk on her lips, and Enjolras forced his shoulders back in a vain attempt to retain some form of dignity.
“Yes.” He said steadily, as Courfeyrac lapsed into not very silent giggles. Enjolras wasn’t looking at Grantaire, but he’d felt him stiffen slightly when he’d first spoken. His face felt hot, and he focused on the way his hands were wound tightly in his lap.
The apparent peaks became a little ridiculous after that, culminating with Musichetta’s tale of a gravity-defiant broom-flight with Bossuet up to the Astronomy tower, all of them firmly concluding that it had definitely never happened.
The feast ended soon after, and as one the various houses rose to their feet, and the swell of noise that had lasted for the past hour or so seemed to rise even further in crescendo.
“Let’s walk back the long way.” Feuilly suggested, raising his arms above his head in a languid stretch, “I heard Peeves was planning to chuck water balloons on the people going upstairs through the Grand Staircase.”
They accepted that without doubt, as it really had been quite a while since any of them had fallen foul of Peeves, and it seemed a shame to end that now. Instead, they pushed past a faded tapestry of Gregory the Smarmy, and along a narrow corridor that filtered the noise of the Entrance Hall until it sounded as if they were hearing it through water.
It grew colder, and the dust settled itself up Enjolras’s nose, and eventually they cut across a corridor and out into the evening air, the viaduct before them, thrown into dark blue as the setting sun snatched the colours of their hue in lieu of night.
Gavroche had followed them from the hall, and at the sight of the empty viaduct he let out a loud whoop and took off at a run. Behind him, Eponine dashed off after him, windmilling her arms, feet hitting heavily against the flagstones.
The sun was arching down over the western buildings, the tall towers that spanned up into the darkening sky. Out across the viaduct, the lake glinted in the evening light, its further expanses shimmering like a haze of gold coins.
A shoulder brushed against Enjolras’s, and Grantaire appeared at his side.
“History of Magic, huh?” He asked, and when Enjolras hung back to look at him, there was a definitive smirk on his lips.
The rest of them were drawing ahead, unaware of their lack of movement, and Enjolras rubbed his fingers against the knuckles on his left hand. It was an uncertain, halting movement.
“Yes,” He said, smiling slightly, pulling his gaze across to meet Grantaire’s properly this time. Grantaire’s eyebrows drew up, as if he hadn’t expected Enjolras to persevere with this answer, but then his lips stuttered into a smile, and he let out a low laugh.
“Endless goblin rebellions are enthralling.” He finally said, eyebrow flicking up towards the curls of his hair as he looked away slightly, smirk still in place.
“It was either that or when you fell asleep on my shoulder.” Enjolras said, and was rewarded with the look of horror that Grantaire adopted. He couldn’t quite tell in the fading summer light, but he was fairly certain he was blushing. Grantaire seemed to consider, and then a hand came out and knocked him lightly on the arm.
“Uncool, man.” He said, but he was smiling in that way that made Enjolras’s heart light and impossibly giddy.
He was very close to him as they slowly made their way after the rest of the group; his arm brushed against Enjolras’s.
“You never said what yours was, you know.” Enjolras pointed out, the warm scent of the night folding itself over his nose and lips, making it impossible to envisage the colder winter months they’d left behind them long ago.
Grantaire shifted next to him,
“Didn’t I?” He asked, tone half distracted, as if he were somewhat amused. “How strange.”
He didn’t expand beyond that comment, and Enjolras let them walk a few paces, past a narrow alcove that was gleaming orange in the dying light. Then he said in a tone slightly firmer than he had intended.
“Grantaire.”
“Oh, right,” Grantaire said, and his tone was its old mocking one, the kind that maybe Enjolras liked a lot more than he thought he once had. “You wanted elaboration.”
He paused a moment, and then a hand came gently up to Enjolras’s shoulder, and he pushed him against the dipped alcove that had been nestled half-heartedly into the brickwork. His back hit against damp stone and idly creeping vines.
Grantaire’s lips were twitching, as if he were trying to smirk, but there was a look in his eyes that was undercutting it, setting his irises a darker hue as he studied Enjolras’s face.
“It’s early summer,” He said, and Enjolras let himself be confused for a moment, Grantaire’s palm still flat against his shoulder, “And you’re kissing me in the greenhouses. And there’s a lot of fucking rain.”
Enjolras let out a breath of amusement that disturbed Grantaire’s hair, his eyes locked on his.
“That's a rather good choice.” He said.
“I rather thought so.” Grantaire said, brightly, lips twisting at it. They paused a moment, so close they were stirring their hair with breathing, and then Grantaire dismantled the distance that remained between them and he was kissing him again, nose crushing slightly against his own. The wall was uncomfortable at Enjolras’s back, but he didn’t particularly care. Grantaire’s hand was still pressed firmly against his shoulder, and it was shooting spiralling rivulets of warmth along his skin, rocketing through his bloodstream.
There was a loud and rather unceremonious wolf-whistle somewhere off to their right. Enjolras felt Grantaire smile against his lips. He also didn’t pull away.
The others had made it to the edge of the viaduct by the time they broke apart, a little wanting of oxygen. They had slipped to silhouettes in the flaring sunset; their shadows stretched long against the paved stones.
“Oh thank goodness,” Musichetta remarked when they rejoined them, “We thought you’d been hit by a terrible lip-locker curse.”
Grantaire elbowed her playfully, which disintegrated into a scuffle where there was a fair bit of tugging on Grantaire’s curls, and standing on feet.
“Are we really all going into seventh year in September?” Feuilly asked dryly, as an elbow landed on his chest owed to unfortunate proximity.
“Not if my Divination exam is anything to go by.” Bossuet replied, from where he and Gavroche had been hurling stones from the balustrade, far, far down into the murky ravine below.
They laughed at that, the story having been made funnier with each retelling Bossuet gave, each time more elaborate and ridiculous than the last.
Enjolras found the small of his back pressing against the stone balustrade; so cold out of reach of the dying sun’s rays that it felt almost damp. He leant there contentedly, and watched the playful repartee between Grantaire, Musichetta and Feuilly; and Bossuet, Eponine and Bahorel selecting stones for Gavroche to send pelting into the sunlit water below. The sun was at the aggressive, glaring angle it acquired in late evening during summer; angling across his gaze and setting his friends into dramatic half-light. He watched it turn Grantaire’s hair copper; and Comebeferre’s glasses gleaming orange as he laughed at something Courfeyrac had just said.
This summer would be different, he thought again. From Combeferre and Courfeyrac next to him now, to the way Marius’s shoulders no longer seemed to hunch as much as they once had done, to the small smile Eponine wore as she scuffed a hand through her brother’s hair. They were growing all the time, as Enjolras had learnt himself; in ways he’d never expected; spiralling and curling at random like ivy towards the summer blue sky. And new kinds of happiness seemed to follow that; happinesses Enjolras hadn’t ever thought he’d feel.
Next to him, Grantaire appeared. He leant his weight against the balustrade, arm knocking lazily against his own, and Enjolras wondered if he could voice how brilliant he looked, with the sun behind him, speeding towards the mountains and closing the last day of term with merciless finality. The words would be better on Jehan’s tongue, but he tried to unravel them in his mind, to speak when they began to walk back to their dormitories.
A stone clattered hollowly against one of the spanning stone columns of the viaduct, followed by a whoop from Gavroche.
Grantaire met Enjolras’s eye and smiled; eyes cast maroon as the sun finally kissed the heather and gorse hills to the west.
-
Behind him rattled his chest, occasionally biting at his heels as he manoeuvred it swiftly about the crowd towards the carriages at the back of the train that were not yet full of owls, chests and students eager to get home.
Well, mostly eager.
“Why is everyone hurrying.” Eponine muttered, kicking at her chest from where it had toppled slightly onto one wheel. At her side, Montparnasse was laden with his and Gavroche’s posessions. Grantaire didn’t know how he was managing to carry a fuchsia backpack, two school chests, a bird cage and a rucksack, nor how he was managing it with relative gracefulness. The sunglasses probably helped. The lollipop he had in his mouth probably didn't.
“They’re trying to get into the carriage that doesn’t smell of Troll feet.” Feuilly replied, “Can anyone see the others?”
Grantaire was about to say no, when he noticed Marius’s head peering out of one of the carriage windows a few metres away.
“I see a disembodied one.” He responded, as Marius began to wave manically. He mouthed something that seemed like ‘we saved seats’.
Grantaire eventually navigated his troublesome case towards a carriage door, kicking it soundly to gain enough momentum to haul it up onto the step. The owl placed on the nearest luggage rack regarded him with disinterest, until he wheeled the case up against the one its cage was perched on, and it rattled dangerously.
“Sorry mate.” He told it as it hooted furiously.
Montparnasse followed him into the carriage, navigating the ridiculous amount he was carrying with the same annoying ease with which he had transported it. He swung the fuchsia backpack off his shoulder to finish, and took the lollipop from his mouth.
“That was fun.” He said,
“Is that a blood-flavoured lollipop?” Grantaire asked, and was spared an answer by Eponine hopping onto the train carriage, looping an arm about Montparnasse’s.
“Montparnasse and I are going to walk to the back of the train.” She said, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she began to steer a compliant Montparnasse towards the carriage corridor, “Buy me a pumpkin pasty, will you?”
“That is the worst euphemism for going to make out that I have ever heard.” Grantaire called after her, and received a not-so polite hand gesture in return. Feuilly patted him on the back.
The two of them headed in the opposite direction to Eponine and Montparnasse, over the now deceptively still rubber links between the carriages, and down past compartments already heaving with people.
Eventually, they came across a compartment that was very intricately layered with people that they recognised.
It had been realised long ago that a compartment built to seat eight people could never comfortably house a group of twelve. And Cosette had now elegantly breezed into their lives; bright in all accounts except for train travelling comfort.
Currently, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Musichetta and Jehan were accommodated along one row of carpeted seats. Jehan’s enormous cat sat on his lap, white fur drifting out about her as he stroked her idly. Joly was sat on Musichetta’s lap, and Bossuet was cross-legged on the floor, leafing through The Quibbler. Marius had disentangled himself from the window, and was now sat by the compartment door, his hand in Cosette’s. Enjolras was by the window, elbow on the frame and fingers working absent-mindedly through his curling hair.
Somehow, Bahorel had crammed himself into the luggage rack.
“What the fuck.” Feuilly said politely, as he studied Bahorel, who stretched languidly and threw a hand up over his head in a ridiculous pose. It hit loudly against the ceiling.
“We think he’s going to break it in about two minutes.” Courfeyrac said, throwing his leg over Combeferre’s.
“We’re ready to run.” Cosette added, casting a look at Bahorel above her.
"As long as you don't knock our Crystal Ball down." Musichetta called up to Bahorel.
“You two are late.” Joly tutted, “You said you’d be right behind me and Marius when we left the dormitory.”
“We tried to create a short-cut and sit on the broomstick,” Grantaire explained, hauling his bag into the rack next to Bahorel. It hit none too gently against his head, “But it didn’t go particularly well.”
“Look.” Feuilly pouted, ripping up the sleeve of his jumper to reveal an ominously red, raised patch of skin.
“That looks like it will be a stonker of a bruise.” Bahorel commented cheerfully.
Grantaire slipped past Feuilly as he began a response that seemed an opener to the start of one of his and Bahorel’s sparring matches, and headed towards the free spot next to Enjolras.
Enjolras met his eye and smiled, the warm kind of smile that seemed to heat Grantaire’s insides, warmth seeping down to his fingers and toes.
“Here,” He said, and moved over to create a space by the window. This stirred something in Grantaire in a way he couldn’t quite voice, but he also found it inexplicably greatly amusing, and so he settled himself in the vacated seat with a laugh. Enjolras’s shoulder pressed against his in the limited space. He smelt of outdoors, of the musk of train steam and fresh summer pines. He let himself be intoxicated by it. It felt liberating, to let himself wrap about Enjolras, to let himself yearn for him without the pain that had followed those thoughts for so long. It still hurt, and he felt it always would, but it was in a cleaner way, a sharper way.
Above the reeling steam and clustered students, and beyond the span of trees that spread away up the hillside, Hogwarts stood, high on the cliffs in the warm summer sunlight. The largest, widest tower was the most visible; its glass windows seemingly fashioned from gold as the sunlight hit against them. Through them, he knew, the staircases were moving, stone quietly grinding against stone, for no one but the ghosts now. It set a sudden and determined melancholy about him, one he had been fighting ever since exams had finished.
He’d lain awake long into last night, eyes heavy and sleepless with the return of the insomnia that had laid itself about his shoulders in earlier months. He’d imagined the stars in the sky spinning forwards, angling back down towards the horizon and dragging forwards the dawn, when he’d have to leave the place that had been the only home he’d ever had. He’d wondered if Feuilly and Marius, sleeping in the beds next to him, felt this too, and he knew that they did. He wondered if it ate at them too, like a fire that clawed at intestines.
In the end he’d thrown back the covers, as he’d always done on nights like those, and had trodden the familiar path up towards the tall towers. He’d watched the day come in on cool summer air, pink spreading across the horizon like leaking watercolours.
He looked now at the castle, separated from him by the steep hills and jagged pine trees, and the tracks of a railway-line that would take him far away from here, from the hills bruised purple and red from heather and gorse, and the castle that he loved more than anything in existence, spare the people crammed now in this train compartment.
Enjolras’s hand moved tentatively towards his, fingers knocking against his own, palm upwards. Grantaire took it.
There came a sudden, loud wailing from Courfeyrac’s corner of the carriage. They all jumped and looked round, to find him sheepishly pushing something down into his bag. The wailing cut off abruptly.
“Why,” Asked Combeferre, voice steady and carrying, “Is there a screaming yo-yo in your bag?”
“That was a very serious confiscation.” Courfeyrac said quickly, adopting a mock solemn voice, and he even closed his eyes for a moment. “I had to do my miserable, yet noble duty as Gryffindor prefect and relieve a fourth year of this dangerous item.”
“And it’s now in your bag.”
“I’m momentarily borrowing it.”
The train gave a piercing whistle just then, and along the carriages the doors began to slam shut, rocking the floor beneath them. Grantaire pressed himself backwards in his seat, some half-hoping aim to delay this train for as long as he could. Enjolras’s knuckles grew white, his grip on Grantaire’s hand close to hurting.
“‘Some days must be dark and dreary.’” Jehan recited quietly and suddenly from his corner by the window, and Grantaire realised how moody a silence had fallen over the carriage.
The train juddered, and then clumsily hauled itself forwards along the tracks, picking up the constant, slow shaking movement that would carry it all the way back to London. The platform outside the window began to drift slowly onwards. Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire’s hand tightened somehow further.
It should have happened with more flare and drama, Grantaire thought, but one moment the castle sat in the hot July sunlight, proud and constant and magnificent, and the next it was gone. The tracks shifted to the left, a long slow curve, and their window released Hogwarts and instead took up lines of trees and tangled bushes. And like that the castle was gone from him until September.
He was abruptly conscious of the emptiness that had settled in his stomach, as if something had dropped away from inside him.
The silence dragged on until Combeferre stirred.
“Who wants a game of Exploding Snap?” He asked, retrieing a pack of cards from the pocket of his robes. The movement showed the worn t-shirt he’d put on under his robes, ready for the Muggle world.
“Yeah.” Bahorel said in an unusually subdued manner, still crammed in the luggage rack.
Under Combeferre’s gentle jokes, and the work of a rather exciting Exploding Snap round that saw Bahorel finally tumbling out of the luggage rack with the sleeve of his robes ignited, their compartment grew lively once more, heavy spirits somewhat lifted.
Grantaire stayed slumped by the window, his elbow resting on the sticky rubber that framed the glass, watching the scenery beyond it whir into a medley of greens, browns and blues.
Sunlight hit in bursts against the windowpane, setting the dried water marks and dust it had collected over the years in brilliant light, before the trees blocked its rays and they were once more thrown into shadow.
Enjolras breathed quietly next to him, his hand still closed about Grantaire’s. He could hear the slow rasp of breath leaving his nose, feel the beat of his pulse in his wrist. It felt calming, somehow, as the train shook its way over the tracks. He watched Courfeyrac’s leg, still slumped over Combeferre’s, shake with the rhythm of the carriage, and listened to Cosette laughing at the Exploding Snap game.
“I say we go to get ice cream later.” Bahorel said, busy slapping down a new hand of cards on the spontaneous table Combeferre had made from a levitating copy of Hogwarts: A History. The Manticore on the top facing card let out a low roar of approval.
“That sounds good.” Feuilly agreed, before throwing down a matching Manticore card, and the pack exploded.
“Your eyebrows are singed.” He commented, when the smoke had cleared and he could get a better look at Bahorel’s face. Bahorel swore loudly.
“Fucking Manticores.”
“That reminds me,” Grantaire said calmly, sitting forwards. “Enjolras and I have decided we're going to Greece in August to help out with Manticore preservation.”
Courfeyrac let out a strangled, squawking noise from where he’d been about to put a Fizzing Whizbee in his mouth. The sherbet hissed sadly into the sudden silence.
“You failed to tell us that,” Combeferre said, reaching over to take a sweet from the packet Courfeyrac was holding as he looked at Enjolras. Grantaire took the ‘us’ to be Courfeyrac and himself.
“I love Manticores.” Enjolras responded, dryly, smiling, and Grantaire began to snigger at Combeferre's expression.
“Send me some baklava.” Joly said with no small degree of enthusiasm.
“You realise R will just quote Homer at you until you’re forced to kill him?” Musichetta pointed out, a hand moving through Joly’s hair in a subconscious manner. She seemed to be fighting a grin with difficulty.
Enjolras didn’t seem to have considered this. He sent Grantaire a look.
“‘No man, noble or humble, once born can escape his fate.’” Grantaire offered.
Enjolras rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.
It was early afternoon when Eponine and Montparnasse slid open the compartment door. The trees had long since grow scarce, having spanned away to be replaced by the long, ragged grasslands of the Scottish Highlands; heather tumbling away to turn into craggy grey stone. Lochs caught the light in the distance, flaring brilliant white. The trolley had been past half an hour ago, and the compartment smelled of warm pumpkin pasty, and the tangy, sugary scent of sweets.
“Budge up,” Eponine shot at Courfeyrac, and proceeded to wriggle into the few centimetres of space he’d left between himself and the carriage door.
“There’s literally no room.” Courfeyrac pouted, but obligingly shuffled as Eponine prodded him on the leg with a determined finger.
“Heads up,” Grantaire informed her, before tossing the pumpkin pasty he’d bought her over Bahorel’s head and into her lap.
“Maybe someone should be a Chaser next year.” Courfeyrac smirked,
“If you like to see your Chasers being beaten to a pulp.” Grantaire replied.
“Please remind me who won the Quidditch Cup after the Wronski Feint its Seeker performed, which the whole school was talking about for at least a month.” Joly grinned, leaning down so he could kick a playful foot against Grantaire’s shin. He felt his face heat with pleasure, and hid this by reaching over to steal one of the Bertie Bott’s Beans that Enjolras had purchased from the trolley. It was trifle flavoured, for which he was eternally grateful.
Oddly, in a way that seemed rather impossible when he contemplated it, he found himself growing happier the nearer the train got to London. He paid little heed to the scenery that flew past the window; trees and great expanses of fields that grew less ragged and wild as they crossed into England; houses growing more clustered as they sped through villages, then towns. Instead, he absorbed his attention in his friends.
He listened to Joly’s ridiculous jokes, and Jehan’s quiet laughter. He watched Cosette chatting animatedly with Bahorel as their Exploding Snap game lay smoking slightly on Hogwarts: A History. He watched Courfeyrac whispering something in Combeferre’s ear, and looked at the warm smile that spread across Combeferre’s face in reaction. He breathed in the scent of Enjolras next to him, and absorbed his attention into how it felt, to have his hand still encased in his; to feel his warm, smooth skin, grip tightening and loosening periodically as his muscles relaxed.
He wrapped himself in all this, and felt like he was enveloped in warm water; seeping heat into his skin, into parts of his body that felt chilled so often.
The window had been opened slightly, and warm summer breezes rushed into their compartment, lazy and languid.
Grantaire normally loved London. He loved the maze-like streets, and the way it smelt; of perfumed shops and city smoke, of car exhausts and coffee. He loved the museums; silent except in the steady movement of a thousand pairs of feet. He loved the riverbank; the grey skyline and its never sleeping occupants. In another lifetime he felt he’d be one of them; in a lifetime where castles and haphazard wizard high streets weren’t burned behind his retinas.
Today, however, he hated London.
It rose up suddenly, as the train sped past suburbs; clustered medleys of terraced housing. Suddenly the buildings leapt upwards; grey and white and ochre; trees crammed desperately between them to pass by in whirring bursts of green.
The train shuddered beneath him, and he felt it begin to slow. His heart slipped a few beats, as if the brakes of the train had pressed themselves on it as well.
“That’s my flat.” Bahorel said suddenly, slamming a finger towards a flat-block that flew by too close for inspection.
“You say that every year.” Musichetta sighed.
“That’s because it’s his flat every year.” Feuilly commented, and Bahorel leant forwards over the Exploding Snap game to high-five him.
“Feuilly’s staying at mine.” Bahorel announced, which actually seemed to be more a question of reaffirmation as he studied Feuilly's reaction.
“Only if Eponine and Gavroche promise to drop by now and then.” Feuilly huffed, flopping back in his seat with a sulky air that seemed as real as Bahorel’s indifference. “You’re a nightmare to spend time with after the discovery of the Xbox.”
Eponine rolled her eyes as Bahorel let out an insulted squawk.
“Only because my brother’s obsessed with Bahorel,” She replied, as Montparnasse snickered.
Bahorel looked as if he’d been told he’d just become Minister of Magic.
The view outside the window receded from the medley of blurred lines from nearby buildings, and became clear, detailed images as the train slowed. It sounded like a dying beast to Grantaire, a medley of slow churning groans, and long exhales of steam.
It crept into King’s Cross Station, under the great panelled glass that arched high above and was set a blinding white in the late afternoon sun. It was dazzling to look at, and Grantaire let it burn onto his retinas, and by the time he’d blinked the image away from underneath his eyelids, Platform 9 ¾ had come into clear and stationary view. Smoke furled its way over an assortment of heads, the rhythmic thrumming of the engine slowing to a lazy, chugging whir.
“Right then,” Courfeyrac said, remaining in his seat, leg still flung over Combeferre’s.
“Yep.” Feuilly agreed.
Nobody moved.
“Wow,” Montparnasse eventually said, from where he’d been reclining against the compartment door. He angled himself round and threw it open, and effortlessly stalked out into the corridor where students were beginning to mill.
“He made that look easy.” Musichetta commented.
“Come on, guys,” Bahorel wheedled, leaning forwards to pull at Courfeyrac’s legs so that he slid forwards off Combeferre and into the dangerous possibility of crumpling onto the floor. “We’re getting ice cream, remember.”
The prospect of that, and the winding chaos of Diagon Alley, and Bahorel's increasingly violent cajoling that saw Courfeyrac on the floor after all, eventually restored some semblance of movement. Bossuet staggered to his feet, giggling at the apparent pins and needles in his legs. He grabbed Joly and Musichetta’s hands and hauled them up with him, and the three of them tumbled out into the corridor, laughing.
Enjolras turned to Grantaire, and the sunlight filtering down through the swirling smoke beyond the train window lit at his hair, and set his eyelashes gleaming.
“Ready?” He asked,
“Like hell.” Grantaire replied through a twisted smile. Enjolras grinned slightly, and Grantaire, after a moment’s hesitation, threw out his hand and pressed it down onto Enjolras’s.
It took them a long while to get back to the carriage where luggage and owl cages were piled high, mixed up in the crowd of like-minded people. The squawks of the cages’ occupants added to the din of the platform; the mill of people, calling and laughing, and the ever present reeling of the train, cooling down after its journey that always seemed to take no time at all, despite the sun’s slow arch towards the horizon that claimed otherwise.
He waited beside Enjolras for the carriage to clear slightly, their shoulder’s brushing; skin warming in the late afternoon light. He was humming something softly, and every so often joining in the lively comments that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were hurling back and forwards, their hands linked. Grantaire watched him, watched them, and let the sunlight on his skin drizzle slowly into his heart.
He supposed it was as Jehan had said. As Longfellow himself had said, so many years ago, but with a sentiment that had survived the hands of time. Some days must be dark and dreary, but the sun lay beyond the grey clouds still, waiting to warm his skin once more.
And he thought of Feuilly, staying at Bahorel’s- because he wanted to- but also because he had nowhere else to go. He thought of Eponine and Gavroche, and their dingy London flat that smelt of stale cigarettes and damp. He thought of Marius, spending the summer with Cosette, away from the friends’ settees or hostel beds he usually spent his summers on. He thought of Enjolras, and the cold dark halls of the house Grantaire had never seen, where Enjolras had grown up.
He thought of them all, just now, sitting in that train compartment, unable to move.
He felt a strange rush of guilt, as if his own dark feelings could possibly be cancelled out by those of others, and then he thought of Hogwarts, and how much it meant to each of them. They each held a long, loving affinity with the place, one that had entwined itself into each of their years of friendship, and spun itself about them like the concrete that helped build stone towers. That part of them would never erode, no matter the years or the weather, and he supposed he was lucky to have it.
And then he had so much more than that.
They finally moved into the luggage train, and began to pick out their chests and various bags strewn about the dark carriage. The platform outside looked bright against the gloomy, stuffy space. Already, most of them were standing out there. Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Cosette, Marius.
Jehan’s cat brushed against his ankles as she wormed her way about the crowd, and sank a claw into the foot of the robes Jehan had forgotten to change out of. He scooped her up with a steady hand, and she sent a powerful, orange-eyed glare at the people before her.
Up ahead, Eponine and Montparnasse were hauling up the impressive assortment of bags they’d accumulated between themselves and Gavroche. Grantaire was pleased to see the fuchsia backpack had survived the journey.
He found himself studying them all, his friends, as if he were trying to memorise the set of their faces, of their characteristics movements and mannerisms. Pasting them to his mind like the pages of a scrapbook he would flip through over the summer.
“It’s not long, really.” Enjolras said quietly beside him, and Grantaire was not totally sure if he was talking to him, or more to himself. “A few weeks,”
“And a few Manticores.” Grantaire reminded him. Enjolras’s lip twisted, and Grantaire looked at him, seeing the boy who had once been so distant and cold, where he himself had been unbearable, some creature of mockery. Those parts of themselves were still there; they had not been swept away like the seasons that had spun about the castle and sent them back here. They were still there, because that was part of who they were, but there was so much else now, so many other things that had sprouted and taken bloom and blossomed over a space as small as a year. It seemed a kind of magic in itself.
He let that thought take hold of him as he moved forwards to grab his chest and heave it out onto the steps of the carriage, Enjolras behind him, Euryalus rattling in his cage, ending the school year for good as his feet hit against the platform floor.
That thought, as well as thoughts of warm sunlight through the clouds, and the knowledge of the people before him now, and the slow, wistful sighs of the cooling down train.
He let those things overtake his mind, washing over him like a cooling wave of sea water, for it seemed a good way to end.