“The six twenty-eight train to London Charing Cross is arriving at Platform Four. The six twenty-eight to London Charing Cross.�

Glancing up at the plastic platform number above him, Ron swore loudly. He had been so sure he was in the right place. He wondered, as he hurriedly ran up the stairs at the end of the platform he had been standing on, why they had made a Platform 4A as well as a Platform 4. Surely it confused people all the time? As he ran along the corridor which led to the stairs descending to the correct side of the track, he could see through the windows on his right that his train had already pulled up at the station. Skidding to a halt at the top of the stairs, he hurtled down them, praying all the while that the train would remain at the platform long enough for him to reach it.

Finally, it seemed, the stairs ended and he rushed onto the train, immediately leaning against the opposite wall and breathing a huge sigh of relief. As the pounding in his chest steadied, he began to move down the train, searching for the Second Class carriages – the concept of which he was still struggling to understand. He kept walking, brushing his hands over the bump of every plush seat until he reached a rather more cramped and basic carriage.

He sat down heavily in a seat affixed to the wall and facing a window, aware that eyes of other passengers were following him; the newcomer. It wasn’t surprising that so few people were on the train at that time – the summer was nearly over, and he supposed that many people were soaking up the last of the dying sun before returning from holidays to the relentless regimes of work.

Casting his eye over those who were sharing a carriage with him, Ron saw that he was accompanied by a young, dark-haired woman with her headphones forced determinedly into her ears; a middle-aged woman reading a novel and a small, wizened man with only a tuft of cotton-white hair balanced on his head, who was reading the newspaper intently.

With a jerk, the train moved away from the station and Ron moved his gaze to the town buildings slipping away outside as he sped slowly away from home. He smiled fondly as they approached lakes and open fields; the water and crops reflected a dancing light that reminded him of the summer two years ago, when he had first held her hand.

“Come on,� she cried, “I want to go out before it gets dark! Can’t you see how beautiful the sunlight is?�

Laughing, he followed her out of the front door, waving to his mother as he left. He could see she was already at the bottom of the drive, stumbling on the little stones that lay in her way, but never falling. She threw encouraging remarks and shouts of laughter over her shoulder as she ran on ahead, the wind in her hair.

She reached the little pathway that led through the field and towards the woods well before he did, but waited for him, picking red poppies, purple violets, yellow buttercups and deep blue cornflowers from the roadside bank. She giggled as he came closer, thrusting them into his hand and saying, “You should give them to your mum. She’d love some fresh colour in the house, I’m sure.�

All Ron could do was smile, his breath catching in his throat and preventing any speech. She slowly began winding her way along the path alongside him, commenting on every part of the summer so far that they had shared, and his eyes glinted with affection as he watched her mouth curve into a smile at every memory.

Finally, they reached the forest, which was shimmering with the last of the sun’s rays and casting dappled light onto the ground they walked on. It was cooler under the shade of the trees, and he saw her draw her cardigan tighter around her, so, without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, squeezing a little to let her know he cared.

She cast a surprised look up at him, but, seeing the warmth in his eyes, she beamed. Her hand found his and soon they were running together through the trees and out into the slowly darkening evening.

Ron realised he must have been staring at the same spot for a fairly long time, for when he came out of his reverie, his eyes were almost watering. He glanced around and saw the old man looking kindly towards him, a question perched on his lips.

“Who is she?� he asked gently.

Blushing, Ron looked down at his feet and back up at the man, not able to move the grin from his face. He sighed happily and replied, “She’s more than I could ever explain.�

“Try me,� the man challenged with a small smile, laying his newspaper down beside him.

Ron laughed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “She’s changed so much of my life, over the years I’ve known her. I mean, I’d never have learnt to cook anything if she wasn’t around. I’ve started learning a foreign language because she told me I could.�

The man nodded, seemingly comprehending every word Ron spoke as though it were already imprinted in his mind. It struck Ron that perhaps the man did understand more than he gave him credit for – after all, he had probably lived the majority of his life by now. “What about you, then? Do you – did you – have anyone like her?�

“Oh yes. Her name was Christine. And you look just like I did when I first fell in love with her,� the man replied cheerily. “There’s something about love that makes a person glow like nothing else.�

Silence fell between them again, full of a mutual contentment and nostalgia. Ron knew in his mind that she had changed far more than he could let on to this man: she had opened his eyes to the Muggle world, taught him so many new concepts that he would need, and he had tried his hardest to surprise her in the only way he knew he still could - by learning new things himself and showing her how much he would do for her.

He watched the cities flash past him, catching the eye of the old man every so often and sharing a look which every time whispered their two stories; similar yet different. And all the while he pictured her face and heard her voice in his ear, drawing ever closer to her and the oncoming night.

When the train finally began to slow, and the automated voice propelled through the speakers was announcing their arrival, Ron suddenly found himself feeling wholly unprepared. How would she know he was going to be here? What was to stop her getting on that train home, oblivious to his presence at the station? But without time to stop and consider, he stepped off the train and looked around.

They had arrived at Platform Three. A quick glance around showed him a screen, displaying the departures from that platform, which didn’t seem to include the train back to Ipswich. Heart-rate building, he pelted through the doors of the main station and looked desperately around. If he had not been so frantic, Ron would have appreciated the beautiful sunlight streaming through the glass around him, giving the whole area a surreal sparkle. He dashed towards a plasma screen on the opposite wall, waiting nervously as it flashed with times and statuses of trains leaving the station. He was so absorbed, in fact, that he almost missed the shout of disbelief from behind him.

“Ron?�

He heard her voice permeate the bustle of people surrounding him, like water chattering over rocks, and he turned immediately and rushed towards her, his arms falling into place around her body as he pulled her lips to meet his.

She looked overjoyed, if a little puzzled, as he released her. “But Ron, you’ve always hated big public displays,� she pointed out, confused.

“Maybe it’s just something you’ve changed in me,� he replied happily, as her face lit up with delight.

“I never thought you’d be here,� she giggled into his ear, as they held each other in a tight embrace. “Even after all these years, you can still surprise me.�

“Oh,� he breathed blissfully, “it’s what you do to me, Hermione.�