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For a vast majority of her life, Gwen had always returned to Platform 9¾ in late August and reunited with all her long-lost friends in an adrenaline-rushed fervor, grinning and pink-cheeked and slightly more sun-kissed than she'd been the few months prior, mostly wondering to herself how on earth people could ever think anything could change in such little time.
But as she stood on the platform for her seventh and final time to return to Hogwarts, knuckles tightly clenched around the handle of her chest, inhaling shakily through her nose and out through her mouth, Gwen finally understood. She had matured enough, by then, learned enough, experienced enough, to recognize that things really could change that much in such little time.
The obvious details, first—her hair was shorter. She'd cut it in the middle of July, right up to her shoulders, and it had lightened in the summer sun. She had a new trunk, since her old one had broken (her fault—she'd stood atop it to reach the top shelf of her mother's bookshelf). Her grandmother's old-lady stench clung to Gwen's robes like a glue trap, and Gwen was probably most excited to get the damn things off her.
Hattie had come to say her goodbyes the night before. She had profusely made it clear over the course of the summer that she oh-so wished she could live with Gwen, but the creatures she had been handling needed constant attention, and even the day-long trip Hattie had to take to get to Gwen's home in Surrey was pushing it. So the two Graham women settled for weekly meetings, just to check in on each other and make sure neither of them had offed themselves.
That was one thing Gwen had always liked about her grandmother. Hats was never afraid to be blunt around Gwen.
As she inhaled again, the muffled stench of train tracks encompassing her mind, Gwen thought about what else could be an obvious change in herself—she could only realize so many herself before she'd have to rely on other people to tell her what was new. Perhaps she was tanner, or taller, or a bit plumper, or her eyes were wider. She couldn't know for sure; she'd have to wait for someone else to point such things out.
Then, she thought, the not-so-obvious differences: Her father was dead, and her mother was practically as good as. She hadn't seen James in Merlin knew how long (although not only Merlin—it was approximately sixty-six days and four hours; Gwen had calculated). It was sixty-six days too long.
Then, of course, there were the conspicuously-covered left forearms of her classmates.
Gwen caught glimpses, every few moments, of a head in the crowd that looked more corrupt than the rest. Snape, who was glancing around, tugging the sleeve of his robes down further than it needed to go. The Carrow twins, of which Gwen never truly cared much for, each whispering vehemently to each other and sticking out their covered arms, wrist-up. Erasmus Wilkes, arms tucked tightly to his chest, glare directed to anyone who dare look his way. Cassilda Selwyn's furious rubbing of her wrist, when she thought nobody was watching.
