Travaille Bien, Mon Chéri Solo closed

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Wharfdale Road, just west of King’s Cross Station, was alive with the usual rhythm of a London morning: buses grumbled past, trailing sharp fumes; cyclists weaved between cars, whose drivers’ shoulders were already tense – a typical weekday posture in London. The pavement was a slow blur of shoes striking fast and of suitcases wheels tracing over its cracks.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A woman passed by, speaking loudly, twitching her earphones cable, all while dragging an enormous suitcase. As she tried to overtake someone walking slowly in front of her, she bumped into a tall, middle-aged man coming from the opposite direction, making the magazine he was holding slip from his grasp.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The pages of the daily edition of the Guardian's caught a gust of wind, skated low across the pavement, past scuffed boots and suitcase wheels. Kicked by the footsteps of passersby, then rushed forward by a passing car’s slipstream, it drifted a few metres into Lavina Grove, a side alley off the main street, where it came to rest. There, between two front porches, in quiet and empty parking spot, came a sound – not loud, but sharp and definite. A faint crack.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Where there had seemingly been nothing, now stood two figures. One of those step forward – a tall man, wrapped in a dark coat, who gently took the suitcase from the woman’s hand. Together they both walked down the road, and came to a stop.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Alistair, I should have taken the car with him, it’s his first day," said the woman. "No, he’s fine; Améline, don’t treat him like a baby. I know Perrin is capable of way more than surviving a car ride, and I’m sure he enjoyed spending time with your father. And I know that those two extra hours in your office were helpful ," the man replied.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A few minutes passed, and a black retro Porsche car emerged from the main street and parked near the two adults. A little boy stepped out and could be heard thanking his grandfather in French for the drive. He walked toward the two adults, who had apparated from their garden, sparing them the car trip from Cambridge. As the woman gently started to caress her son's hand and waved at the departing car, Alistair, who was a few metres ahead, turned around, adding : "Let’s go," not cold, just final; and began to move again.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Perrin and Améline followed. The boy reached for his mother’s hand as they approached the busy Wharfdale Road sidewalk. He wasn’t sick, frightened, or uncertain; it was just that something he had known would come for so long, something he had been so eager for, was now about to begin. There was no dramatic thunder in his chest, just a stillness – a held breath, excitement wrapped in a polished cloth.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The city moved with no knowledge of them, and the three soon arrived at the foot of King’s Cross Station. Perrin automatically raised a finger to his mouth and bit at the edge of his nail as they entered, resulting in a satisfactory snick.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The glass doors parted with a gentle hiss, and they stepped into the echo of King’s Cross. It smelled faintly of train grease, roasted coffee, and wet paper. Muffled announcements hummed overhead.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Alistair led with long strides, suitcase in hand. They crossed the main concourse, where people flowed like currents, weaving between each other, heads down, bags swinging from shoulders. After passing a large group staring up at the departures board, Alistair steered them toward the older wing, where tall brick arches rose high. Eventually, Perrin saw ahead the familiar signs for Platforms 9 and 10.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He paused a few metres from the brick wall. Améline stepped ahead of her husband and, without hesitation, just seconds before hitting the wall, she accelerated slightly and neatly disappeared through it.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ As Perrin reached for the suitcase in his father’s hand, Alistair interrupted him. "I’ve got it," he said. He turned to face his son and added, "Especially for your first time." The end of his sentence cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. Perrin nodded. He wasn’t worried; he had asked his mother about it, the magic wouldn’t fail. He steadied his steps, angled slightly, and walked into the wall.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He emerged on the other side, followed shortly by his father. The platform stretched wide under a vast iron canopy. The Hogwarts Express stood gleaming beside the platform, deep red and powerful, and low hiss was pulsing beneath its engine. Chatter echoed from trunks rolling, owls hooting, and families saying goodbye.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Alistair set the suitcase down beside Perrin, then turned and gave a brief glance around the platform. "We’re early, as usual," he said, almost approvingly. Améline stepped closer to her son and wrapped her arms around him. "Travaille bien, mon chéri,"^*1 she said softly, pressing a kiss to his temple.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ From just behind them, Alistair added, "Be safe. And don’t forget to write to us often. Let us know how you’re doing – your progress." Although he was trying to hide it, especially on a platform full of important witches and wizards, Perrin noticed the slight tears at the corner of his father’s, now glimmering, eyes.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Perrin nodded firmly. "I will," he said, hugging his father. He turned, looked at the students boarding the train; and as he was eager not to end up in a compartment already full of older students and their friends, he told his parents that he should go now, and just added, "Vous allez me manquer ! See you at Christmas !"^*2 before walking towards the coach door.