A.N. I don't like starting chapters with Author Notes, but this is a special case.

I don't know if you noticed it, but we now have a cover for our story! This gorgeous photomanipulation was created by Brazilian plastic artist and good friend of mine Cora Félix. If you want to check out more of hers incredible work, take a look at her Facebook page:

cora . coralina . 90

Also, she creates covers for eBooks in various formats and sizes, for a small fee. If you want to see the cover at better resolution, check my profile!

The light of dawn coloured Crawley in subtle crimson. The reddish hue blanketed the air itself, like a picture seen through a bloodied lens. Hermione knew it, because she couldn't sleep a wink that night. When the day finally broke, she tossed her duvet aside and padded to the bathroom, as if the dawning light were her signal to move. She filled the bathtub, for her first day of school deserved a long soak, and she had too many hours to kill.

Easing herself to the porcelain seat, Hermione fell into the easy ritual of scrubbing and rising, shampooing her wild hair with a special brand she had bought just for that first day. It smelled of delicate roses in spring, and produced bubbles the size of ping-pong balls. Piling her hair at the top of her head, the girl let the concoction act on her bushy mane until it would become a gorgeous honey-coloured mass of curls. She closed her eyes and smiled, sensing a perfect day.

Hermione followed the instructions to the letter, wrapping a fresh towel over her hair, while she sat at her desk, shifting the silk bathrobe to cover her entirely. She mentally debated about using the strawberry-flavoured gloss she had bought the previous week. While the girl was a little tempted to use it even if just to see the result, Hermione thought that wearing make-up her only on her first day would look pretentious, while dolling herself up every single day would be hell. The fact she owned a desk instead of a vanity table spoke volumes about her ability to keep up with fashion. Also, the point was moot when she had a single gloss tube and a small compact with foundation, used only once before, to hide a gargantuan pimple right between her eyebrows.

The young girl carefully checked her face using the small compact mirror, searching for blemishes she was sure would pop up at her special day. Fortunately, she found none, and decided against the gloss, shoving it in her drawer. Her trunk was full and already closed, if she could remember it later, she would take the gloss in her pocket.

Hermione slowly unwrapped her hair, and set the damp towel on her bed. Plugging the blow-dryer in the outlet, she used a small nylon brush to give a finishing to her gorgeous honey-coloured mass of curls.

She woke up her parents with her scream. They staggered into her room, bleary-eyed and carrying a rolled up newspaper in her father's case, ready to kill whichever monstrous spider she probably had laid her eyes upon. When Emma Granger took in the situation, she had mighty trouble to hold her laugh. Hermione was jumping up and down, white as a sheet, strangling a bottle of shampoo as if it were a culprit's neck, swearing up a storm, in three languages. She also was almost naked, as her silk bathrobe ("borrowed" from her own closed, Emma noticed) had fallen open and pooled at her waist. Dan averted his eyes and backtracked slowly, but steadily. Emma decided she had been amused enough, and put her hands on her hips, promptly falling in the mother's act.

"Hermione Jane Granger", hissed her, making Hermione freeze mid-jump. "What is this?".

The girl blushed to the roots of her hair, making it stand out even more. Emma felt the swallowed laugh pressuring against her ribs. It almost looked as if her daughter had put a finger in the wall socket, every single hair was standing up, thick as a rope and curled like a telephone cord. Most of it fell over the girl's eyes, covering her face, while the rest stood from the middle of her head, giving her thick, spring-like horns. An unnatural grease covered every strand, gluing it together even more.

"My gorgeous honey-coloured mass of curls".

It took a long time for Mrs. Granger to stop laughing.

{}

After averting a disaster of Homeric proportions, her mother decided it was inadvisable to left Hermione on her own on a day like that, so she helped her daughter to select an outfit for the trip. It was too damn early yet, even the girl had to admit, but as Hermione couldn't stay still for more than a nanosecond, and as Emma was up already, they agreed on breakfast. Hermione touched her hair carefully, in part to check if it was there still. Emma had pushed her into the bathtub and washed that mess off, pulling so much to remove the grease the girl cried, and then had rubbed every strand separately and quite forcefully. Her hair was mostly normal again, but Hermione was already mentally composing a complaint letter to the shampoo maker while going downstairs.

"How about reviewing the instructions while we wait, Hermione?", proposed Emma after browbeating the sliced bread down the toaster. She filled the kettle under the faucet while the girl looked over their assortment of fruit jams. She wouldn't be able to keep harsh browns or bacon in her stomach that day.

"Mom!", whined her, rolling her eyes at the older woman. "Please".

"You'll review it now or you'll review it at the train station. You choose", threatened her mother, waving a fork at her like a magical wand. Hermione furrowed her brow, but relented at last.

"I'll call you the first opportunity, at night, to report the calling schedule and say I'm fine", started Hermione, her mouth working without any need to think. They had reviewed the instructions at least four times a day since the previous week. She took a toast and spread raspberry jam over it. "You guys will be waiting my call every evening, from six to eleven, tomorrow to next Monday".

"And if you don't call us, we will personally retrieve you from Scotland, little lady", said Emma with such force Hermione stopped mid-bite. "Go on".

"I'll try to make friends. I'll give your cookies to my roommates to butter them up. I'll take care of myself, and will tell my professors if there is any problem".

"I won't take any medicine on my own, I'll tell you if I run out of tampons and I'll find out how to wash my clothes first thing tomorrow".

Emma nodded approvingly.

"And if you can't wash it for some days…?", prompted her. Hermione made a face.

"I'll wash my undergarments on the shower".

She really wished it wouldn't be necessary. It reminded her of a summer, five years prior, when Daniel Granger decided they need to experience a Full Summer Vacation, at Brighton. As it seemed, a Full Summer Vacation involved two lost suitcases, a mix-up with their reservations, four days of unrelenting storms and a tiny Hermione whining about her only reading material being an outdated travel guide they had found at the hotel lobby. Emma had to wash their undies under the cold shower head, because the hotel's boiler was broken, and they had to wear the same clothes for five days, even during their sleep. Needless to say Daniel Granger was elated when they finally returned home.

"Sure you will", retorted Emma, her expression showing she was reminiscing the very same memory. "And, finally…?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at her so hard they could almost hear the eyeballs moving.

"I'll not promise to behave in class or get good marks like some silly little kid. You know me, Mother".

Emma laughed aloud, the way her little girl pronounced "mother" setting her off. She never could find someone who could sound so snobbish as Hermione when the girl wanted to. The girl fought a grin, but lost and started to laugh along with her mother. With a pang in her heart, Hermione thought how much she would miss those moments. The toast was suddenly dry in her mouth. Emma touched her cheek affectionately, and tears sprung from her eyes. With a painful sob, Hermione latched into her, both Granger women holding each other as if their lives depended on it. The mother backed off a little, rubbing her eyes with the underside of her wrist, sniffing loudly.

"It's okay, it's okay", cooed her, patting her daughter's head. "We are going to talk a lot on the phone, and write so many letters! You know, when I was your age, we used to have pen-pals at school. Once I met a really cute boy at London and…"

Hermione let her mother's prattling about her first love wash over her, taking away some measure of pain. It would be only three months before they would be reunited again, and she could remember why she was really doing that for. The girl had promised herself she would protect her parents from this strange and dangerous world which had set its eyes on her.

Finally, Daniel Granger came down, buttoning his shirt up. He kissed the top of her head and exchanged a small peck on the lips with his wife. He opened the Sunday Times and sipped his tea mug. Disappearing behind the newspaper, he fell in a calm silence, as if it were a normal weekend. Hermione could see his fingers trembling slightly, gripping the paper with such force it was tearing it. She lowered her gaze to the dusty toast, small hot tears prickling her eyes.

{}

For the second time that month, the Grangers drove to London. The car was filled with strange stretches of silence followed by unnatural conversation. Emma had commented on the weather at least five times already. Hermione felt her mouth corners cramping with all the forced smiling she had been doing. She was gripping the front of her freshly-pressed jeans to the point of creating wrinkles on it. She had decided against wearing her uniform at the station. They were sure she would be able to change in the train, and Hermione really didn't want to use that thing in front of her parents again.

Two nights before, she had modelled on her uniform, for them to see. At least, in part of it. The white blouse was a simple, button-up long-sleeved one, topped with a slender feminine necktie. She could cover it with a black jumper or sweater, both made of wool, or the lighter blazer, also in black. A black pleated skirt round up the look, almost like her old school uniform had been, but with some glaring differences. First, every piece seemed unfinished, with rough edges and sloppy stitches at the trims and hems. Hermione theorised it was so because every piece would be customised when she was "sorted" into a group. From their school folders, the Grangers discovered every student was colour-coded by house, to make easier for a professor to identify their affiliation. The second fault, in their eyes, of the uniform was the lack of footwear guidelines. Hermione was wearing comfortable trainers, and had packed two pairs of Mary Janes, the same ones she had used at her former school. The final problem the older Grangers knew about was the skirt length. It was unexpectedly short, stopping a just a little below mid-tight. Her old uniform would cover her to her knees. While it didn't showed so much, if she grew a little during the year, as she was bound to do, it would be scandalous in no time. Hermione had appealed with a cock-and-bull story about different uniforms for younger and older girls. She was 12, after all, while most of her class —- she had theorised —- would be eleven.

But she had an inkling about why the skirt was so short. She had hid it from her parents, but there was an extra piece of clothing, that should go under the pleats. A garter belt, of all things.

In fact, it wasn't a real garter, Hermione discovered. While there were stockings packed in her trunk, the thing wasn't made to hold them up, as there was no hooks. Also, instead of the silky material she would expect from her mother's Victoria's Secret catalogues, the garter was made of something akin to fake leather or hard rubber. It was tied at the waist, two strips on each leg, at the front and the back, going down her thighs for four inches. They were tied to a small regulated band per leg, like two smaller belts. After tying the garter around her waist, she would tie each belt around her thighs, holding it in place. The pleated skirt covered it completely, but any overextended movement would expose the thigh belts. Hermione had no idea about the purpose of such piece of clothing, and feared it would serve some lewd role. Nonetheless, she had packed the three pairs in her trunk.

Finally, Daniel parked the car somewhere near King's Cross, and Hermione unfastened her seat belt. With Emma's help, Dan hauled the wooden trunk from the boot, and settled it on the pavement. They locked the car and walked into the station, her father towing the huge casket behind him. Emma fetched a small ticket from her purse, as Hermione couldn't be trusted with such a fragile piece that day.

"Platform 9", announced her, directing the small family to the correct place. The station was bustling with activity, people from all ages running around like headless chickens. A man in a suit almost crashed with Emma, while a squat plump redhead woman chased a pair of boys with a crooked umbrella in her hand. An old man begged for coins near the gate, and Daniel held her hand protectively when they passed him by.

When they laid their eyes on the platform, Hermione started doubting the thing about spies. Daniel barked a laugh, while Emma grinned.

"Well, they sure are scared of us overseeing it", commented her, pointing unnecessarily at the eye-watering red engine puffing steam at the platform. At the front, over the lead light, a golden sign proudly proclaimed Hogwarts Express.

Blushing a little, Hermione noticed every single person passing by the train couldn't help but stare at it. She thanked the stars that the only teens mingling around the platform were wearing normal clothes, instead of short skirts and sexy undergarments. She eyed the small throng of parents and students, looking for the living French doll, Daphne Greengrass. When she was sure there was no perfect golden curls around, she turned back to her parents. There was still about half an hour before the train departure, but she knew they wouldn't wait. Her mother was crying again, and her father had suspicious red-rimmed eyes. Hermione swallowed a sob, and circled her parents with her short arms, pulling them together as if to shove them into her heart. Their warm, loving hands caressed her bushy mane, and they rained kisses on her. Emma was muttering about ninety days, and her father gave a wet kiss on her cheek.

"Have fun", said him. "Go to the parties, root for your school team, gossip with your roommates. And take really, really, really good care of yourself. We'll have a whole turkey just for you this Christmas".

Hermione laughed and sobbed and cried and hugged them. Then she muttered a goodbye, took her wheeled trunk and run into the train, not looking back, for she knew she wouldn't be able to go if she saw their pained faces.

{}

The train was packed already, and she couldn't find an empty compartment. Most of the small rooms with facing seats where full of older teenagers, or with bags and trunks inside, probably to signal a reservation. She walked from car to car, stepping carefully over the joints, while some kids around her age would run, chasing each other while yelling. Hermione rolled her eyes at that, asking herself how boys could be such children most of times. Her trunk got stuck again at some uneven piece of the floor panels, and she almost fell on her behind when she gave an almighty pull to free the wheel.

"May we help you, milady?", came a voice from the compartment to her left. The door was open and an older, redhead boy looked at her with a grin on his face. Behind him, an exact replica waved at her.

"I can't find a compartment", sighed her, trying to keep the trunk upward. It had toppled over three times already, and she cringed when she thought about how her things should be inside it. All that careful packing for nothing.

"Hey, George, I think she's a Firstie", pointed the twin from behind. George, the front twin gave her an ear-splitting grin.

"I think you're right, uglier brother of mine".

Hermione back-stepped, eyeing them frightfully. She had ample experience with older bullies, and while they usually weren't the nastier ones, they sure knew how to humiliate her. She wished she hadn't stopped there, and cursed her goddamn useless trunk.

"You don't need to be afraid, Firstie — Fred, you're scaring her", warned George. "Here, give us your trunk".

They circled her, and she retreated further, but George took her trunk from the bottom, while his twin, Fred, held it by the front. Together, they raised it from the ground and manoeuvred it by the door.

"Firsties like to be at the last car", informed Fred, puffing a little with the weight. "What in God's name you put inside this, Stonehenge?".

She gave him a slight smile.

"Some books, only", the girl said, following them. "I'm Hermione, by the way".

"Well, hello Hermione-By-the-Way, I'm George", said Fred.

"And I'm Fred", completed George. She furrowed her brow at it.

"You guys are trying to pull my leg?", accused the younger girl. "You called him George, before".

"I think she is too smart for us, George", said Fred. "At least for you, dumber brother of mine".

"You are the dumber brother!", rebutted him. "I'm the handsome brother".

"I'm sure I'm the handsome brother!", he raised his eyebrows at her. "Don't you reckon?"

Hermione just laughed at their antics, while they discussed which were their qualities. They seemed nice, something she would be hard pressed to accuse any of her former classmates of. Suddenly they stopped in front of a compartment door, and looked inside.

"Here we are, your very own kingdom, milady", said one of them. They had shifted around at the last door and she couldn't tell one from the other anymore. Hermione took a peek inside the compartment and frowned.

"There is someone there already".

"He's sleeping, I think. Well, our daily good deed is done. See you at Hogwarts, Firstie!".

They disappeared faster than she could blink, and left her alone with a sleeping person in the last compartment of the last car. She was preparing to backtrack when the train started moving, and her trunk hit her painfully at the leg. With no other option, she entered the small room and sled the door closed.

There was an overhead rack to stow her trunk, but she couldn't raise that behemoth above her head, so she sled it under the seat instead. She glanced at her companion before taking the trunk out again, pulling a book from it and closing and stowing it. Hermione took the seat at the window and watched the London skyline as the train steadily increased speed, to the point almost everything was a blur. The low rumble under her feet was comforting, and not a little drowsing, so she couldn't blame her compartment-mate for sleeping so soundly.

He was a boy, she could gather from his heavy army boots. Anything else was covered by a black leather jacket messily tossed over his torso and face. He seemed to be sleeping with his arms crossed over his chest, for she couldn't see even an inch of skin. He was taller than her, but small enough to be around her age. Maybe he was a "Firstie" like her, as the older Twins hadn't recognised him.

Getting the boy out of her mind, Hermione shifted around the bench, her legs over the armrest and her back propped against the train wall, she cracked open her English Literature book and started to read it once again. She had already read that book two times, as she had done with all her schoolbooks. They were pretty advanced, and the girl couldn't bear the thought of falling behind her class. The difficulty just made the challenge sweeter.

But the real wonder were her other books, the one she would use for the hitman classes. One was about self-defence, and the introductory chapters were a delight to read, but as it progressed into forms and falls and punches it had become too difficult to follow, and Hermione couldn't reproduce the positions depicted in the drawings. The Cryptography book was a surprise, and she had tried some of the cyphers presented. They made her feel like a real spy.

The First Aid Procedures book was very similar to her parents' medical books, and didn't look so advanced. There were many chapters about dealing with poisoning and a gruesome illustrated one depicting the best way to stitch up a wound. The massive tome about basic electronics was great, if a little too dry, and then the three heavy books on general culture, music and etiquette were really strange. She couldn't pinpoint the need to study piano and the proper order to eat shark at a agent school.

But the real delight had been the poison book. It was really fascinating, even if she had been scared to death of most of the drawings showing poisoning effects. There were formulae to the basic components of each of the 36 poisons presented, with entire recipes to most of them. She had almost fainted when she had realised those recipes needed most of the ingredients in her chemistry kit, bar for the main ones, vital to create each solution.

Hermione really wanted to read that book again, but was a little scared to show it after so much time hiding them inside other books or reading in the dead of night, using a small flashlight under her duvet. She stuck to the literature text and let her mind dive into the familiar black letters.

Some time latter, a man wearing uniform knocked on the door and asked for her ticket. He punched a hole through it before giving it back, and pointed at the boy still sleeping.

"Your friend?", asked him, but when Hermione denied, he shrugged. "He seems to be on the deep, let him be for now. But if when I come back this evening he isn't up or have a ticket, I'll toss him through the window".

He wasn't smiling when he said it. She gulped and nodded, wishing her mysterious companion would wake up soon. She returned to her book, but couldn't concentrate, so Hermione reclined on her seat, propped her legs over the armrest and watched the people passing by the compartment window. The lazy lull of the train engine worked like a soft lullaby around her, and she dozed off a little bit.

Hermione was jostled from her sleep by a raspy tapping at the door glass. There was a kind plump face at the other side, waving merrily at her. The bushy-haired girl raised from her seat, rotating her shoulders to work a kink on her back from the unkind position she was sleeping in. She sled the door, to find out the plump face was accompanied by a plump body, inside a plum-coloured dress. Hermione let her gaze fall to the ground and, yes, the woman was wearing pumps. She was also pushing a little food car, topped with many foam cups.

"Do you want some food or drinks, my dear?", asked the short woman, smiling so brightly it was impossible not to smile in return. "I have meat, chicken or veggie. Black, herbal or mild tea. Soda, grape or orange juice… Tapioca pudding or icicles. Also, some sandwiches, but those are store-bought, I fear".

"Chicken, please", ordered the girl. "Do you have Coke?".

"Is Pepsi okay?".

Hermione frowned.

"I'll have orange juice, then. Do you have some kind of thermal bottle for me to keep the tea for later?".

"I'll put a lid on one of those foam cups and it'll keep your tea warm for the entire trip. Black?".

Hermione choose the herbal tea and declined the icicles. The cart lady gave her a warm packet with her lunch and a cold can of juice. While the woman filled a cup with tea, the bushy-haired girl glanced at her still asleep companion. Honestly, it was becoming a little ridiculous, how could he sleep through all that racket?

"Does your friend want anything?", asked the woman, giving her the tea. Hermione glanced again at him. "He must be really tired to sleep so deep like this".

Thinking it was probably true and feeling a little ashamed for being so judgemental against the still unknown boy, Hermione sighed and bought the cheapest sandwich the cart had, for when he woke up. Paying for her fare, she bade goodbye to the lady and closed the door again, taking her seat and opening the packet.

It didn't have much taste, like all train food, but she did had a small breakfast. Just putting the first forkful of chicken in her mouth Hermione realised how hungry she was. After wolfing down her lunch and draining her juice, she felt sleepy again. Deciding against napping, Hermione sled her trunk again from under her seat and took her uniform. After leaving the cucumber sandwich on his seat, taking care not to wake up the boy, she exited the compartment and went into the car's loo.

It was really cramped, but at least it was clean. After taking care of her ablutions, including brushing her teeth (she was the daughter of dentists, after all), the girl peeled her clothes off and quickly dressed into the black uniform. She opted by using the blazer over the blouse, and took good care in making a perfect knot with her tie. The skirt was as short as she remembered, and Hermione pulled it down her legs the most she could, even if the band of her panties was showing under the blouse. At least she wouldn't be flashing her goods every time she moved. A little overly-conscious, she fastened the strange garter belt under the skirt. The little bands wrapped around her thighs were unexpectedly easy to move with, but she wouldn't be dancing ballet using that anytime soon. It looked as if it would rip if she raised her leg too much. Socks and Mary Janes later, she exited the washroom and returned to her compartment, feeling a little disappointed when she saw the boy was still sleeping.

She had been reading a short novel and sipping on her tea when the door rudely sled open, and a blond boy sneered at her. Hermione had never seen a person so pale before, and she would be hard pressed to point a boy with such an well groomed hairdo. It looked as if he had dived head-first into pool of Vaseline, then had a cow lick his hair. She was sure not even a strand would move if she shoved his head out the train. It was a very mean thought to have, but Hermione couldn't control herself. And the way he looked at her was too similar to her old bullies for her comfort.

"I've heard Harry Potter is in the train", informed the boy, with a very whiny voice, in such a over the top pampered prince way that Hermione had to swallow hard or else she would burst laughing. "This is the last compartment, is he here?".

Harry Potter had a nice catch to it, Hermione thought absentmindedly, like a protagonist in an adventure book. It would be nice if her mysterious companion had a name like that, but she decided this blond was very annoying, so she just shrugged. The boy's sneer became even more prominent. He stepped into the compartment, and Hermione saw two other boys behind him, big and bulky, with stupid round faces and hands big enough to squeeze her head in. They looked more like the boy's bodyguards than his friends.

"Lost your tongue, little girl?", taunted him. "What's your name?".

"Don't you know you sh-should give your name first?", asked Hermione. Her voice was almost hauntingly, but she stuttered at the middle, when the bodyguards stepped in too. The boy looked at her with open disgust.

"You don't know who I am?", asked him rhetorically, at least Hermione supposed so. "You must be a civilian if you don't recognise Draco Malfoy".

Hermione learnt two things with that statement. First, the word "civilian" was pejorative when one of her future classmates said it. Second, after the big red train and this boy's name, these agents were too flashy to be taking it seriously. Really? Draco? What a scam. She wanted her parent's money back.

"And don't even bother saying your name", rolled Draco on, his exaggerated sneer contorting his whole face. "Your bitchy voice grates on my nerves".

Hermione bristled at that, but a single glance from the towering bodyguards made her coil back into her seat. She felt shame reddening her face, and swallowed a pained sob. There were bullies everywhere, she realised, and now she was completely alone against them. Unconcerned with her plight, Draco got closer to the still sleeping boy.

"And you, wake up and face you betters. I sure hope you're Harry Potter, or else I'll hand you a nice beating for ignoring me", he extended his arm to grab the jacket hiding the boy.

Hermione didn't know it then, but one of her objectives for the following years would be copying that move. It was like seeing a snake lunge at an unsuspecting victim. The boy's hand flew from under the jacked and gripped the blond's wrist, pulling him forward and toppling him over the now awake boy. Mid-toppling, the boy rotated them, tossing the jacket aside, the blond's back hit the seat where his assailant was resting before, his caught hand raised pointing to the ceiling and a gun under his chin.

The young girl could finally look at her companion's face, and her first thought was that he was cute. Cursing her budding teenager hormones and blushing at her traitorous mind not accessing the situation properly, she sat frozen in place, scared out of her mind, while the cute boy threatened the blond with his weapon. She couldn't help but look at him again.

He was taller than her, that was obvious even when he was crouched over Draco. He had very strong arms for a boy his age, she could tell it because he was wearing a very snugly black T-shirt. He was also wearing the black uniform trousers and she had already seem his army boots. But his face was even cuter than his strong body: he had a shaggy mop of hair, darker than black, fashionably messed up, over a aristocratic nose, slightly thin lips and smooth cheeks, on a little bit squarish face. But the most attractive feature of his were his eyes: the greenest eyes she had ever seem, a deep forest green sharp enough to cut steel. However, for all his roguish beauty, Hermione couldn't help but to be scared of him.

First, he was pointing a gun to someone he - she supposed - never had met before. Second, his face was totally devoid of emotion. His eyes were dangerous, like of a predator, but his schooled features hid his emotions. For all of his expression, he could be strolling in the park, instead of using violence against someone who wanted to uncover him.

"And", he said, in a child voice very unsettling when he spoke in such a monotone. "Who might you be?".

Draco was paler. If that was possible. He also frantically hand-signalled to his bodyguards to stay put. His gaze was locked at the gun, even if it was below his chin, giving him what would be a very funny expression, if the situation wouldn't be so serious. He had to lick his dry lips before he could answer.

"Draco Malfoy", his voice was cracking, but it seemed as if he gained some momentum, and for the first time he looked directly at his assailant. "And if you don't release me now, my Father will hear all about it! You will be expelled and on your way home before you can say 'sorry'".

"An expulsion won't resurrect you, Malfoy", maybe was the way he said it, as if commenting the weather, that scared Hermione more than the words themselves.

"Please", she whispered, trying to be absorbed by the seat cushion. Hermione herself would be hard pressed to answer exactly what she was pleading to, but nonetheless it seemed to take effect.

The dark-haired boy stood up, his gun disappearing with a fluid movement too fast for the eyes. Draco shot up, making a break to the door. Outside, he tried to turn and glare at them, but the other boy simply closed the door at his face, turning the lock. Draco seemed to want to shout at them through the door glass, but thought better and stalked away, leading his bodyguards. The boy turned his cold gaze at Hermione.

"You know him?", asked him, his voice even as it seemed like it was the only tone he possessed. Hermione shook her head. She swallowed, and her voice was low and cracking when she expanded her answer.

"He simply barged in, searching for someone named Harry Potter", explained her. Gaining a little bit of confidence, she asked the question she wanted since he had woke up. "Are you?".

"Yes", he said, taking the seat right in front of her. He moved with a fluid grace, as if every movement was calculated. She only knew another person who walked like that.

"Are you a soldier?", the girl asked before she could even think. She blushed after that. Harry didn't show any emotion at her question.

"I've been trained as one since birth", he answered. "But I'm not affiliated to any detachment".

Hermione nodded, a little awed at it. Her father had been part of the Army for eight years. Even if he had left way before she was even born, he never stopped training, normally by running in the mornings and lifting weights in the basement. When she was little, she tried to imitate his walking style, enchanted by the fluid way he would pick her up to cuddle, or the subtle movements he would do while cooking breakfast. She never could do it properly, but Harry did.

The bushy-haired girl reached for the small bundle at her side, and offered it to him.

"Here, I bought you sandwiches. I thought you'd be hungry when you woke up", she said. He took it from her, their fingers brushing ever so lightly, but Hermione learnt his skin was very warm.

His expression was blank, but Hermione searched and found the most slightly furrow right between his eyebrows. She tentatively attached the label of confusion at this micro-expression. She tried to enlighten him a little more.

"I kind of took over your compartment without asking, so I thought about buying you lunch to make up for it", she noticed his micro-expression became a little bit lighter, and she interpreted it as he now knew the reason behind her actions, but still couldn't fully comprehend why she even bothered. The girl couldn't blame him, even she didn't know the reason.

He unwrapped the two triangles of white bread and munched slowly, his face as blank as before. The only thing Hermione could gather from it was that he had good table manners. He slightly unassembled the half-eaten sandwich and took one green slice, putting it in his mind and chewing carefully. He placed his late lunch on his lap and took a tiny battered notebook from the pocket of his jacket, along with a short pencil.

"What's the name of this?", he asked, pointing at the partially unwrapped packet.

"Well, it was a cucumber sandwich", she said, bewildered. Her eyebrows disappeared under her bushy hair when he noted down something and turned back at her, picking the food. His face still schooled.

"I don't like cucumber", he informed, taking another bite. Hermione stared at him for a moment.

"You… You just took note you don't like cucumber?", she asked, glancing furtively at the door. Could she make a run for it, before he caught her? Well, the point was moot, the girl remembered, he had a gun.

"I'm writing a list of things I don't like", he said, finishing the first sandwich and starting on the other. "My Commander instructed me that being picky with food would be beneficial".

"And you never had cucumber before?", she almost let slide the insane comment about a soldier ordering a boy to be picky. It was too asinine for her to completely comprehend at that moment.

"I was raised in Australia", he said. "At a very small base. We didn't have many food options".

"You don't have an Australian accent", Hermione baited him, trying to pry more information about this strange Harry Potter boy. He stared blankly at her, finishing his food and turning the plastic wrapping into a tight ball, promptly shoving it in his pocket.

"It must have been difficult to acclimate with the weather when you returned", she tried again, but he just continued to stare at her. The girl was becoming unnerved.

"So", she sighed. "If you have a list of things you don't like, what's on the list of things you like?".

Harry took the notebook from his pocket again, and opened it. His head was pending to the left by a fraction of millimetre, something Hermione conjectured was a sign of deep thinking.

"I decided not to write down things I merely don't have feelings against", it was very hard to attach the word "feelings" to Harry Potter, for all his blank expressions and monotone showed. "So I just noted the things I really like. And for now I have… Treacle Tart".

"Treacle Tart", parroted Hermione, too out of her league to be concerned anymore. "Never had it, myself. Is it really that good?".

"I only ate it once, at the farewell party back at the base. Not too sweet, but not too sour. I hope we have it tonight at the Feast".

He didn't sound as if he was hoping for something. He said it at the same tone he had threatened Malfoy before - i.e. no tone at all. Hermione caught something interesting from his last line.

"There will be a Feast?", the folder said nothing about that night, except she would be "sorted" into a Group. She was hoping for a hearty dinner, but a real Feast?

"Hogwarts offers a Welcome Feast on the first night, a Halloween Feast, an Yule Feast on the 25th, the Easter Feast and the End-of-Team Feast, uniforms are obligatory during attendance", rattled him, still monotone. "Speaking of it, I need to change".

Hermione saw him stand up, and thought about offering him help to take his trunk from the overhead rack, but Harry simply held the strap and manoeuvred it down, the muscles of his arms bulging and moving under the skin. Hermione felt a blush covering her cheeks. He took a shirt, necktie and blazer from it. Then, he promptly took his T-shirt off.

The girl made a little "eep" sound, but he paid her no mind. He had the most delicious abs an eleven-year-old boy could - shouldn't! - have. He had a fine scar from right above his heart running down to a few inches to the left of his navel. When he turned to button up the shirt and take the tie, she glanced at his very muscular back, with wide shoulders. Most of Hermione's mind was in overdrive, shouting at how completely inappropriate it was for a boy to change in front of a girl, and how she should get the hell out of that compartment. A tiny portion of her brain, however, was very pleased to note down the sudden discovery that Hermione digs muscles.

When she recovered from her stupor, it was dark outside, and the train seemed to be reducing the speed. Hermione remembered something she had wanted to ask him since the altercation with the Malfoy boy.

"Harry", she called, and saw he was placing his trunk besides his seat. She recalled the letter instructed her to leave her things in the compartment. The staff would pick everything up and place at her dorm. "Were you faking to sleep when Malfoy approached you?".

"I felt his presence near me and I woke up when he extended his arm", he told her. She frowned.

"And why didn't you feel my own presence when I entered the compartment, or when I placed the sandwiches near you before I went out to change?".

He looked blankly at her, and she thought he would once again refuse to answer.

"In 1859, Thomas Austin released 24 rabbits in Australia. After an year, there were more than one million rabbits there. Do you know why?".

She was dazed by the non sequitur, but answered to her best nonetheless.

"Lack of predators, abundance of food and fast reproduction rates?".

"In part", Harry conceded. "But Australia is full of predators and very unforgiving. No, the rabbits could reproduce so much because they were very small, unassuming and easily forgotten for their harmlessness".

"And how does this answer my question?".

Harry's mouth raised slightly upward. She was floored by the feeling that that was his way of smirking.

"Your presence revels you are more harmless than those rabbits".

The train stopped, and Harry sled the door open, going through it. Bewildered, offended, perturbed and surprised, Hermione followed after him.

A.N. I feel like apologising once again for my tardiness to deliver the chapter. Unfortunately, my workplace is a huge mess with something called data migration. If you know the meaning of these words, you can feel the dread and pain I'm suffering through. However, I can already see some free hours on the horizon for me, and hope to release maybe two chapters a week in December to speed up the story.

Once again, I want to thank you all who reviewed the story, and lent me your suggestions, opinions and impressions. Hope you guys liked this one and see you next chapter!