A fair warning: mature and, sometimes, violent themes inside.

If you would be so kind to leave a review or two (or more!), you'll make my day. CC welcome.

Harry Potter, its characters and story belong to JKR.

Enjoy.

The last train of the day rumbled through the station, raindrops steadily pattering against its frame. A dreary drizzle had dominated the evening, slowly and methodically eroding any good spirits that Hermione had woken up with in the morning. She detested this weather; neither heavy rain nor sun, just a wet dull blanket that muffled sounds and made her untamable hair all the more frizzy.

Hermione leaned her forehead against the window, breathed out, fogging the glass, and traced her fingers along the cool plane. Outside, the world was a kaleidoscope of gray, black and, sometimes, a blurry neon halo from the sign of a shop or bar that was still open. People - the few that were still out in this dismal weather - were just eerie shadows with no substance and no meaning. She would glimpse their outlines, and they would disappear into the mist and the rain. She wondered who they were, and what reasons caused them to brave the bleakness of the outdoors. She wondered what their stories were, what they were thinking about, or if they saw her, a vague and lonely shape in a train's window, and whether the same thoughts plagued them.

Hermione sighed. Her mind wandered these past days, taking her down trails of meandering thoughts. On good days, she ended up with visions of strange and wonderful places: glimpses of a majestic castle and people flying (flying!) on brooms, of smiling and laughing faces that seemed so familiar (though they were not), of library stacks filled with the most wondrous books... Despite the disturbing absurdity of these images, they never failed to make Hermione smile; and smiles were a rare commodity these days.

The train jolted and slowed to a stop. There weren't many passengers at this hour; in fact, she was sharing the car with only several other people. Two of them - an elderly couple burdened with shopping bags - stood up to leave. That left her and only one other: a young man with pale blond hair, dressed in a finely pressed suit underneath some sort of cloak and a pair of polished dress shoes. He looked distinctly out of place in this dilapidated train car scoured with graffiti and litter. Hermione had noticed him glancing at her periodically throughout the journey. At first, she thought he was just checking her out, which (much to her chagrin) was unusual enough to raise her suspicions. However, his gaze was more than just an idle appraisal; there was a certain arrogance in it, a kind of egocentric superiority that made her bristle with indignity. An unmistakable smugness crossed his features when she caught him staring at her once again, causing her to scowl in disgust and turn back to the window.

From that moment on, she refused to acknowledge him, and chained her gaze to the foggy glass, pondering the uncertainty that her life had become.

The trouble with that was she didn't have much to process. Her life - or what she remembered of it - began three months ago at a Moscow airport. She'd woken up in a daze in one of the terminal buildings, confused, disoriented, with a pounding headache. All she had was a purse, which contained a boarding ticket for a plane headed to Heathrow, a passport, some aspirin, and a wad of cash; rubles mixed in with pounds and euros. That particular mess had irked her to no end; why couldn't the cash have been separate and organized? It was improper.

The aspirin had alleviated her headache somewhat, and then the boarding process for her plane had begun.

Later, she would analyze her behavior, finding it remarkably odd. Without a single question as to her situation, she boarded the plane, handing her ticket to the smiling attendant at the gate, sat in her seat and proceeded to mindlessly stare out the window until the plane was halfway to London.

Then she realized she couldn't even recall her own name.

The months that followed were filled with nightmarish bureaucratic efforts of tracing her identity. Despite the availability of a name (Hermione Smith, her passport stated) they were, as of yet, unsuccessful. In the meantime, she had found a job with a meagre paycheck, and a small flat to spend the nights at. It was empty - just the bare essentials, just like her life. She didn't bother purchasing anything of value; she hoped - prayed - that there wouldn't be a reason to. That she would wake up one glorious morning, with her memory intact, surrounded by missed friends and loved ones.

Currently, her morning routine began with quarreling neighbors, whose arguments were more than easy to hear through the flimsy walls.

An unintelligible garble from the train's intercom brought her back to the present. Her stop was approaching, and the rain outside seemed to be intensifying as great bouts of thunder heralded an approaching deluge. An unwelcome development. Her flat was several blocks from the station; her umbrella left at home, forgotten in the morning. She sighed. Maybe she could wait out the storm at the station?

But she didn't have to worry about the weather for long. Mirroring her actions, the blond had risen from his seat, and, with a self-satisfied smirk aimed at specifically at her (she was sure of that), sauntered over to the exit.

A shiver of apprehension crawled down her spine.

The bloke looked too posh to be truly dangerous, but one could never be sure these days. There had been a drastic spike in crime over the past several years. Murders, rapes and burglaries became a common topic on the weekly news. Sometimes, whole families would disappear without a trace; sometimes, their mangled remains would turn up several weeks later.

A lone woman this late at night was an easy target.

The doors opened, and she hurried through them, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. The blond had followed her. It was doubtful he lived here; his clothes screamed of wealth, and this neighborhood housed the working class and families down on their luck. She lengthened her steps, dipping one hand into her purse, grasping a can of pepper spray.

"Granger!" The man's voice carried over the hammering rain, echoing in the grungy corridor.

Granger. She stumbled to a stop. That word, no, it was a name… it sounded so familiar, but before she could reason out why, the blond had caught up to her, grabbed her by the shoulder, and faced her with angry scowl.

"Granger," he growled again. "Don't even want to acknowledge me? Am I that beneath you now, or do you simply not care? Or did you actually believe that I wouldn't recognize you on the train? You've changed your hair a bit, sure, but I'd have to be daft to not realize who you are. And, and - what? You think I won't tell Potter I saw you? You know how much fucking trouble they've put everyone through, looking for you? Raiding parties of aurors have been hauling everyone in, interrogating, and I had to sit for 5 hours under veritaserum with two wankers asking about all my private shit. And hell, here you are, not a care in the fucking world, riding a goddamn muggle train."

She stared into his stormy eyes, soaking in the monologue. Potter. Muggle. Aurors. Those words were like ringing bells, whispering an obscure yet familiar harmony in the recesses of her mind. She knew those words; she shouldn't, no dictionary or thesaurus carried them, but she did! And this man, this impeccably dressed, angry git of a man knew her! Never had she been more confident in anything else. For obviously, he must, for his speech to make any sense whatsoever. The alternative was that they were both crazy, and, after briefly indulging in the fear that she was descending into mutual insanity with a complete stranger, she discarded the idea.

"Granger!" The man was shaking her shoulder. She stared back at him, hope blooming in her chest. He said someone was looking for her. Someone cared. The confirmation of her deepest desires was so overwhelming, that for several moments she couldn't even breathe. Something trickled down her cheek. Maybe it was just spray from the rain.

"Are you deaf? Why are you crying? Have you finally succumbed to muggle disease?"

Her world had been shaken to its very core, and the man hadn't even paused in his tirade. Then, in a very condescending gesture, he snapped his fingers several times in front of her nose.

That did the trick.

"You slimy, sleazy, filthy ferret," she exclaimed, pushing him back. "Get your grubby paws out of my face!" She honestly had no idea where the ferret reference had come from, but it felt right. Also, it shut him up. That felt good. "You do not," she continued, "wave your fists and yell at me!"

Among the many things she didn't know (or couldn't remember) was why she felt such a profound antagonism towards this young man. Then again, he had publicly accosted her, so was she really to blame? Even the fact that he might hold the keys to her memories couldn't prevent an emotional outlash.

"And I'm not," she added, quickly but conspicuously wiping the moisture from her face, "crying. I'm just assaulted by the sights of you. It's honestly painful."

Unconsciously, she raised a hand to rub the spot on her arm, where the hideous scar lay, covered by the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. It was fall now, but even in the summer, she had taken to wearing long sleeve shirts and blouses. No matter how hard she tried to hide it however, the scar was ever-present in her mind, and no amount of layers could conceal the disfigurement she bore. Mudblood, it said, literally written in skin. Another mystery of her past, one that caused her to shudder from a foul clenching feeling in the bottom of her gut every time she looked upon it. Sometimes, a fire burned over the inscription, and she would cry out, suffering from the ghost of a tragedy she couldn't even remember. Now, she traced her fingers in a soothing circle over that spot, and noticed how the man's eyes widened for a fraction of a second and a guilty look flickered over his features.

Suddenly, all her anger vanished, replaced by a kind of weary exhaustion. The roller coaster of emotions had been ridden; adrenaline so present a moment before now dissipated into nothing.

"Look, Granger," he said gruffly, "I don't know why you're hiding out here, but your disappearance sparked a lot of unrest. You could have at least told Potter and Weas-"

"Wait," she said, interrupting him, "I'm… can we not talk here? My flat's a few minutes away. Do you have an umbrella?"

His response was to stare at her, perplexed.

"Yes," he finally responded and removed a fold up umbrella from the insides of his cloak. "Shall we then?"

A rumble of thunder echoed his words.