The sunlight of early afternoon blazed down on the scarlet train, flooding the carriages and the compartments that lined them with light. To anyone looking in, this particular compartment held a serene image: a young witch in her Hogwarts robes already, alone in the near silence with a book.

Hermione Granger tucked her feet neatly beneath herself on the periwinkle seat. A heavy textbook- Hogwarts: A History- was open on her knees, but it was her hand she was focused on. The sunlight caught on the silver of the ring, recasting the black dragons in a brutal shade of gunmetal. But if she tilted it just right, she could return it to the original design, the one she'd memorised since that fateful day three years ago. Twin dragons wrapped around her finger, the tails whirling together and binding the thing to her left ring finger- an engagement ring on the hand of an almost-twelve-year-old girl. The insignia was unique; a silver M on a green and black shield, held aloft by matching black dragons and topped by serpents. Though she couldn't make out the tiny engraved message on the crest, she knew what it said, having read it in a book: sanctimonia vincet semper. 'Honour always overcomes'. It was a beautiful design, really.

So why did the sight of it fill her with a sense of dread?

Hermione was a clever girl. She'd always been exceedingly bright, more so than her peers. This gave her a home on the outside of everything, where she could read instead of listening to people get things wrong, only to refuse to fix it. When she'd been told, almost-age-nine, that she was a witch, she'd been sceptical. Oh, she'd wanted it to be true, there was no doubt about that- any reason for her unusualness would be wonderful, after all. But the information that she was a witch-explained by some hideous woman with a face like a toad in a condescending, sugary sweet tone that had her wondering how her teeth hadn't rotted away during the explanation-came with no evidence, so she had continued to doubt it.

Until the lunch meeting.

She'd been reading Jane Eyre at the time, she remembered it because grandma Jean had given it to her following grandpa's first heart attack. Her mother, Monica, had been erratic and uncertain but had taken her to the lunch nonetheless. "Oh, all the other girls are wearing such nice dresses."

"I like my uniform, mum. And I'm going back to school after this. Getting dressed up would be pointless."

Monica had sighed, but smiled nonetheless, bending down to kiss her forehead. "That's my Hermione."

Hermione had retreated from the rest of the so-called 'muggle-born' 'witches' with the intention of reading, but something stopped her from opening the book. That something was a sudden pop coming from the middle of the room.

A blonde woman and her son had appeared out of nowhere, looking not at all ruffled by the experience and forcing Hermione to accept the idea of magic on the spot. The bushy-haired girl stared curiously at the pair: the woman's expression was one of disgust, but only, Hermione had noted, when she looked towards the 'muggles'. The rest of the lunch had been a blur, memories lost to Hermione as she blocked the room out to focus on her book. It wasn't until she felt someone's eyes settle on her that she looked up at all, though it was through her hair so he couldn't see that he had her attention.

And then he spoke. I want that one. As though she were a toy in a shop.

The ring had been just one of the things that followed, the boy himself sliding it onto her finger as he followed the instructions given later, by a man too dark to be his father. Malfoy, the boy said, Draco Malfoy. And this marks you as mine. There was no mention that he was hers, or that she would have a choice. Both her parents had looked on with something like pity in their gaze. And that was that; she hadn't seen the pasty boy since the ritual.

Hermione turned the ring on her finger, hiding the crest. She didn't try to pull it; she already knew it wouldn't come off. It was like a tiny handcuff, another reason for her friends to mock her. If she'd had any, that is. Her closest friends were the books she'd been given by family, and the ones she bought herself. And the ones the Malfoy family sent her, of course, via owl post. That was the one benefit of being constantly monitored under the terms of a contract she'd had barely any input in: they'd never allow their child's future wife to want for anything. No, that would be cruel.

She laughed to herself and straightened the ring, curling her fingers around the pages of her favourite book. "Yes, because meeting a person once tells you everything they intend to do to you. Very clever, Hermione Jean, very clever."

Her words were the only sound in the carriage, as alone as she was. She pretended not to notice as she began to read. The book, after all, was her closest friend-and people stayed with their friends. No matter what.

✦

In a different compartment of the same carriage on the same train, sparks flew from the wands of laughing purebloods. They were children proud to own their own wands and, for the first time ever, not be compelled to 'borrow' those of their parents. Draco rolled his eyes and leant back in his seat, glancing out the window. He tried to focus on the view of the countryside as it flashed past. It was an uphill battle-one he wasn't about to win.

Finally, fed up with the sparks, he rose from his seat and breezed past them, heading out into the hall, where he sighed and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Considering that it wasn't summer any more, it was incredibly hot. Or maybe he just wasn't used to the heavy black robes. Turning around to press his back against the wall, he unfolded the letter he'd been unfolding and refolding since he'd left his mum at the platform.

It was habit that had him reading it, again and again. He always did; at first because Narcissa insisted, later because it was something to do. And- as long as Lucius wasn't around-he admitted that he wanted to know what she was like. Since meeting her was out of the question- his father had put his foot down the first chance he had- the impersonal reports were how he knew her. Lists of books and achievements, mostly. No parties except things with family-and even then she apparently sat separate to everyone else. He grimaced at the page; did I pick the most boring girl possible?

A quick scan over the list told him no, he had not. For one thing, she had reread Hogwarts: A History more than any other book, which pleased him- perhaps they would have something in common, other than a liking for knowledge and an intense loneliness. Draco kept his own personal copy of the text somewhere no one else would look for it: tucked into his bedside table, or slipped beneath the pillow. Lucius would have been horrified with his sons' attempt to bond across untold distances with the muggle-born he'd again, the adult wizard barely bothered trying to understand his son any more, especially since he'd been forced to sign away the good Malfoy name to some 'filthy mudblood brat'.

Draco was more concerned with the list of her books, which filed through a long compilation of muggle titles he'd never heard of. He had eventually decided to look them up on the computer his father had begrudgingly purchased when the Ministry began to adapt to muggle technology, which had only lead to more confusion- the search for information, not the use of the computer. He liked to think he was quite good at that.

A fat boy with filthy blond hair peeked out from a different compartment, pale and with a concerned expression similar to the one that Narcissa had worn for days before he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express. "Who're you supposed to be?"

"Neville," he said miserably. "I can't find my toad."

"You have a pet toad?" Draco, a spoiled boy who had had everything from a pet peacock to a puffskein in the last two years alone, grimaced in distaste. No one who was anyone had a pet toad.

"It was a gift," he moaned defensively, "and I need to find him before we get off the train."

"Whatever. I may as well help."

"Really?"

"Don't make me regret this," Draco said, and bypassed the compartment he had escaped from. "Is there a toad in here?"

"No, I think I'd have noticed a toad. Why do you ask?"

Draco didn't answer, staring at her. The bushy hair was a dead giveaway, though the uniform was different. If he'd had any doubt, the ring glinting against the cover of the book was proof. "You start Hogwarts this year? Really?"

"I am eleven, the proper age to start since the founding era in-" she retorted indignantly, looking up and cutting herself off mid-sentence. "Oh."

"That's all you have to say? 'Oh'?"

"What am I supposed to say? That I'm pleased to see you? Draco Malfoy, I know less about you than I do football. And I really don't like football."

"Then you have the disadvantage, Hermione Granger. I've learned a lot about you."

"Like what?"

"You read a lot."

"Oh, very clever."

"I'm not finished. Your favourite book is Hogwarts: A History, which you've read over a dozen times since you first got a copy after the last time we met. You read all the books I send to you." He was smug about this. "Good. You need to know as much about my world as I do."

"Your world?"

"Yes. Magic is in my blood, and my parents give me anything I want. My world."

"Including me." Had Draco been more experienced, he might have noticed that her tone wasn't pleased. It wasn't even understanding, just flat-Hermione was not impressed.

"Yes, including you."

"Oh, well. Since you see it like that, I'm sure my opinion doesn't matter."

He flinched at the tone, but didn't understand. No one had ever been outright displeased to meet him before.

"Is Trevor in there?" Neville's voice startled the boy in the doorway, though he hid his jumpiness in a backwards glance. He did not hide his instinctive glare.

"Who?"

"My toad. You were helping me find him, weren't you?"

"Oh. Yes. Sure, Neville."

Hermione snapped her book shut. "I'll help you look," she told him, refusing to meet Draco's eyes as she pushed past him. "He's bound to be around somewhere."

Draco had never expected that he would be snubbed so badly and so obviously, especially not by someone with less than him. It was incredibly unnerving.

It was also kind of attractive, not that he would admit it until much later.