Hermione Granger had already started her summer reading when a certain enigmatic envelope arrived by owl at her door, and the eleven-year-old seventh-grader didn't care to desert Yossarian quite yet. She had dragged the novel out of a world she knew and straight into another she never even knew existed.
Though her cajoling—yet understandably overwhelmed—parents had insisted upon purchasing robes first, Hermione was indignant that, in a newly discovered world of infinite potential and unfathomably complex magic, her first order of business was something as mundane as shopping for clothing. Upon finishing another chapter, Hermione sighed, finally conceding to the crick and her neck, and, with her parents permission, beginning to browse through Madame Malkin's shop. She grinned periodically at floor-length robes and pointy black hats, wondering vaguely, and not for the first time, if this was a trap, a joke, a trick. Hermione Granger, however, was not one to be tricked. She had researched Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which appeared to be not only authentic, but also highly revered.
Lost in her ruminations, Hermione found herself slightly startled upon reaching the end of the clothing rack and coming face-to-face with a tall, pale boy. "Hogwarts?" she guessed, smiling tentatively. He nodded, aloof, and returned her smile with a smirk, which quickly settled into a more pleasant expression when his eyes stopped on the novel she clutched.
"Yossarian," he noted, gauging her reaction, "is far too impulsive to expect reprieve from duty." Hermione was enchanted. How many eleven-year-olds knew of Yossarian's plight? They conversed, testing one another in an unspoken but good-natured battle of wits. He allowed an impressed nod each time she defused one of his puns, and she openly marveled at the ease with which he dissected each of her literary allusions. Only the last—Anais Nin—eluded him. As her parents called her back to be fitted, she waved goodbye to the boy.
"My name's Draco Malfoy," he said as she left.
"Mine's Hermione. Hermione Granger." He blinked at her last name. Then, with frightening immediacy, something in his eyes shut down. The playful, intelligent silver froze into a hard, impenetrable sheet of cold grey—aesthetically imperceptible, but infinitely apparent to Hermione.
"I'll see you at Hogwarts, then?"
He did not respond.