Dear Hermione,

I know I haven't been writing to you for the past few weeks. I hope I can explain it to you when you come over to the Burrow for Thanksgiving. Please come. My mother is begging you to join us. Harry's missing you too. I still love you.

Your best pal,

Ron

Crushing the letter in her hand, Hermione resumed her careless examination of the blurring scenery outside the speeding train. Again, her mind drifted lucidly, finally fixing on her favourite (yet arguably the most debatable) topic: Ron Weasley.

After the war, Ron and Harry had left her to her studies at Hogwarts while they enrolled themselves into the Auror department for training. During that time, she continued her relationship with Ron, even to a point where it flourished beyond expectations. It was then she took the initiative and said three words of utmost importance to him. He said it back, mumbling a little. That night, he made love to her.

However, over the months, their relationship grew steadily estranged and distant. Ron was stuck at Auror training while Hermione kept herself busy attaching herself to the Department of Magical Law and Enforcement, working on policies and schemes that might eventually improve the status of house elves. But that was another worry.

Their letters were short; his handwriting a mere scrawl. Soon, Hermione found little need to reply such measly short letters, hence, she stopped. Initially, he wrote back, demanding her reply, but she retorted, displaying her fury. That was a few months back, right before she left for Paris.

Going back to Britain after her long break was an utter relief. The Ministry banned Apparitions across country borders; hence, there was a necessity of taking the train back.

Sighing, she took her mind off Ron and looked across the seat. Apparently, she had to share the compartment with a stranger.

The man seating opposite looked about thirty. He had a scruffy looking beard and thick short hair. His clothes were as messy as his features; for he donned a flannel shirt and a pair of greying jeans.

Suddenly, he tilted his head up, tearing his eyes away from his book and glared at her.

"What're you looking at?" he growled.

"Well, it's none of your business," Hermione snapped back, folding her arms.

"Then stop looking at me."

"Fine, it's not as if you're the most attractive guy anyway."



"Hey, wait a minute. Aren't you Hermione Granger?"

"Yes, do you want my autograph?" Hermione said sarcastically, rolling her eyes with apparent ease. She frowned at him. However, he smiled unbashful of his rudeness earlier. He held out his hand for her to shake, but she didn't it. Instead, she continued her intense stare.

"You're harsh," the man chuckled, "Anyway, I'm Neville."

"Neville?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Oh, it's just that, err, I have a friend named Neville too. But it doesn't matter. I'm really sorry."

"I guess it's alright. It must be pretty boring sitting here all by yourself. I thought you might need some company."

"Probably, I know it seems like too much; I hope I'm not bothering you or anything. Where're you going anyway?"

"Back to me hometown, Essex. And you?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"I saw you crushed that piece of paper," he said, tentatively, pointing at the ball of paper in her hand. Hermione glanced downward at the letter she clutched in her hand, bit her lip and shoved it into the pocket of her jeans. "I bet that has something to do with your destination."

"It's nothing. If I told you, you probably wouldn't be interested in –

"I think I'd like to hear your story, I'd liked that very much," he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes glistened with enthusiasm. His pink lips curved into a soft smile. Before she spoke, he ruffled his hair in a boyish manner, which reminded her of Ron for some strange reason.

Hermione began to narrate a tediously long story on Ron and her, leaving out his name, of course. Slowly, she felt relaxed. The heavy burden on her chest gradually lifted. Soon she found herself earnestly chatting with the stranger. He hooked onto every single word that came dribbling out of her mouth.

"I'd expect we should be reaching soon," said Hermione, checking her watch. "It's been really fun talking to you."

"I guess so," Neville muttered, looking uneasy. He shifted position on his seat, looking positively uncomfortable. The train gave a sudden jerk as it decelerated. "We're stopping now."

"Yeah, I know," she whispered, looking out the window as the image of the train station came into view. When she turned back, she found Neville beside her, inching closer to her face. "Neville, stop," she 

gasped, placing a hand on his flushed cheek. His lips grazed upon hers gently. "Neville, please, stop." Merlin, if only she could take it back, she thought. Even so, he captured her lips with his and kissed her.

The train gave another involuntary jerk; Neville's hand immediately held onto her waist to prevent her from falling off her seat. But she didn't bother to shrug it off, for she was too busy enjoying the sensations he was giving her. Slowly, she snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her chest.

"Oh, Neville, please," Hermione whispered into the kiss. Finally, she pushed him away, panting under her breath. It was also then she realised the train had completely stopped for she heard the faint shuffle of people getting their luggage and alighting the train.

"God, Hermione! That was bloody amazing!"

"Yes, yes, I –

"Hey, who's that outside the train? That guy with the red hair?"