I don't own Harry Potter!

Yona's POV:

A prince should always arrive on time. It's a fact I've often contemplated—scribbled in the masses of storyboards and drawings that made my job mine. Hair artfully waving in the wind amidst a breathtaking background of green and gold, silver and endless skies, and the grains of a broomstick front in center.

Too bad I did not believe in what I wrote. It would do well for people to think before acting—after all, Prince Charming is not someone to remain idle. Prat was probably stumbling around lost in his own head or trousers, tripping over his sword, and being kicked by his white horse. Putting Fairytales in mind, I knew that the bad guy and Prince Charming weren't far apart in character. They could be one in the same person.

"Who is he?" My five-year-old daughter asked me without words—her conversation spouted via sign language directly in my face.

I had been flipping through a magazine, which had James Potter attractively posed on the front with the lastest Montrose Magpies fan merchandise.

Slamming it shut, I signed back, "No one, really." Shie threw me a sassy 'yeah right' look before I sighed and ran a hand through my disastrous braid. "Are you ready for school?" I calmly signed, resisting irritation at my lack of coffee at 6:30am. After a long moment of consideration, I shoved the magazine featuring drool-worthy James Potter into my bag. Shit, it was going to be a long day. And boy did I need to get la- I mean destress soon.

Mikasa, the clever little whirlwind standing in front of me, nodded and checked her hearing aid. Shoveling the last bite of cereal in her mouth, she skipped off to brush her teeth while I grabbed her backpack for daycare.

After placing our dishes from breakfast in the sink and straightening my blouse, I searched for my child in our minuscule apartment. We were so running late today.

Shite. Shite. Shite. The watch on my wrist was screaming out 7:15am, while the train comes at 7:30am. According to the pouting slowpoke shuffling behind me, we weren't going to make it. Damn it; we would if I had anything to do with it, I argued in my head. I could not deal with the snotty expression on my boss's face if I were to be late again today.

"Maaa," Mikasa whined entirely too loudly directly into my ear canal as I hauled her onto my back and began to jog towards the station. Of course, it began to rain because why not, right? Oh sweet mother of Hufflepuff, why does God hate me?

Refusing to allow Mikasa to get sick, I deposit her under the shelter of the convenience store, dished out the rain poncho from her backpack, and shove it over that tiny body before resuming our piggyback marathon morning.

By the time we make it to the station, I am soaked and hella cranky as I push back the hood of Mikasa's poncho. I really needed to purchase a car.

Now was so not the time to dolly, though. Please, Merlin stop that train from leaving for two more minutes. I beg of you.

By some Christmas miracle come early, we made it and I permitted myself to slump down into the seat for our five minute commute downtown. Consumed in staring down at my watch to calculate how much time I could realistically book this arse to the office on time clutching a needed cup of coffee, I barely felt the slight nudges being delivered to the right side of my rib cage.

"What?" My hands signed with the outward patience of a saint.

"Mr. Nobody Really?" I blinked for a hot second, casually wondering if I'm hallucinating my daughter gesture to the man in a crimson and gold jumper with the hood up.

Even if he had the outward appearance of a hoodlum, anyone could deduce his attractiveness. He was also wearing a pair of specs... and shadyly glancing around as if expecting someone to jump out and yell 'Boo.' Noticing the intense focus on the features of his face, the man tensed up.

Before I could start in on her not pointing at strangers, nevertheless adult men, she rolled her eyes and dug into my backpack. My backpack!

As she smacked the magazine cover in my face, I groaned quietly wishing just once for a peaceful morning. Little brat—who I love dearly, I might add—didn't even bat an eyelash when I clenched the paper cut now located on my nose.

Then I have to lunge for her when she decided to waltz on over to the unknown, slightly sketchy man. It's probably a surprise—well, perhaps not really—but my slow morning movements didn't catch that skinny, five-year-old frame. Instead my hands caught air, whilst I grasped towards my child like a lunatic kneeling on the public transit floor searching for a phantom.

Unfairly frozen; all I could do was watch as she walked over to the man, pursued the magazine cover, appeared to briefly consider the consequences of her actions, before yanking on the jumper of a complete stranger. It was like I was not witnessing the actions of my actually child, rather experiencing nightmare where the sweet, quiet girl was ransacked and replaced with a demon. Okay, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration but the terrible twos were nothing compared to this insanity. And it wasn't even 7:30am yet.

"Gomen nasai," I apologized in Japanese for some damn reason unbeknownst to me, stumbling forwards and gathering Mikasa's body into my own. Refusing to make eye contact with the sketchy man, I began lecturing my daughter about the dangers of strangers and kidnapping in sign language. The man awkwardly coughed to my right, ceasing my furious signing before Mikasa proudly signed back.

"I told you it was Mr. Nobody Really."

My whole body stiffened, as though I made contact with Petrificus Totalus. Today was not my day.

Slowly...slowly (said the sloth), I turned and settled my eyes on proclaimed Mr. Nobody Really, who's hazel eyes warily gleamed behind a pair of specs.

Cautiously, he glanced around at the other passengers, whom were most likely Quidditch fans, and held a finger to his lips.

With a sigh, I hugged my child towards me and wished it was not only Monday. Meanwhile, I tried to ignore the fact that the small hands in front of my face were signing at me to ask for Mr. Nobody Really's number.

And all before 7:45am. Oh Helga Hufflepuff.