A/N: Disclaimer: "I own Harry Potter and his universe!" Eleora cried out, her face filled with greedy delight. But all were not in agreement with this statement. It began with a deep, faintly-threatening rumble. It ended with an outburst of roars so great, Atlantis sank 53 times deeper, appearing upside-down on the other side of the world. The roaring was not just mindless rage, but a mantra that repeated the same message over and over again: "Eleora owns nothing! Eleora owns nothing!" Sufficiently cowed, and robbed of her hearing, Eleora released her claim and left--sulking--to explore the upside-down kingdom of Atlantis.

Stage Two: A Gathering of Intel

Brandy carefully lowered her favorite copy of the Taming of the Shrew. It was her favorite, namely because she had no other copies for it to contend with—contrary to popular belief. People these days were far too eager to believe she was a prejudiced bigot who hated soft-covered books and bought dozens of copies of any book in hardcover. Heaven forbid. As if she needed more than one copy to have a favorite. And it was only a hard copy because hard covered books were just easier to hit people with, should the need ever arise.

Not saying such a need ever would, of course. Not in such a perfect, wonderful world where butterflies fluttered their perfect, beautiful little wings in unison as they flitted happily in the sky and performed amazing flips and spins—all in unison! The world where hard-cover books were the preferred weapon of defense was undoubtedly one filled with angry butterflies, taken to dive-bombing innocent bystanders and other such horrendous acts against mankind.

But where were we, again?

Brandy peered over the top of her (lowered) book. An angry hiss sounded from behind the safety of her innocent-looking book. They were still there. And they were still staring. Was she ever this bloody annoying when she younger? Just because she "looked bleedin' old to be a first year!" didn't give them any reason to stare. Or for that matter, to cuss. Idiots. Maybe Santa could bring them a bar of soap (to wash their mouths out!), instead of coal—which was what they deserved, really.

"Liar."

So it begins again. Was five minutes of peace and rest too much to ask for?! Brandy sighed and carefully closed the book, setting it down on her lap.

"You're joshin' us," Insisted Brat #1. Ugly little cretin, really—all glasses and braces with bits of freckles poking out. Not to mention that hair!

"Do I look like I'm joking?" she hissed. They had been through this how many times?

"Yes." So, Brat #2 was equally as stubborn.

"Oh, okay." Brandy smiled brightly and picked up her book again. "Glad that's taken care of."

Two pairs of eyes blinked at her in confusion.

One pair blinked back.

"Erm-," began Brat #2

She nodded helpfully, "Go on."

"Well—," Brat #1 continued.

"Come on, don't be shy. It's really quite entertaining. I've always found the sound of ignored conversation to be delightful—especially when those being ignored happen to be whiney little monsters. It adds a higher pitch to the background hum and makes it so much easier to devise methods of torture. So by all means, continue on with your pointless questions." She finished with another blindingly-bright smile. "Oh—door's that way of course, if you get bored."

Alas, but it seemed boredom struck far sooner than usual, as the two boys all but dove for the door in their haste to get away.

…Or, perhaps not. Perhaps they really just sat there and cried. Perhaps they all swore to be friends forever. Perhaps they really opened their wicked little mouths and uttered the secrets of the universe, starting with—oh, well I suppose we better not go there. That would be spoiling things, now wouldn't it?

No, instead something much worse happened. The little freaks, the current banes of her existence, leaned back against the wall and grinned.

"Congratulations," Brat #2 all but oozed fiendish delight, "You've passed."

"I've what?"

"Passed." Oh, very helpful, you snot-nosed, sniveling little—"Passed our friend-test, of course."

Brandy blinked. "Your friend-test? You actually expect to make friends this way? You're mad; absolutely barmy! The both of you!" Any response on their part was cut off however, as the compartment doors chose that particular moment to randomly open.

Or--perhaps not so randomly, as the figure standing outside the door would attest to. Upon examination, Brandy realized with faint amusement that said figure was quite frankly, awkwardness incarnate. With fluffy brown hair framing a slightly-round face, and eyes the exact shade of brown as that hideous sweater Brandy's mum used to wear (the one with the green spots on the right shoulder) to soften the lanky frame and overly-large feet, the boy was the perfect image of clumsy innocence. But if there was one thing Brandy knew, it was that appearances can be very deceiving.

"Has anyone seen a toad?" the (suspicious! looking) intruder asked.

"Excuse me?"

"I asked, d'you know where the trolley lady is?" he repeated.

"Erm, right. Are you sure that's what you said? Because I thought sure you asked if anyone saw a toad…" Brandy trailed off, slightly nervous for some odd reason. Perhaps it was the fact that she was who-knows-how-far-away from any backup, and was headed who-knows-where on a train filled with who-knows-what. Yes, that was a rather satisfactory explanation for the nerves.

He, being the unnamed figure at the door, looked at her strangely. "No," he continued slowly, "I dare say you got it wrong. I never said anything about a—"

"I said it." A small voice from the corner spoke up. Ah, Brat #1 has a voice after all. "It was a vision." He spoke with dreamy sophistication. Had there had been any liquid to snort and choke on in surprise, everyone in the compartment would have been dead of asphyxiation, they were so surprised. "Yes, yes! A vision of what your fate will be, should you decide not to join us! I see loneliness, desolate wandering, death…!"

"And I see a mini-Trewlawney," muttered the figure standing in the doorway.

"…painful years of pathetic existence...!"

"Say, what's your name, anyways? I can't very well keep thinking of you as "the figure standing in the doorway" now, can I?" Brandy asked; her face a lovely shade of green. Some of the "predictions" were quite, well—unsettling.

"…angry figures chasing you, running you to the ground….!"

"Oh—it's Boot. Terry Boot. And I dare say you don't know anything about the trolley lady, do you? Pity. Well then, must be off!" And he was gone in a flash. Complete with eerie green lighting and acrid smell—and theme music.

Strange types, these people were.

Well, there was no way—not in heaven, hell or anywhere else—that she was going to stay (alone, heaven forbid!) in the compartment with those miscreants.

Was it too much to ask for a quiet corner to herself?

Brandy had come upon a sad truth. The world beyond Platform 9 was perfect in almost every way—except one. Sure, the residents of said world had many things going for them—fancy looking sticks (that looked—and acted—suspiciously like wands) that changed people's hair colour (and probably more!), wicked-comfy seat cushions, and the ability to completely ignore the common laws of fashion—but due to the complete and utter lack of one thing, their world sucked, to put it plainly. The World-Beyond-Platform-Nine had no such thing as Peace and Quiet.

The closest thing could be found in the girls loo, stall 9. Consequently, the closest thing to normality could be found there as well—Brandy. Currently, said normality was crouched rather unhappily on the floor of the stall, trying her hardest not to count just how many rules of hygiene she was breaking. Not that it mattered, of course—she would be sitting here no matter how many she broke. If she was to die, better it be from contracting who-knows-what-disease from the dirty floor than loss of sanity (due to the severe lack of previously mentioned Peace and Quiet, of course).

Good God was it frightening here—nerve-wracking, as well. Shouldn't the Academy have offered some sort of mental-balance class or so? Just to ensure their agents would not have a mental or nervous breakdown?

Idiots—typical of them to forget something like that. Not that she would ever say so to any superior's face, however. As much as Brandy enjoyed criticizing them mentally, she had a firm respect for authority when it came to actual obedience. A hearty "yes, sir!" served with a side of salute, as she liked to think of it. Besides, things were much simpler when all you had to do was follow orders and blame anything that went wrong on your commanding officer—discretely (and respectfully) of course.

Brandy took a deep breath. Just what had she learned so far about the people of the World-Beyond-Platform-Nine? Well, they seemed overly paranoid (what with that whole "secret entrance", and the lets-give-amnesia-to-the-police thing), which indicated they had something to hide. They also had either superior hair-dying techniques or the sticks were actually wands, as ludicrous as that was to imagine—and Brandy knew which she would prefer. A cultish group dedicated towards advancing the cosmetic field was much preferable to a magic community—sticky things, those.

On top of that, the spawn of the Platformians (for severe lack of a better word) were obnoxious, delirious, rude, and quite frankly terrifying.

Brandy realized just how close to hyperventilating she was—and wouldn't that turn out wonderfully. Of course, she had every right to hyperventilate—who knows what sort of place she was headed to? For all Brandy knew, the train could be headed to a heinous and sacrificial festival to their Goddess of Cosmetics. She could be cut into lipstick-thin strands and fed to wild-penguins!

…Or—perhaps not. One can only hope.

Further morbid thoughts were forgotten however, as a disgustingly-cheerful voice announced their arrival at "Hogsmede." At least she didn't have to drag that trunk around, though. Supposedly, someone would take care of them. Well, it was ruddy fine with her. They could take the stupid thing if they wanted—and the owl. It was being "borrowed" from the zoo anyways, so it wasn't like it was really hers.

"Would the person in stall number nine please exit the bathrooms and leave the train?" What the—perverts! And talk about embarrassing, anyways.

One groan, two moans and a stubbed-toe later, Brandy was hobbling down the corridor after several of the shorter Platformians.

Now, to face the Cosmetic Goddess—or whatever was beyond the gleaming shell of the Hogwarts Express.

"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't"William Shakespeare

A/N: Well, dear Reader, so ends another chapter. The time to act has come! Release the comments, criticisms, complements and flames! Tear apart the story with your needles of logic! But please--oh please--do not suffer it to die from the slow suffocation of "zero-feedback-edness." Should it deserve to die, tell me. Should it deserve to live, tell me. That is all, my good Reader, until next we meet. Fare thee well! etc.