Chapter 2

Narcissa was the first to notice the change in Draco following their holiday in Italy. She couldn't fathom the cause of it, but with a mother's sharp intuition, she felt something had profoundly affected him. Mipsy, of course, dutifully told her mistress something had distressed the young master during their visit to the muggle ruins, but in front of her elf, Narcissa dismissed any concerns. Secretly, she felt ashamed at her short-sightedness. Sending her son off to tour a place where so many had met their deaths had perhaps not been the best idea. Draco was a sensitive child; compassionate, too, although that insight was something best not shared with her husband. Narcissa sighed; Draco was not suited to the life Lucius envisioned for him. He wanted a soldier; what they'd been given was a soul more inclined to the arts. Narcissa knew this year coming up would be pivotal for her son. She yearned to know how to help him.

As for Draco, he'd been unable to shake the vision he'd seen. What did it mean? He wished he could tell someone what he'd experienced..…..but who? His father was out of the question. His mother would listen, but he didn't think she would understand. He didn't himself. He'd been shown a version of…..his past? His future? Draco was confused; it was too much for his young mind to comprehend. All he knew was that it had, somehow, been him. He'd been a young man who had brutally lost his true love. What was a ten year old boy supposed to do with that?

For the next year, what Draco did with 'it' was exactly nothing. His life followed the pattern of prior years; he had lessons with his tutors and playtimes with his friends. The only new item was one his father took great pride in.

"My Son, welcome to manhood," he'd said before opening the door to his study where heads of the sacred twenty-eight stared back at the young Malfoy heir.

So this was it. His father's secret meetings. The ones his mother had kept him from for as long as she could. The ones he was supposed to be a part of from here on out.

Those meetings were an eye-opener for Draco. He used to be proud of being the son of Lucius Malfoy. Now, he couldn't help comparing his father to what he remembered of Claudius' father. Stern, authoritative, arrogant. And underneath it all, cruel. He shivered at the contempt expressed by the wizards at these gatherings. Their gleeful desires to inflict abuse on non-magical people. Draco didn't want any part of it. How was he to escape this future his father was planning for him? He kept recalling his vision. Hadassah's big brown eyes and her tearful plea to remember.

But what good would remembering do?

Jean Granger took her daughter one last time to the Gallery the summer before she was to leave for Hogwarts, but the painting of the boy was no longer on display. Secretly, Jean was glad. Although she now had an explanation for the bizarre incidents Hermione had unintentionally produced (her daughter was a magical being according to Professor McGonagall), there was something uncanny about that work of art. Though she wasn't a witch herself, Jean could feel it was another power that pulsed through the image of that portrait. It wasn't Hermione's magic giving it breath and animation; its life originated from another source. When they were told the piece had been loaned to another museum, Jean felt a profound relief.

She prayed she would never see it again

Hermione was jittery with nerves and excitement; the day had finally arrived. Here she was, about to leave her parents to go to a totally magical school in Scotland. She couldn't help but feel her life was on the cusp of change. After she kissed her mum and dad goodbye and boarded the train, she looked around eagerly, hoping she was prepared for whatever wondrous sight she might see. But so far, the ride was proving to be uneventful. Rather disappointing. She hadn't known what to expect exactly; levitating train seats? Flying tea trolleys? Actually, she hadn't seen anything magical at all.

Already bored, she eagerly agreed when the shy boy sitting across from her asked for help after realizing his toad was missing. Not that Hermione had any affinity for amphibious creatures; if it came to it, she hoped she wouldn't have to touch it, but right then, she felt she'd do anything to get out of that stuffy train compartment. Finding a pet was just as good an excuse as any. Neville, the shy boy, said he'd take the right half of the corridor, so Hermione took off in the direction of the left. She'd introduced herself to several children; a few looked promising as potential friends, but the further she went toward the rear of the train, she snobbier the encounters became. She did happen upon a pair of boys, one raven-haired with glasses, the other a ginger with a dirty nose, in a compartment by themselves. She found out their names were Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. She'd read about Harry and was thrilled to meet him. But after visiting with the two boys, she once again felt the pang of disappointment. Ronald was from a magical family, so he averred, yet totally botched a spell….that is, if it was an actual spell. Shouldn't a boy who lived with magic his whole life be able to tell? And Harry. He was another bitter dose of reality. Hermione knew his story. The Boy Who Lived. The only one to have survived the killing curse. The one who had apparently defeated He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. And this same boy couldn't repair his own glasses?

Once she left them, Hermione continued on in her search for Neville's missing toad. Only two more compartments were left. In one, she'd found a group of girls already wearing their Hogwarts robes.

"Who are you?" asked the one sitting in the middle; a short, raven-haired girl with a pug nose who looked at Hermione with disdain after she had opened their door.

"I might ask you the same question," she saucily replied. Hermione knew that was rude; after all, she was the one who had barged, unasked, into their compartment, but there was something about that girl that set Hermione's teeth on edge. She knew her mother would admonish her and tell her not to be so hasty in making snap judgements on people; how many times had she heard her mum say, "don't judge a book by its cover", but she couldn't help it. Besides, it wasn't the girl's appearance that put Hermione off, but her air of entitlement. Well, she could just get over herself.

The raven-haired girl's proud face glowered with indignation at the thought of her pedigree being called into question. Sitting upright, she haughtily replied, "I'm Pansy Parkinson, descended from Perseus Parkinson, former Minister of Magic. My family is one of the sacred twenty-eight."

"My goodness, that was quite a mouthful," Hermione airily responded. "I imagine it hard to often work that into a conversation."

Inside, she immediately cringed What's wrong with me? Drat my mouth! Why didn't I just leave? Great work, Hermione, were not even to Hogwarts yet, and you've already making enemies.

Before Pansy had a chance to reply, another of the girls, a thick-waisted one with an ugly sneer on a severely freckled face, approached the entrance of the compartment where Hermione was standing.

"Get lost, freak," she hissed before slamming the door shut in Hermione's face.

Draco sighed as he stretched out on the train seat. He was glad to be alone for awhile. He enjoyed the quiet; whether because it was his nature to need it or whether he was just used to it, he didn't bother to examine. His father expected him to be friends with Vincent and Gregory, mainly because their fathers were his cronies, but they weren't Draco's cup of tea. He liked Theo Nott, better. Theo was quiet, but interesting. Blaise Zabini was a better choice still, but he'd not been on board the train due to his mother's latest wedding coinciding with the first day of school.

You would think a mother would plan better than that, he thought. Poor Blaise.

Lifting his arms to cradle the back of his head, he'd just shut his eyes when he heard the door to his compartment slide open.

Merlin, not again. Couldn't he catch a break? What was it now? Vin wanting to borrow another handful of sickles for some pumpkin pasties?

He could just imagine the meaty voice pleading, "But I'm hungry alright? My father never gives me enough for treats," although Crabbe's sizable girth would contradict that claim.

Yet, what met Draco's ear wasn't what he'd expected. Instead of loud, boyish sounds, he heard faint sniffles.

"I….I'm sorry…..I didn't mean to wake you," he heard a soft, wobbly voice say.

Draco opened his eyes and turned his head to see which one of the silly witches from next door was bothering him. The next instant, he gasped. Before him was a girl he'd never seen except in a vision. Wild, curly hair. Soft brown eyes, once again filled with tears. It was Hadassah, the young slave of Claudius' childhood standing in front of him. His legs swung down on their own accord; he shakily stood.

"Hadassah?" he asked, astonished. How was this possible? The girl before him lived in ancient Rome. Had died a terrible death. Draco knew it. He'd seen it. He'd felt the agony of it as Claudius. Yet here she was again. Draco felt the strongest urge to touch her, to make sure she was real. To hug her and take away her tears. The strong emotions overwhelming him were shocking. When had he ever felt that way about a girl before?

Next to the door, Hermione was equally gobsmacked. "You! I know you…...you're the boy from the painting!" She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The portrait had been done in the nineteenth century; this boy was the same age she was. But the bright gleam of his hair…...and those eyes. She'd never mistake those eyes. It was him. But wrapped up in a modern package. She finally had the answer to her musings from so long ago. She now knew what the boy would look like if he could step out of his painting and talk to her.

"What's your name?" she ventured to ask.

Draco was stymied. What was he supposed to say? Should he say Claudius? Deciding that would be too confusing, he said, "I'm Draco. I…..I can't believe you're here, Hadassah."

Hermione's brow puzzled. "That's twice you've called me that. But actually, my name's not Hadassah. It's Hermione."

Now it was Draco's turn to feel confused. Hermione?

"I hope you don't mind me intruding. I was hoping to find a toad. A boy on the train lost his. You wouldn't have happened to have seen it, I suppose?"

Draco shook his head. "No….I don't suppose I have."

Hermione looked disappointed. "Oh...a pity then. Well, I shan't bother you anymore." She turned around and gave him one last, wistful look. "I'm very happy to have met you, Draco."

As she left to go, Draco called out, "Wait! Come back!"

Hermione slowly turned around, her eyes as big as saucers.

"What did you say?" she breathed in barely above a whisper.

Draco swallowed loudly. "Come back," he said pleadingly. "Please."

Hermione shut the door and sat down where Draco had been earlier lounging. He immediately sat next to her.

"This is so strange," she confessed. "That's what the boy in the painting said to me. The one who looked just like you."

"You look just like Hadassah," said Draco, agreeing with the bizarreness of their meeting.

For the next hour, the two lonely children talked, telling each other their stories. Hermione listened to the sad story of the slave girl while Draco was told about the boy who had come to life in the painting. There was no shyness or hesitancy in their expressions; they talked like they had known each other forever. Perhaps they had. Without realizing they had done so, they'd reached for the other's hand. They felt no awkwardness about it. All they knew was that they felt an instant connection; that somehow, they were kindred spirits.

After those stories, more conversation followed. What they hoped to learn at school, their greatest fears and ambitions. Draco was impressed with Hermione's knowledge about Hogwarts; she knew more than he did about the school, and his father was on the board of governors. He laughed when she boldly brushed his bangs off his face and declared she like his hair much better this way than in the dreadful bowl cut style of the portrait. His laugh was just as Hermione had always imagined; earthy, with a boyish roughness to it that she found very appealing.

Outside their window, the first stars began to show. The lamps on the train suddenly flickered on. Draco was just about to mention that they should be arriving soon at Hogwarts when the door to their compartment slid open and Pansy stepped in.

"Draco, shouldn't you be putting on your rob….." she started to ask when she saw who was sitting next to him. Her face turning an ugly red, Pansy pointed her finger accusingly at the girl sitting right next to him, and cried out, "What…...what is she doing here?"

Draco and Hermione hastily let go of each other's hand and stood. "Pansy...this is Hermione," he began to say before she interrupted. "She told you her name? What a compliment, Draco. Princess here thought she was too good to tell me what it was. Now I know why she didn't."

Cripes, thought Draco. Pansy was smirking. He knew that look well. He had a sick premonition of what was coming.

"Has Hermione mentioned her family name yet, Draco?" She asked with a false sweetness. "No? Well, I asked around and found out who she was. Your little friend is a Granger. Not a Dagworth-Granger, but just Granger. You know what that means."

Draco closed his eyes. Dear God, they'd only had an hour of happiness. Why was this happening?

Pansy looked viciously at Hermione. "You're nothing but a mudblood," she spat. "Do you know what that word means? It means you're a filthy muggle who has stolen magic."

You're a worthless slave who has stolen jewellery.

It's happening all over again, Draco painfully realized.