The morning of September 1st was clouded by rain and thunder. The Burrow windows looked as if they would shatter if the rain persisted anymore. Hermione was sat at the kitchen table, the remains of the mornings breakfast littered around her.

"GEORGE! EMPTY YOUR TRUNK – IF I FIND ONE MORE OF THOSE BLASTED TOFFEES-" Mrs. Weasley's shouts echoed above her from the landing. The sounds of Charlie and Bill loading the many Hogwarts trunks into the kitchen could be heard from behind her.

She turned back to the paper and for what seemed the thousandth time she began to read the article on page seven.

'Terror rang out at the Quidditch World Cup last night – the cries and screams of innocent victims could be heard from miles away, say members of the Ministry of Magic. The arrival of the Dark Mark leads to many questions – who? What? Why? Of course, many panicked – the famous mark, known to many as the sign of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – shun visibly above the hectic scene.

"There were lines of people – masked – some say death eaters –" a Mr. Gregory reported, one of the thousands of wizards who came to see such a spectacular event. Officials of the Ministry of Magic have come into speculation – why such a lack of security, one asks? How could such an event even happen? Some say that these masked people are Death Eaters – followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, whilst others say 'clearly the Irish celebrating- nothing to worry about.' Simply, it is too much of a coincidence that the Dark Mark appears and innocent people are killed under the spells of what people are-"

But Hermione was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Not reading that article again are you Hermione?" Ron said, as he wheezed from carrying a rather heavy Hogwarts trunk from downstairs.

She simply smiled. "Just trying to get a clearer picture."

"Well – ones things for sure – your trunk is the heaviest of the lot! What have you got in there? A thousand rocks or something?" He walked away, still clutching his side.

It had been just under two weeks since the World Cup had happened, and just over a week ago that Hermione had been released from St. Mungo's hospital. Her leg – which had been identified as being hit by a burning curse – was better, but still painful. It had been bandaged up tightly and even though she could just about walk on it, she was no-where near up to lifting trunks. She had spent the last week being nursed by Mrs. Weasley, who now seemed tired and aggravated. Before she had adjusted to walking on her leg properly she had been levitated around – she wouldn't deny it was rather fun. Mr. Weasley had been at work almost everyday – the Ministry was still dealing with the World Cup aftermath.

"-I TOLD YOU GEORGE- NOW GIVE THEM TO ME- FRED YOU TOO – NO, DON'T YOU DARE-" Mrs. Weasley's voice was now coming nearer and nearer as she descended down the stairs hotly.

"Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with them!" She bustled into the kitchen and grasped her to-do list in her hands. She muttered to herself as she ticked the jobs off.

"I think we're all set!" she announced, her voice rose slightly so that everyone on other floors could hear.

"Now, Hermione dear-" she sat down opposite her, her voice now concerned.

"-You must be careful on that leg. Don't work too hard – I've informed Hogwarts of your injuries and Madam Pomfrey – well you know her – she'll be on hand if you need help. Make sure you get Ron – and Harry – to help you lift everything, yes?"

"I will" she smiled. "Thank you Mrs. Weasley – for everything – I'm really grateful-"

"Oh it was nothing dear" she smiled sympathetically, but it didn't last long - her voice turned harsh once more:

"FRED, GEORGE – COME ON THE MUGGLE TAXI IS HERE!"

After the whole Weasley clan, herself and Harry had bustled into the three-muggle taxis, they soon arrived at Kings Cross. The rain hammered down so hard that they were absolutely soaked as they reach platform nine and three quarters. Hermione watched as Ron, Harry, Fred, George and Ginny loaded the trunks onto the last carriage before they all waved a sad goodbye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Charlie.

The rain battered down on the windows of the Hogwarts Express until she could see nothing but the raindrops racing each other down the windowpane. She was sat by the window next to Ron and opposite Ginny and Harry before Seamus, Dean and a very wet-looking Neville appeared at the compartment doors.

"Hiya!" Seamus said as he bounded into the compartment, sitting down next to Harry. He gave a sneaky look at Hermione's bandaged up knee.

"All right, Hermione?" he gave her a wink. She looked away.

"What happened?" said Neville, sounding anxious. A tense silence had suddenly filled the compartment.

"It was a burning hex-" she started, as she looked down at her leg. "I'll be fine soon – I can just about walk on it, thanks for asking Neville." She gave him a warm smile and he blushed.

"So you don't need levitating around then?" Seamus asked, again giving some sort of wink.

"No, not any more."

"Ah, I'm sure Ron was well up for giving you a hand-" but he stopped as Ron kicked his shin.

The rain did not ease off at all as the journey continued. The normal green pastures were now muddy swamps and rivers over spilled onto their banks. The boys and Ginny had now immersed them selves into even more Quidditch conversation. It was not until Draco Malfoy appeared at the compartment door that they stopped talking.

*\*\*\

Draco sank back into his seat, allowing his head to rest gently on the headrest. He closed his eyes as the train rumbled beneath him. The cabin had now become dark from the weather outside.

"So, Draco-" the voice of Blaise Zabini drifted over his head.

"-What happened at the Cup? I heard some Muggles got tortured."

Draco opened his eyes. "Yeh, they did."

"And what about everything else?" Blaise's eyes narrowed eagerly. He could feel Pansy next to him watching them both with intense interest.

"Fine. Thank you for your concern."

That'll shut him up. He thought, savagely. He liked Blaise, but that didn't mean he trusted him. He wasn't sure how far his failure had been told, but nevertheless, he'd rather Blaise wasn't to know.

"So how was your holiday Draco?" Pansy's wailing voice sounded from next to him.

Questions. So many questions. It was like being back in occlumency again, like being back at the manor, in that dark damp room.

"Fine." He answered sharply. He could tell Pansy was disappointed.

There was a pause.

"Did you hear?"

"Hear what, Blaise?" he answered hotly.

'About that Mudblood Granger?"

Panic surged inside him. This is what occlumency had been about: blocking out thoughts like this. But they still made his heart pump loudly.

"Ooh, hear what?" Pansy retorted.

"Apparently," Blaise leaned in closer, "She got badly injured at the World Cup. Almost died. Shame she didn't, I saw the little piece of scum on the platform."

"What happened to her, who did it to her?" Draco could tell by her quickening speech she wanted to know more.

"Dunno what she got hit by or by whom – but I'm sure it was one of our lot."

Pansy recoiled back into her seat, clearly unsatisfied by the information. Draco remained quiet; he didn't want to touch on the topic.

Suddenly there was a knock on the compartment door and it slid open. A girl, a sixth year, with long dark hair tied neatly in a ponytail, stood there, a brown envelope clasped in her hand.

"Yes?" Draco stared at her: he couldn't care less if she was a prefect. It was a well-known fact that given his family's status, people answered to Draco.

"A letter came for you, it arrived in our compartment." She spat and she stepped into the compartment and handed him the letter.

Draco recognised the writing immediately. "Is that it then?"

The girl looked utterly perplexed but did not say anything else. She left, slamming the compartment door behind her.

"Who's it from, Draco?"

"Not sure" he lied. He resisted the urge to rip open the parchment: he didn't want either of them to read it.

Several minutes ticked by: Pansy had gone off to the neighboring compartment to go and gossip, no doubt, with her gang of girls, being tired of waiting for Draco to open the letter. Blaise had his eyes shut: supposedly asleep.

He looked down once again at the handwriting, turned the envelope over and gently ripped it open. He folded out the letter inside and read it slowly.

My office: 8:30pm sharp. Come alone after the feast. Send owl reply.

He folded the letter back up and stuffed it away inside his robes. He reached for the quill that was sticking out of Blaise's bag overhead and tore off a piece of the envelope.

Certainly. Was all he wrote. He took one last look at Blaise, wheeled back the compartment door and slipped silently down the moving corridor. He passed many compartments: frequently loud bangs issued out of them, causing him to look suspiciously into them. Others contained groups of gossiping girls, terrified looking first years and some older years who seemed to be merely muttering a few words to each other.

He wasn't expecting to see her sitting in one of the carriages. It seemed stupid now; even Blaise had mentioned she was here, it just hadn't occurred to him. Before he realised what he was doing, Weasley, Potter and the rest of the Gryffindors were staring at him gormlessly. He had only just realised that he stopped right outside their compartment. He panicked and as fast as he could, turned and continued down the corridor - but too late.

"Oi, Malfoy!" He stopped abruptly. What now?

"Yes Weasel?" He said calmly.

"What are you doing: standing there staring into our carriage?"

"I wasn't staring Weasel."

"Well that's what it looked like." Potter's voice came into the midst of things.

Draco turned around.
"Well?"

"Well, Potter, I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you. But if you must know, I was simply just checking to see whether old Daddy Weasel was too embarrassed to send his brutes back to Hogwarts after that piece in the Prophet. Clearly I was wrong, he obviously doesn't care about being a disgrace to the Wizarding World."

He saw Weasley grab his wand in anger, as he had many times before, and continued down the corridor.

That was close. He thought, and he was right. It was too close. He reached the end of the train quicker than he thought he would. A large brown owl eyed him suspiciously as he attached his reply to its leg. It gave Draco a quick glance before he rustled his wings and set off. Draco watched it fly away into the now brewing storm until it disappeared into the clouds.