The first time he saw Hermione Granger, he was eight.

She was sitting on a bench, a book on her lap, her hand cupping her chin as she flipped the page. The girl looked up at him then and waved. Her eyes were brown, the colour of chocolate and the same shade as her hair which hung in bushy curls.

(He liked to remember those eyes like that, innocent and excited)

'Are you new here?' Ron asked, waving back.

'Ja, me and my Papa have just moved in,'

'You will go to school here?'

She nodded. 'Papa has an office in Dusseldorf,' she said proudly. 'He's a dentist.'

'My papa works with the government,' Ron said. 'My Mama does the washing and ironing for the Weigels and the Hoffmann's. I have five brothers, and a little sister. What about you?'

(He didn't tell her that the Spiegelmans and the Steiners had fired his Mama)

'Ich?' she said. 'My Mutti died when I was a toddler.'

Ron was generally not one for tact but he knew enough to say a quick sorry. She waved it off and showed him the book she was reading, A collection of Deutsch folktales.

'They're fun to read. Oh and have you ever played a piano? Papa says its one of the most beautiful sounds in the world, I'd really love to learn,'

Her voice was music, excited and childish.

When Hans called Hermione a filthy Jew, she stayed quiet. Ron didn't.

'Your parents will be so disappointed in you now, Ron,' she said, handing him an apple. They were sitting under an apple tree in an open field. It was one of those idyllic days, when school seemed to be a chore. Ron shrugged. He'd gotten a timeout and the teacher had probably sent a letter to his parents. That was it; no big deal for him.

'Papa will just say shake his head and say boys. Mama will shout at me for an hour but then Fred and George would have likely done something worse. Besides, no one should call you that. It's wrong.'

'It's not worth it. It's dangerous, things like that, even if it's only school-'

He cut her off and said simply, 'You are worth it.'

Hermione seemed to live on books. She was the smartest in their class (she even spoke a little English), and was always trying to get Ron into his studies. Ron wasn't like her; he was average at academics, reasonably talented at football, and had a large appetite.

Ron met her father only once- a tall, modest, brown eyed man with a calm, reassuring voice. Hermione had his eyes. She was very proud of him, she talked about him all the time, wringing her hands around, her curls framing her face.

They would walk back home together, till his locality, from where she would leave to her own house. He had never given it much thought then. Later, he would think. Later, he would curse himself for not acting sooner.

Hermione liked to talk about her day as they walked, homework, kids, what her Papa said, and Ron listened to it all. He tried to get her into football once, but she was simply terrible at it.

When he'd told her this, she called him a dummkopf.

It was 1933 when everything changed.

His elder brothers Bill and Charlie had left school, and were talking about joining the Fuhrer, their new saviour. Even his Papa seemed to encourage the prospect. The years of unemployment for the youth were gone, Papa said, and everything seemed to be going good. There was hope for Germany, now, for the girls as well, he grinned at Ginny when he said this and patted Ron on the back.

Papa didn't continue that prospect long.

Ron's paternal grandparents happened to be British, explaining their red hair and English names. While he could speak a few words of the language, he usually chose not to. In his mind, he was German. His mother, Marianne "Molly" Weasley was German, but her hair was more auburn than blonde, her eyes brown rather than blue.

It had never been much of a problem, but it was now.

'Papa's planning to leave Deutschland,' said Hermione. They were sitting under their usual apple tree, far from the jeers of school children and the scrutinizing glares of his neighbours. It was mid March, and they sat there in the spring sunlight. The year was 1935.

Ron had heard it all, he had already joined the Hitler Youth organization like his brothers, Ginny had been incorporated with the BDM.

Hermione twisted her fingers, and Ron noticed that her skin was pale, too pale, greenish blue imprints of her veins visible. Her bushy hair was in a cap, some of it curling her shoulders and Ron wanted to tuck it back.

'I'm scared, Ronald, really scared. Yesterday, Papa came home with this huge bruise over his face, and cuts on his arm. I didn't ask him because, because…' she trailed off and suddenly grabbed his arm. And just as soon, she let go.

'I shouldn't even be friends with you,' she mumbled.

'Why would you say something like that?'

'Because I'm a Jew! And you're-' Ron cut her off. 'Don't be stupid, you being a Jew makes no difference to me,'

There was something in her expression Ron couldn't identify. Later, he would realise it was hopelessness.

'Anyways, if we leave, I just wanted you to know, you've, you've, just I don't know, I wanted you to know you've been a really good friend to me, Ron,' she stuttered. Hermione never stuttered.

'Don't talk like that,' said Ron tactlessly. It will get better, I'm sure-'

Hermione's face was stony. 'You know as well as I do that it won't.' She was right, as usual.

Ron wrung his hands helplessly. Her expression softened. She put a hand around his shoulders, and said,

'Fine, let's change the topic, have you ever seen a waterfall? Papa showed me an old postcard a few days back, oh it was obviously black and white, but it was so beautiful, the water, the grass, Ron, sehr wunderschon,'

Ron leaned back, happily. Hermione's eyes were more beautiful, viel schoner, than any waterfall he would ever see.

October the twenty second.

For the first time in the five years he had known Hermione, he took her to his house. Oh, she'd been to his neighbourhood, tried a little football as well on the street, but never to his house. And he'd met her father once, but not in her home, but in a field some way behind their school building. He hadn't let his parents know. He hadn't exactly planned this either, but Hermione had sounded very serious on emigration. And Ron might be a little slow on the uptake, but he knew things were changing for Hermione's people ever since the Fuhrer had come to power. He and Hermione couldn't even sit on the same bench in school.

Hermione was, as usual, charming. It all went well, till she left.

'Ronald,' said his mother very quietly. His mother was never quiet; usually she screamed loud enough for the neighbourhood to hear. Ginny glanced at him from across the table, fear evident on her features. No one, other than their annoying Aunt Muriel called him Ronald. Except Hermione, sometimes, when he'd pissed her off even more than usual.

His father looked at him with concern in his eyes, Mama looked like she was going to cry.

What had he done that bad?

'Ronald, do you not know what that girl is?'

'Wer, Mama.' He corrected automatically. 'Not was, wer.'

'Ron, do you not know what happened in September?'

'The Nuremberg rally. I heard.'

'Did you not hear what our Fuhrer said?'

'Same old,' he replied carelessly. Restoring Imperial Germany's honour and how certain communities were polluting them, the Aryans, how such things needed to be pruned, how Germany would rise from the ashes once again, and teach them lessons they wouldn't forget, make their sons heroes. Same old, same old.

He saw his parents exchange another look. His Papa bit his lip.

'Ronald, you will not bring that girl home anymore.'

'Why not? And she's planning to leave anyway,' he added.

'Good riddance.' His mother whispered.

'Ron, you will not bring her to this neighbourhood at all. In fact, its better you stop talking to that girl-'

'She's my friend!'

His Papa was livid. Those blue eyes were ice. His hand gripped Ron's tight enough to leave a bruise as he declared.

'That girl is a Jew. I will not have a Jew soiling my house or befuddling my son. You will stop talking to her and tell her to leave our country as fast as possible. Understand?'

Ron defiantly, foolishly, shook his head.

'Nein.'

He was yelled at for another hour, before being sent to bed without dinner for the first time in his life. He wouldn't stop talking to Hermione but he wouldn't bring her to his house again either.

Nothing of this incident was ever mentioned to her. The bruises, however, stayed.

(He told her he'd had a fight with Fred.)

Winter started. Hermione's Papa was still trying to leave.

Hermione grew thinner. Verbal insults had escalated so far that even the teachers didn't talk to her. Their only Jewish teacher was fired, with a great outpouring of joy. His Mama and Papa seemed pleased.

1936 and suddenly everything seemed to change.

'The Olympics in Berlin, can you imagine?'

Charlie had come back for a week and played football with him and Ginny in the evenings. Mama didn't like Ginny playing football, but Ginny was too persistent. They were sitting on the porch now as Charlie continued to talk. Ginny, being the only girl was everyone's favourite, unlike him, the last and unremarkable son to the mother who had always wanted a daughter. But Charlie had always liked Ron the best, and if he had favourites, it would be him.

'I would like to watch,' he said, thinking about the last Hitler Youth session. Franz, his tyrant of a leader had made him run a dozen laps and a two extra for being late. He stretched his aching legs.

'Ron, I've heard you're friends with that girl.'

'So?'

Charlie opened his mouth but suddenly shut it, shaking his head. His eyes raked over the shiny burn scar on his forearm and he shook his head again, as though his answer might be worse than the question.

For a while everything was subdued. The anti Jewish signs and slurs were momentarily halted as the Olympics thronged. It all came back quickly enough.

They were standing under their tree, a rare day of peace in the fading winter light. Hermione gazed at the sky, and he thought he could see the hues of the dying sun in her eyes. Their eyes met, blue into brown, German into German, Aryan into Jew.

And he kissed her for the first time.

'This is it. I have no idea what we're going to do, how we're going to live, Ron, I don't know-'

Hermione was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks, bushy hair wild and untamed, her cheeks tinged pink from the bitter cold. He had never seen her like this, he never wanted to see her like this. Ron bit his lip, feeling ashamed.

'Papa's lost his job! Nothing for us anymore, nothing. They'll destroy his office next and then they'll remove me from school, and we can't even leave, no one wants us, where can we go? Where can we? If we can even manage, we need to give up all our money, all of our things as tax for the Reich, nothing for us, now, nothing. Papa looks so defeated, so gone.'

She looked up at him with tear soaked eyes and Ron stared back, a lump rising his throat. The words come home with me Hermione were dying in his throat. He opened his mouth and forced the words out.

'You think your parents will let me in?'

She laughed suddenly. 'You think your neighbours will let me soil your street, to enter your Aryan only area-'

'Hermione don't speak like that-'

She raised a hand, the tears suddenly disappearing, the tone turning scathing. 'You're too naïve, Ron. Three years ago you told me the same thing, that it will get better. Well, its only getting worse since 1933. And its 1938 now. It isn't Papa losing his job, him working till now is illegal in itself, seeing that we've been barred from even holding a job since '36, it's this whole thrice damned country. I'm not even allowed in the same class as you, am I?'

'So, you're not going to come because you're scared?'

'You dare to suggest I am a coward? You, in your Aryan, Judenfrei, area, safe with your little family, your brothers serving the Fuhrer, you toiling in the Hitler Jugend. You think I don't know what runs in your mind when you see me? Jew, itzig, vermin, slut, you think I don't hear what they say in the streets, how my Papa comes home bruised and bloody, all in danger because he is still allowed to work for so long? All because this was his own office and he's a Doctor, the only reason he's somehow managed to survive and have a somewhat job. And you, you get concessions, don't you? I don't know, Ronald, according to them I'm not fit to live and yet, you have the gall to call me scared?'

She shook her head like this was the worst thing he could say, like he'd insulted her.

'I thought you were better.' She said quietly. 'And like all my hopes, it's gone. Gone.'

He didn't see her for the next few months, and after that, he didn't see any Jews either.