Hermione looked at her watch. It was 1:56 PM. She might as well get going; she had to work at Flourish and Blotts. Every day her work was stretched from 2:00 to 7:00. Sorting books, helping customers. It was dull work, but she needed the money. Hermione had installed a Floo network in her own home's fireplace (Apparating, for some reason, brought back memories of finding Horcruxes, which was a haunting thought to Hermione). Hermione grabbed a handful of a sparkly green powder, stepped into her abnormally large fireplace, and shouted: "Flourish and Blotts!" clearly. There was a green flame and then she was there.

Hermione found herself in the fireplace in Flourish and Blotts. Luckily, the fireplace there was specially built for Floo transport. Hermione's boss, Jackson, said, "Hey, Hermione. You'll be sorting books in the backmost section today."

Hermione nodded without looking Jackson in the eye as she pulled her sleeves to her wrists. This was a habit of hers, so Jackson thought nothing of it and watched Hermione disappear behind the many bookshelves. The truth was, Hermione only did it to cover up her scars. Self-harm scars.

Why was she not beautiful, like so many other ladies? Why wasn't her hair as silky smooth as Parvati and Padma Patil? Why wasn't her body as slender as Lavender Brown's? Why didn't she have the perfect laugh, like Cho Chang? Why didn't she have sparkly, beautiful eyes like Fleur Delacour?

Why was her hair tangled and bushy? Why was, in her eyes, so overweight? Why was her laugh so husky? Why were her eyes a boring brown? These were questions that Hermione asked herself hatefully every day.

Hermione found large stacks and piles of books where she had been sent. It was going to be a long day. Hermione sighed. She might as well get started.

Hermione was sorting the books into sections: Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, you name it. They were the books Hermione would've used in her seventh year, except she had already read them in the same year Harry fought a dragon, saved his best friend and a small Veela, and grasped the Triwizard Cup with Cedric Diggory.

Through the next few hours, the door opened about thrice every hour, but none came to the very back of the bookstore. But at 6:01, a surprising guest came.

He had white-blonde hair, slicked back with hair gel. His skin was pale, his eyes were blue-gray. He was wearing a familiar style of all black.

There was no doubt about it: It was Draco Malfoy.

When Hermione first saw him, she almost gasped at the sight of her almost lifelong enemy.

"What are you staring at, Granger?" Malfoy said as he walked nearer. "I'm a regular customer here, looking for a book."

But as Hermione got to see him better, she noticed something was off. His skin was whiter than usual, so now she couldn't tell if it was really white or just a very pale shade of peach. And his eyes had lost their, Hermione didn't know what else to call it, sparkle. His eyes were so sad and desperate. It was just like Hermione's.

Hermione caught herself. "N-nothing, Malfoy. What book do you want?" she asked, although she would've wanted to say, What would a person like you be doing at a regular bookshop?

Draco named the book. Hermione got the book for him in a split second, knowing all the shelves in the shop by heart.

"Thanks," Draco said.

Did Draco Malfoy, DRACO ABRAXAS MALFOY, just THANK me?!

"I can see your wrists, you know," he said to Hermione, as she gasped and looked at her wrists.