Alas, alack, not mine.

Not even Draco.

-

Chapter One: Let's Set the Scene

Hermione Granger sat in her seat aboard the Hogwarts Express quietly. She was bent over over a thick book of Shakespeare's Quotations. Ever since she found he was a wizard, she had become more interested.Of course, she would have prefered to be back in the cabin where Harry, Ron, and Ginny were sitting, but since she was the Gryffindor Prefect (she smiled slightly at this, and absentmindedly stroked her badge) she was instructed to sit with her fellow Senior Prefects. None of them were friends, exactly, so the ride had been eerily silent for almost two hours.

With a sigh, she closed her book and looked carefully at the other three people contributing to the stony silence around her:

Padma Patil, from Ravenclaw, was draped elegantly over a seat. She was gorgeous: high cheekbones, exotic eyes, perfect figure, tall, with flowing jet-black hair. Padma was currently busily quilling ideas for designer robes into a little book with 'The Witch Club' (a very fashionable and expensive botique) stamped on the cover in gold lettering. It was common knowledge that the Club had offered her a job as soon as she graduated Hogwarts, providing she hadn't done any serious crime that would reflect badly on them.

'Fat chance of that happening,' Hermione thought, grinning. Padma was Social Angel. She did, of course, fool around quite a bit, but the Club found nothing wrong with that.

Her eyes wandered over to Ernie MacMillan, Hufflepuff windbag. He was the oldest 16 year old she had ever seen. Not physically- Ernie was rather short, stout, and round. He talked like Professor Binns, though, bless him. Unlike Binns, however, Ernie had an astonishing memory. Not so much for useful facts, like Hermione, but for trivia, names, and irregularities in the grading system, other people's lives, and slights against him. He was destined to be in the Ministry Cabinet, at least if people like Fudge continued to be elected.

'Maybe I'm a bit harsh on him, but he's quite a... well, a windbag!' Flustered at not being able to find any other word to describe the stodgy Hufflepuff, her eyes flicked to the final person sitting on the last seat left.

She immideately wished she hadn't, for one simple reason:

It was Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, the 6'5, shockingly pale boy that every girl (some houses more reluctantly than others) had to admit was handsome. Abominably handsome. When he wasn't glaring at something maliciously or sneering or smirking.

Hermione paused. 98% of the time, she was sure, he was engaged in one of those activities. He probably smirked in his sleep. But, now... he wasn't. He was staring rather dazedly at a book written in some dead Wizarding language. His white-blond hair fell loosely over his forehead,

'And he doesn't look as if he's going to attempt to smush me under his shoe in a second,' she noted. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, she opened her book with a sharp crack that made the other three look up uninterestedly for a moment, before sliding back into what they were doing previously.

"Honestly, Granger," Malfoy murmured. Hermione shot a death glare his way, but he was already back to reading his book. She looked down at her own and smirked.

''I dote on his very absence', page 481. Very appropriate.'

The four continued in their almost comatose state until a sharp rap on the door signaled that they would quickly arrive at Hogwarts. A few moments later, a disgruntled and greasy seventh year slid the door open and stood, blinking for a few seconds.

"Anton," acknowledged Draco.

"Draco," nodded the boy.

'These Slytherins,' thought Hermione, almost rolling her eyes. 'So talkative.'

"Well," Anton said. "I'm supposed to give these to you. Ven asked." He handed out four thin envelopes with spidery, blue handwriting.

Ven was Sven, the Head Boy (Slytherin). The Head Girl was some Ravenclaw Hermione had never met, Chasity.

When Anton realized that no one was going to talk to him, as they were busily opening their letters, he shifted his weight from foot to foot a few times, and then left the cabin, mumbling to himself.

Hermione, after fiddling for awhile with a rather stubbon scarlet seal, opened the following letter:

'Dear Miss Hermione Granger,

Congradulations on making Senior Prefect! It was no suprise, of course. I knew, from the moment you walked down the aisle to be Sorted in your first year, that you would be one of the best and brighest these old halls had seen in quite awhile. I was so sure, in fact, that I made a bet with Sybil on it. When I notified her earlier this month, she assured me that the bet was made during a time when (unbeknownst to her then) her Eye had some version of a celestial cataract, and that once she found out she didn't have the heart to tell me. So, sadly, I did not recieve my payment of three pairs of woolen socks. Then again, theres always Christmas, I suppose!

That reminds me of a suprisingly humourous joke involving a pint of fermented werewolf's blood, an invisibility cloak, and two leprechauns disguising themselves as ogres. Remind me to tell it to you, when we have a spare moment.

Now, in regards to the coming year:

As you must have realized by now, you are a role model for the rest of the school. As such, I am asking you to keep any of your personal greivances with the other Senior Prefects out of the eye of the student (and faculty) body. All arguments may be carried out in your common room, which has been sound-proofed for this exact reason.

If you wish to be by yourself totally, I am sure that the Room of Requirement will fufill that desire.

I also ask you to keep in mind that you are always running against Miss Patil for the position of Head Girl next year; if you desire that title, please do nothing that would cause me or any other teacher to doubt your ability for this role.

Once again, congradulations!

If you desire to have audience with me, simply ask a painting for directions. The password is 'Chewing Gum'.

Warm regards,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. Your common room is located on the third floor, right-side corridor. There is a new painting there. It is rather unusual, but highly sensitive, so I ask you to use caution when speaking to it. The password is 'Spring'.'

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught Padma giving her a wary glance. Obviously, some parts of the letter was form, and other parts were personalized. Draco let out a snort and, tossing the letter up into the air, muttered 'Incendio'. He avoided Hermione's steady frown.

With a sigh, she tucked her book and letter neatly into her bag, adjusted her robes, and mentally went over her letter. The joke would probably be long and dry, so perhaps she would casually forget about it. She would most definately remember about the Room, which was handy from anything to emergency wardrobe situations to the most gorgeous library getaway imaginable. She wondered vaugely about the painting, but it couldn't be worse then a tipsy Fat Lady with Violet, could it?

'But wait,' she thought suddenly. 'The right corridor-'

At exactly that moment, the train churned to a stop. No one fell to the floor except Hermione, who, in her deep thought, had forgot about their arrival. She was thrown to her knees, with her bag shortly after hitting her squarely in her back, forcing her to emit a sound similar to 'Uffngh'. Ernie and Padma looked down their noses at her, while Malfoy snickered into his hand.

A general clatter was heard as other students on the train slammed open doors and pounded down the outer aisle, towards the exit doors. Before she could get up, Padma, Ernie, and Malfoy were filing out. Malfoy was the last of the three to stride out. He grinned evilly and extended his hand, like he was going to pat her on the head.

Hermione resisted the urge to growl. Then, catching himself, he snatched his hand away, and stalked briskly out the door.

Sighing, Hermione collected her things and wiped stray dust particles off her (now slightly rumpled) robes.

She slowly made her way out the door and off the train, lingering in the cool fall air. It smelled like rain, and she reveled in that feeling of cleanliness as she sauntered toward the school.

It wasn't until she made it outside of the doors of the Great Hall that she spotted Ron and Harry. Rushing over to them, she ruffled Ron's hair and grinned at Harry.

"How was the ride without me?"

"Very Quidditch-y," remarked Ginny, poking her head out from the other side of Harry.

"Ginny!" Hermione exclaimed. "I bet you didn't mind that, though, did you?" Ginny was almost as obsessed with Quidditch as Harry and Ron were.

"No, not much." Ginny smiled cheerily, and then turned toward the front as Dumbledore stepped up to the podium at the front.

"Well, welcome to another year!" he said heartily. "The first years will be coming in shortly; feel free to look as imposing as humanly possible. And... oh, there they are!"

The large doors, which had shut, were slowly creaking open. Everyone put on a stern face and stared solemnly at the frightened, titchy little first years.

When the last one had made her way to the front to form a quivering clump around the Sorting Hat, Hermione let her eyes flick to her soon-to-be roommates, and then to the faces of Ron, Harry, and Ginny, which were lit strangely from the candles on the table that were offset by the dark and stormy ceiling, which were hurtling very real-looking raindrops down at the students that disappeared two feet above their heads.

'It is going to be an interesting year,' Hermione noted. 'Rather difficult,' she added, staring at Malfoy (who was scaring the living daylights out of a poor first year standing on the edge of the group) 'but still good.'