Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Ne-naw I can't wait for the ne-naw new book. I hope it isn't like OOTP, that was the worse one.

Note: I'm so sorry I didn't update in so long. No vegetables please. No you over there, don't you dare come - no - no- ARGH. I guess I did sort of deserve it. Though no more.

James Potter held the trolley filled with flour, eggs and milk that were to be delivered to the address stated on the note. He wandered the streets asking a few people were the location was before knocking on the addressee's door.

Lily Evans opened the door, thinking it was the mailman. When she saw this handsome young man before her, she couldn't help but gape a little. Her emerald eyes sparkled when they met his dark brown ones. He had jet black hair, that looked rather like a bird's nest. Messy.

Just the way she liked it.

If he wasn't staring so blatantly at her as well, she would've looked a right idiot. If you had asked him why he took so long delivering the grocery, he would've replied with a burble and a "Merlin, she was pretty."

She took the trolley from him and smiled finally, "Your new to this aren't you?" He nodded politely and opened his mouth to speak. No words filled the empty silence. Lily laughed, "What's your name?" He stared at her confusedly, before realizing she had asked him a question and hastily replied with a, "James. James Potter."

"Would you like to come in Potter?" she asked.

"What's your name?" he retorted and stepped into the kitchen.

"Lily—" she told him, "Evans."

He stood there looking at her, in the firelight, her auburn hair glowed radiantly. She offered him a piece of bread that just came out of the red-brick oven. He hadn't eaten in two days, so naturally he accepted it, and started tearing out chunks with his teeth.

Between mouthfuls, he was able to tell her this was the best piece of bread he had ever had. She smiled embarrassed at his praise.

She was jolted out of her happiness and comfort when someone came a-knocking on the kitchen door. She guessed that it would be her pestering sister, asking more food for her fat Duddykins. She was surprised when it was Hermione herself, dressed in rags with tears staining a sooty face.

"Hermione?" she asked, "Why are you in here?" She smiled weakly back at the kind woman that helped her through Draco's leaving.

"The Headmistress—" she started, "Threw ashes in my face, and told me to put on these rags," she paused and hastily rubbed her eyes, "She didn't tell me an explanation when I asked, then she slapped my face for inso—insol—insolence."

James ran a piece of cloth under the running tap and handed it to Lily. He was as worried as Lily for the girl whom he had just got to know.

The sad longing eyes that beheld years of kempt knowledge were yet ensnared. And all she did for Draco was to be strong and not cry, "I thought he'd be back by now," she whispered.

Meanwhile, Draco was situated deep in the soil, grasping his rifle to his chest and praying for another day to pass, and leave him unharmed so he may be able to return to his dear Hermione. He knew deep inside that she would never forget him.

It had only been 7 months, and yet, this hell dragged on for an eternity. Planes flew above them, the Germans, and once the target was in lock, he whispered a spell from a dead comrades wand, and the plane exploded. He had listened to Hermione for minutes, trying to perfect the already perfected spell, and those words were forever embedded in his memory.

Nershlia.

Shell-fire broke out and grenades were thrown. All he could do was duck down and be ready to be sent over the top.

Lily gently soaked Hermione's face with warm water and sigh at the girl's misfortune. Just well enough when the kitchen door slammed open and an angry face of Mrs. Dursley appeared.

"Lily! What are you doing? Step away from that urchin," sneered Mrs. Dursley angrily, she then turned on James, "And who might you be? Not the chimney sweep I hope."

Lily faced her sister with an insolent look on her face, "Petunia, what have you done to Hermione?"

"I'm putting her in her place, where she belongs," she looked at Hermione sternly and glared, she reached a hand towards Hermione's neck. Took a step backwards in outrage, "Where is that necklace you pitiful girl? You do not deserve such fine jewelry you're just a poor little orphan."

Hermione looked up with a questioning look, "What do you mean Headmistress?"

"Your father's dead Miss Granger," she stated, straightening out her dress, "Apparently, he's as poor as a pauper."

She turned to leave, but said again, "You will take the place of that wretched albino's place, one—Draco Malfoy. You should be so lucky I didn't throw you out on the streets. You wouldn't last a day. Princess," she said the last word with a mocking grin and slammed the door to a deafening silence.

"You better leave now," Lily sighed and looked at James. Instinctively, he hugged her tightly, making the colour rise to her cheeks.

Nightfall came and Draco ducked into a wide tent clutching his right arm. Around him, the men groaned from the pain they were feeling. He was sitting on a camp bed in the infirmary. Someone had shot him in the arm with a rifle but unlike the others he did not feel much pain. All he needed to think about was Hermione, and the pain would ease. She was his painkiller.

"Draco mate, how's your arm?" Tom asked taking out the wrap-around bandages from the first-aid kit.

"I'm fine Tom, really," he put a hand on his shoulder, when Tom spotted something glinting in the dark.

"What's that mate? Something shiny you got there," Tom commented, taking a closer look at the object Draco was clutching.

"It's nothing Tom, just something my—"

Tom cut him off, "Your Hermione gave you." He laughed at his friend all-knowingly, "You really love her don't you, albino boy."

Draco winced at the name, "I'm not an albino," he said sullenly.

"I know," Tom said, "I was just joking."

"Tom," he whispered, "When will this be over?"

The twenty year-old boy looked into Draco's grey eyes and couldn't bear to answer the poor child. Even though the general's were fools to believe Draco was eighteen, he was not. He knew perfectly well Draco was at least fifteen or sixteen.

And being at such a young age was death-defying out here in the open. The side-shows were not fought here. This was chaos.

"Pretty soon," Tom said as cheerfully as he could.

"I hope so," Draco said, "'Cause I don't think Hermione will remember me if I return any later."

Tom looked on to the boy and sighed, taking out the alcohol and drenching the cloth with its liquid.