Disclamer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters, blah blah blah

Since this is a fan fiction website, why can't their just be a site-wide disclamer so that we don't have to write it over and over?

Tee hee, just thought of this and decided to run with it.

Enjoy, my fellow fanfiction... people.


Eleven-year-old Hermione Granger had no trouble getting through the barrier to platform nine and three quarters. She may not have grown up in the magical world, but she wasn't stupid. There was a reason she had read Hogwarts, A History over and over. She didn't plan on making a fool out of herself in front of so many people who had grown up with magic their whole lives.

She examined the platform, scoffing at the scarlet train. Seriously, scarlet? Why couldn't it be black the rest of the bloody trains in the world?

The girl glanced around at the families saying goodbye. Hermione had said goodbye to her parents outside of the station. She wasn't sure how witches and wizards treated muggles, and even if they treated her parents well, she didn't want them to feel awkward. Not when the magical world was where she belonged now.

It was while she was thinking about this, when someone bumped into her from behind, sending them both clattering towards the ground.

"Sorry." muttered the blonde boy, getting off of her and picking up his stuff as fast as he could.

"Hermione Granger." Hermione introduced after gathering her own things, sticking out her hand.

"Draco Malfoy." replied Draco, shaking it.

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah sure." he replied, looking distraced. He must have found who he was looking for, because the next second, Hermione was watching him hug two platinum blonde adults goodbye. She assumed they were his parents.

Feeling a little homesick as she saw this, Hermione ducked her head, hair covering her face in case she cried. Draco must have noticed, because the next moment, Hermione felt a slight breeze as someone passed behind her.

"Don't be sad."

It would be the last act of kindness he would ever show her.

After all, she was just a filthy mudblood.


That's right. Because when you write in third person, you can say as much about the characters as you want; whether or not they know what you're revealing at the time.