Chapter One:

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Hermione Jean Granger arrived in Little Hangleton at the age of eight with her mother. Her father, Dr Granger, believed that his wife and beloved daughter would be safer from the imminent war in a city far from the capital.

Although Hermione was always a withdrawn and somewhat introverted girl, or so she concluded in her self-discovery through the years. However, it took only a few months for her to become friends with a very charismatic black-haired boy who was acclaimed by the small town. It turned out that, fortunately, and unfortunately for Hermione, the Potters had a very good reputation in this small community. Members of the selective elite that made up this world and recognized for their philanthropic work.

Harry is, at least, everything you'd expect from the eldest son of a highly respected war veteran in the region, running around from an early age in the regalia of high London lineage. Everything about him indicates success, except for his unremarkable academic achievements. Athletic for excellence and a promising musician. On the other hand, there is Ron Weasley. His lifelong friend. Therefore, Hermione was forced to interact with him if she wanted to be with Harry.

Ron was, therefore, contrary to Harry, average. He was largely despised for his humble origins and obvious poverty. The Weasleys were a very large and hard-working family, owning a farm on the edge of Little Hangleton. Ron is the youngest of six siblings, as well as his little sister. Even so, the Weasleys had one characteristic that set them apart from the other townspeople. Their distinctive personalities and their distribution of aptitudes throughout the family. However, the aforementioned lacked a "perhaps that was his quality". Anyway, made him seem mediocre compared to his brothers. Although, being the best friend of The Great Harry Potter, he obtained more respect on a remarkable social scale. That did not mean, a development in their individual status.

This notable inferiority compared to those who were close to him led him to develop a desperate attempt to impose himself on others. Making Hermione herself the target of his scornful taunts during the first months of her stay in this hellish town. Exiled during breaks, having lunch in the dining room with the other social pariah, the boy Neville Longbottom and his toad, Trevor. With whom she had the pleasure of meeting on the bus on the way to school on the first day of school.

If it wasn't previously her quick responses and constant efforts in subjects, they wouldn't make her look like the insufferable know-it-all they said she was: The mind-boggling number of hours she spent in the school and public libraries reflected her social life" or the complete absence of it". Delving into the landscapes of books and their riches became her habit, even after her growing friendship with Harry and Ron.

After spending the next half of her life in this small town, Hermione, at the age of sixteen, still resisted full integration into L. H. High School. She only had Harry and Ron, in addition to a few acquaintances between them, among whom the youngest of the Weasleys, Ginny, stood out. She inherited all the charisma and character that her friend did not possess. Captain of the school's women's soccer league, one of the few in all of England. A formidable woman, without a doubt.

At the beginning of her first year of high school, in the same old establishment where she attended elementary school due to the low population of the city, she roamed morosely, the same desolate grounds of her first few years as a newcomer, of a yard recklessly shared with small children. As a result of this forced interaction, Hermione was hit with a bloody soccer ball in the face. "Sh*t," she muttered in palpable pain, holding her nose to stop the bleeding that was starting to seep into her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," a boy began to yell as he ran rampant towards her. Hermione pressed a little more on the bridge of her badly injured nose and cautiously lowered her head. She had read about this in "First Aid for Beginners," a common and useful book in times of war.

The next step, to follow, was supposed to introduce an absorbent material. So she made use of her handkerchief. Once she was sure it was well positioned, she lowered her gaze and a freckled brat with brown, dung-coloured hair materialised next to him. "I'm very sorry, I didn't see you," he hastened an explanation, showing concern and made a move to reach her. She backed away in annoyance, getting noticeably dizzy in the process. She closed her eyes abruptly, relieving the dizzying waves that were invading her, and proceeded to glare at him. Embarrassed, the boy averted his greenish gaze, then turned to her with his small pleading face at her silence. When she finally nodded in response and opted to turn around and go to what was her initial destination. The sycamore, located almost at the bottom of the hill where the School was located. It is her favourite reading place, in short, quieter than the library. In addition to being one of the most frequent meeting points for his friends; Harry loved coming here to play the guitar and get inspired. He usually says that it is a beautiful view of the city, and the truth is that she cannot deny it. Due to the perfect inclination this point of the hill has, most of the town is visible, except for Ron's farm, which is located at the southern end of the valley, where the last houses of the population are.

The first shadows of the branches of the beautiful and great sycamore tree barely touched her. She tumbled ungracefully into the soft, fluffy grass. And as soon as she felt her latent dizziness abate a bit, she cautiously withdrew the handkerchief. She noted that what had once been a flawless white was now a dull scarlet red with moisture. With her finger, she detailed the initials of her name embroidered on the edge of the piece of cloth. The clouds intertwined, causing the place to dimly darken, and the bell rang in the distance in an indication of the culminating recess. She had to leave reluctantly as she tugged in frustration at her books, clenched by the belt that was between her fingers with its respective buckle, still intact.

To add to Hermione's misfortune, she missed half of the next class, which was one of her favourites: Arithmetic with Miss. Vector, who fulfilled the high expectations she had for women's roles in modern society. Reluctantly, she sat on the stretcher while she waited for Madam Pomfrey to do the proper healing on her. Touching the green surface of a padded fabric, she listened attentively to her reciting the last instructions. In an hour or so, I had to remove the cotton with the antiseptic. She hummed an answer and went out, after thanking her, the special nursing note tucked in her jacket pocket.

She touched the varnished boards in three soft taps when Miss. Vector opened the door with impatience accentuated on her face. She was annoyed by her interruption, but noticing the swelling and redness of the girl's face, concern took its place. "But what happened to you, Miss Granger?" she exclaimed in alarm, drawing even more attention from the class. Everyone, even those who had refused to look up from their notebooks the first time, was now looking with expectation and curiosity in equal parts. Uninhibited, Hermione straightened up and passed her special note to the Professor without saying a word, due to the pain in her mouth. She quickly read what it contained and hastened to let her through.

Once inside, Hermione nimbly went to her place in the front, to one side of the window; fortunately, she was able to avoid the questions until the end of class. Harry and Ron immediately jumped at her when the bell signalled the end of the school day. "What the hell happened to you, Mione?" Harry questioned in a whisper as he noticed the questioning looks from the others. Ron, on the other hand, that neither subtlety nor insight is one of his prominent traits, roughly pointed at her face with one of his large hands. "Jesus Mione, you couldn't have been hit by a loose ball," he said between laughs. However, Ron had the power to say off-the-cuff things that fell into just the right place, almost foreboding. She only responded by rolling her eyes, glaring at him with irritation. It was frustrating how he guessed such illogical things and yet was unable to read simple social cues. Harry, on the other hand, receptive as he is, quickly put the pieces together and guessed that Ron hit the nail on the head. So, with a nudge to the ribs, he stopped their giggling and when Ron seemed to want to protest, he nodded for her to be quiet. After a few contemplative seconds, Ron lowered his head and looked at Hermione through his eyelashes. "I'm sorry, Mione," he said in a regretful whisper, "you know I'm not good at this," he clarified, straightening up as he ran a hand over his neck in embarrassment. She looked at him for a few seconds, analysing his freckled face with his blue eyes, and ended up raising her lips in an attempt at a half smile.

Later, after school, leaving the girls' bathroom after throwing out the cotton and wiping up the traces of blood that Madam Pomfrey couldn't remove, she bumped into Draco Malfoy, a first-class elitist asshole. With his disgustingly white-blonde hair and the typical mocking smile adorning his pale face, "But look, look," he crooned as he studied her with disdain, "What do we have here, Granger?" he continued, standing a few steps from her, "did they finally decide to fix your ugly face?" he asked sardonically as he looked to his sides at his two bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, the only ones who laughed at his bad joke. "Leave me alone, Malfoy," she replied angrily and tried to pass him. Draco, on the other hand, wasn't planning on letting her go, so he boldly stepped into her path, arms folded, eyes haughty, causing the tangle of hair that made up her to collide squarely with his chest, resulting in her resentful nose bursting red again. She pulled away with a small, pained moan, trying to stem the blood with her fingers. Draco backed away in disgust. "Your damn Mud blood is on my shirt," he yelled hysterically as he desperately tried to wipe the reddish droplets off with his handkerchief. "Crabbe, Goyle," he called to Tweedledum and Tweedledee, "tell Nott to give me his shirt to spare it," he ordered impatiently, still engrossed in his task.

By Hermione's sudden luck, she was able to stop the small bleeding, since apparently, the blow was not hard enough to open the wound seriously. "You're a bloody idiot, Malfoy," she snapped, hitting his shoulder fiercely as she walked determinedly past him. "Where do you think you're going, Granger?" He warned behind her. She whirled around, her fists clenched as she glared daggers at him. "What the hell is wrong with you, Malfoy?" she questioned while grinding her teeth, "Has your dear daddy already got bored with your ugly face?" she returned with an arched eyebrow. Draco visibly clenched his jaw at the mention of his father, "Or did he already realise his son's inefficiency and decided to replace the years of education you lack?" she continued as she watched his grey orbs darken with rage. "Perhaps that's why he can no longer make use of his position as Mayor and give you private lessons with our teachers?" she suggested condescendingly and smiled when he widened his eyes in bewilderment at her knowledge of the case, "I mean, Professor Snape got fired for a reason, right?" she scoffed with a lift of her head and crossed her arms. At this point, surprise turned to pure anger, and he roughly grabbed her by the edges of her shirt, but before he could get anything out of his mouth, Hermione cut him off. "It's not like anyone knows Snape is your godfather, Malfoy," she challenged, her chin raised, almost brushing against his. He inhaled sharply before releasing her and leaving without another word.

Hermione was stunned, not expecting such a reaction from him. But after a few seconds, she decided it wasn't worth spending any more time on it and ended up leaving as quickly as possible to her house, alone. Harry and Ron have soccer practice today.

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Months passed until the summer holidays arrived. Last year's festivities were not worth mentioning, for obvious reasons, as energetic as the celebrations could be with most of the men of the families in the bloody war that was raging on the continent. In addition to the constant fear of bombing, anguish was a familiar feeling in the world at this time.

But it wasn't until this summer that the entire town was shocked, one of the most important families in the town, if not the most relevant. One of the founders of Little Hangleton, with one of the greatest accumulated wealth, along with the Potters and Malfoys. The Riddles stood out for their sobriety and reserved lifestyle; it is said that before they were more opulent. However, since the scandalous incident with the only heir in the family, they have become more conservative. Their mansion, Riddle Manor, is located on the north side of the city, specifically, next to Hermione's house. It might have been a nice coincidence, except that it was now a crime scene. Creepy is a much better adjective to describe this situation right now. And that's how Hermione's room became the new operations centre for the private investigation team of Potter 'n' Weasley Cop Forces.

She was reading one of her favourite books, leaning back on the single arm of her maroon chair, Crookshanks at her feet. Meanwhile, Harry was staring intently out the window, Ron was stretched out on the ramrod at the end of the bed with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, boredom flooding his features. "I think it was a murder carried out by an outsider," Harry interrupted thoughtfully with his hand resting on his chin as he moved away from the window. Hermione gave him a silent contemplative look, considering the possibility. "Do you think that?" Ron asked incredulously, settling back to look directly at him. Harry frowned at him but then nodded. "Why do you think that, Harry?" Hermione probed into his reasoning, and Ron backed her up with a nasal sound. "I don't know," he admitted with a shrug, "it's just an intuition, I think," he concluded, sinking his index finger under his lower lip and turning to the window. "And who is supposed to have done it?" asked the redhead in a rather annoying mocking tone, "A bastard son or something?" He said between shrill laughs. Harry gave him an irritated look over his shoulder. Tired of his best friend's rude behaviour, he decided to ignore it and turned his attention back to the events in the house of her late neighbours.

Hermione trended in his thoughts directed to the assumption that the black-haired man had made. Could it be that he had seen something? Perhaps he perceived the same thing as her? She tried to convince herself that it was just hallucinations of a listless mind. A few minutes passed before she dared to share these questions with her friends when she was interrupted by her dear mother. Who knocked uselessly on the open door of his room with three soft knocks on the white wood. Mrs Granger was as helpful as usual, a common behaviour gets by her trade. He brought them a tray with appetisers and tea.

Chewing on a biscuit, Hermione leaned forward. "I think we should be more cautious with this research they're doing," she suggested after swallowing some tea. "What are you talking about?" the redhead tried to say with a mouth full of food. "Don't be disgusting, Ron," she scolded him. "I hate it when he does that. It's repulsive." "But Ron's right, Mione," Harry said, wiping his mouth. "Why do you say that? We haven't done anything yet," he clarified, looking at her curiously. "No," she declared, leaving her cup on the table. "You haven't done it yet," she admitted, with her eyes fixed on the two heads in front of her. Interspersing between the greenish and bluish confused look of her friends, she continuously mused, "However, I know that it won't take long for them to do something imprudent to decipher this mystery," she finished, still with her captured smile. Before turning her gaze to her window, she saw Harry happily shaking his head and Ron still stunned, not understanding anything. The slight movement of the lilac petals on her porch announced the weak summer breeze hitting the glass. Maybe she should tell them soon, though they probably wouldn't believe her or take the weight they should. Especially Ron. Harry would be more willing to consider it for a while before ruling it out completely.

The image of a slim and tall figure invaded her mind. Black eyes, two dark pits like his raven hair, echoed in her consciousness. But it was that completely maniacal and Machiavellian smile, with which she saw him notice the imposing, wooden Riddle door, which convinced her. "Guys," she called, taking a deep breath. "I have to tell you something," she risked as she held her gaze. This was going to be a difficult afternoon for Hermione. That thought she naively had, without knowing what was ahead of her.

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