Hermione would never forget the boy she had met that day she had been sent to deliver wine and bread to her grandmother. Sometimes, when the moon hit the frost just right during those scarce clear winter nights, Hermione was reminded of his hair. It was unnaturally bright, almost as white as her Granny’s. It shimmied as he strutted about, his little chest covered in a perfectly pressed button down shirt and puffed out as if he owned the very ground beneath his privileged feet. 