"Maybe you shouldn't judge a book by its cover," she said.
Draco rolled his eyes. "That's precisely what the covers are for, to judge the book by. For example," he picked out a book from the bookshelf behind him, "the cover of this book tells...
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1. I meet a famous person
warnings: none.
♥
DESPITE the faith Aria Connor had in the instructions she'd received from Professor McGonagall, she couldn't help but close her eyes as she set off in a run towards the wall separating platform nine and ten. After all, what was faith against basic human instincts? But no crash ever came, she kept on running — so Aria opened her eyes. A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform with a handful of people on it. A sign overhead read Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock. She looked behind her and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. A grin spread across Aria's face. She'd done it. This wasn't a dream. She was actually here.
Taking a deep breath, Aria reached back and tightened her ponytail before pushing her cart down the platform. There were so many new impressions around her that it was hard to keep up, and she wanted to see everything. Cats of every colour were running between the legs of the chattering groups, and owls hooted to one another above. She boarded the train once she was caught staring at an older boy's magical broomstick. It didn't take long before she found an empty compartment. She tucked her trunk away in a corner and sat down next to the window, where she had a clear view of the platform.
Aria had already said goodbye to her parents at Kings Cross, since, apparently, muggles couldn't enter the magic platform. She'd asked professor McGonagall if there was a way for her to communicate with them while she was away at Hogwarts. While the school didn't have any phone booths, it had owls. So letter writing it was. It might be slow, but it was certainly better than nothing.
Opening the messenger bag she carried with her, Aria pulled out a picture of her and her parents from the outside pocket. They had taken it last summer when her mom had finally gotten a break from work and the three of them went to the beach together.
In the picture, her Dad was smiling big. His stormy gray eyes that Aria had inherited sparkled, and he had his arm wrapped around her Mum. He was rocking a Hawaiian shirt and swimming trunks, his brown hair was balding — but he couldn't care less. That summer her Mum had encouraged him to start working out, but he insisted that, for bakers, a little weight was nothing more than an "occupational hazard".
