The public library was really the only place Hermione felt at ease. She
could curl up in a corner and finish her math homework, or devour a classic
novel with no interruptions.
Now, she sat reading poetry by Emily Dickinson. Her books didn't call her childish names like 'teacher's pet' or 'know-it-all', but fueled her active mind... and yet... something was missing. She felt a sense of emptiness that her literature couldn't fill; a sense of unfinished business, which was odd, because she was only 11 years old.
Dickinson's words wrapped her into a quiet state of mind, like a warm blanket on a chilly night. Hermione didn't even notice the brown owl outside the window, awake in broad daylight. It dropped the paper it was carrying in its beak through the crack in the window, and it magically floated onto the arm of Hermione's chair.
The soft sound created by the paper landing on the wooden arm woke Hermione from her bemused reading.
"How curious," she thought as she examined the letter; it had to be a letter, because it was addressed to her clearly in green writing and sealed with a wax seal.
Hermione began to rip the heavy envelope open, when she hesitated... how curious...
Strange and unexpected things always seemed to happen around her, and always ended up reflecting bad on herself. Once at school, tired with all the immature remarks following her down the corridors, Hermione threw her books to the ground in pent-up fury. Below her, on the first floor where the younger children had classes, all the ceiling lights expelled bright sparks and exploded. She spent long hours in the headmaster's room attempting to explain what happened...
The heavy letter sat in her hand, halfway opened. She wasn't sure how something like a strange letter might give her as much grief as those books had, but she didn't want anything that bad to happen again.
And yet... the letter seemed to have something good about it; an aura of something magical akin to what Hermione had felt in the past few years of her life.
She tore the envelope open, and unfolded the letter:
Dear Ms. Granger...
Now, she sat reading poetry by Emily Dickinson. Her books didn't call her childish names like 'teacher's pet' or 'know-it-all', but fueled her active mind... and yet... something was missing. She felt a sense of emptiness that her literature couldn't fill; a sense of unfinished business, which was odd, because she was only 11 years old.
Dickinson's words wrapped her into a quiet state of mind, like a warm blanket on a chilly night. Hermione didn't even notice the brown owl outside the window, awake in broad daylight. It dropped the paper it was carrying in its beak through the crack in the window, and it magically floated onto the arm of Hermione's chair.
The soft sound created by the paper landing on the wooden arm woke Hermione from her bemused reading.
"How curious," she thought as she examined the letter; it had to be a letter, because it was addressed to her clearly in green writing and sealed with a wax seal.
Hermione began to rip the heavy envelope open, when she hesitated... how curious...
Strange and unexpected things always seemed to happen around her, and always ended up reflecting bad on herself. Once at school, tired with all the immature remarks following her down the corridors, Hermione threw her books to the ground in pent-up fury. Below her, on the first floor where the younger children had classes, all the ceiling lights expelled bright sparks and exploded. She spent long hours in the headmaster's room attempting to explain what happened...
The heavy letter sat in her hand, halfway opened. She wasn't sure how something like a strange letter might give her as much grief as those books had, but she didn't want anything that bad to happen again.
And yet... the letter seemed to have something good about it; an aura of something magical akin to what Hermione had felt in the past few years of her life.
She tore the envelope open, and unfolded the letter:
Dear Ms. Granger...