I'm not sure where to begin. This idea came to me after watching "The Greatest Showman", and it's grown into something spectacular. This will follow more or less the entire movie, along with extra scenes, because this is being told from a Dramione POV for the most part. YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THE MOVIE TO ENJOY THIS FIC. I've added a magical twist to it! (And there WILL be variations, so just because you've seen the movie doesn't mean you know the whole story!) I wouldn't have been able to do this without the support of LightofEvolution and LondonsLegend. These ladies are my rock, my foundation. Without them, I would be nothing. They deserve all of the alpha and beta credits through this fic.

I hope this story touches your heart. Too many times, we're quick to judge others without knowing them. I hope you walk away at the end of this story with a brighter outlook on life. I hope you smile a little more.

See you on the other side.
~A.

Rewrite The Stars
By MrBenzedrine
Rating: M for language, lemons, and topics of racism and hate speech
Summary: 1800's Magical AU. The wizarding world is intolerant of anyone different, but George Weasley has a plan to change all of that: he wants to feature the oddities of society, including 'fantastic beasts and magical plebeians alike'. He somehow convinces Hermione Granger, a 'mudblood' by status, to join his show to prove to everyone that muggle borns aren't to be taken lightly. When he hires on pureblood Draco Malfoy as his business partner, Hermione has her doubts about his intentions. The stars will be rewritten in this Dramione parody of 'The Greatest Showman.'

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own The Greatest Showman, and I will not make a profit from this story.

Chapter One: A Million Dreams

In a fire pit, everyone is equal. Fire has no favoritism just as it has no prejudices. In a way, it's pure. Pure like the blood coursing through Draco Malfoy's veins that fateful night. The smoke in his lungs, the burns on his hands - none of it registered. All he could think about was keeping his friends alive.

"Come on, Potter. Keep up."

He shifted the weight of Harry Potter on his shoulders, eyes tearing up against the heat of the flames around them. The groan of a beam could be heard somewhere above their heads, threatening to break at any moment.

"Luna…"

"She made it out," he assured the other man, though doubt trembled in his heart. Draco could have sworn he saw her make it, but maybe that was the smoke messing with his eyes. "Come on. Push through it." He referred to the blood pouring from Potter's ear, no doubt throwing off the man's equilibrium.

Instinct told Draco to draw his wand and fan the flames; logic told him it was no use. Fiendfyre didn't play to nature's rules. It was as unforgiving as the cold hearts who had cast the spell in the first place.

The next moments were a blur. He didn't realize they were out until cold air whipped them both in the face like whiplash, filling their lungs and stinging their burns. Draco's vision blurred as they trudged forward, nearly stumbling their way until they both toppled over in front of a familiar group of faces.

"Shit." Someone pulled Draco up to a sitting position, slapping him lightly in the face. "Malfoy - Draco, stay with me, mate." A pair of eyes he hadn't seen in months fell into focus. "Is everyone out? Everyone alright?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but the voice that spoke was scratchy and foreign. "Like you care." He shoved George Weasley hard in the chest - well, as hard as he could muster. He was lightheaded and drained of nearly all his energy. It still didn't stop him from scouring the crowd in search of a single face.

"Hermione…" He sprang to his feet, nearly pushing George onto his back in the process. "Has anyone seen Hermione?"

His feet took over, trudging into the crowd, shoving onlookers to the side while frantically searching for a hint of those curly tresses. No, she had to be here. She just had to.

"Weasley!" He caught sight of Ron Weasley being treated for his burned arm. "Weasley, where's Hermione?"

"What?" Ron's already pale face drained of all color. "Sh-She's not with you?"

"Malfoy!" A soft hand brushed his shoulder. It was Luna Lovegood, tears streaming down her sooted cheeks. "I-I saw Hermione running back for the hippogriff!"

"She what?"

All spectators watched in horror as the fiendfyre flared, bursting the windows from the second story.

There was no hesitation in what Draco did next. Without thinking, he jerked off his singed blazer and charged toward the building faster than his friends could stop him.

"No! Malfoy!"

But Draco wouldn't listen to George Weasley's protests. He leapt through the ring of fire that was the entrance to the building with little thought except to find her. No spell would quench the fiendfyre's thirst to destroy, but he couldn't let her down. Not now. Not again.

He'd rather die.

Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for (woah)
Been searching in the dark, your sweat soaking through the floor (woah)
And buried in your bones there's an ache that you can't ignore
Taking your breath, stealing your mind
And all that was real is left behind

Don't fight it, it's coming for you, running at ya
It's only this moment, don't care what comes after
Your fever dream, can't you see it getting closer
Just surrender 'cause you feel the feeling taking over
It's fire, it's freedom, it's flooding open
It's a preacher in the pulpit and you'll find devotion
There's something breaking at the brick of every wall it's holding
All that you know, so tell me do you wanna go?

"The Greatest Show" -The Greatest Showman Soundtrack

Some time ago...

"I'll admit, Miss Granger, your resume looks promising." Horace Slughorn peered over the rim of his glasses at the woman seated across from him, trailing his gaze atop the stray curls falling around her face from her mop of hazelnut hair. She was pretty, yes. Young, too. And gifted, according to her former professors. But even Horace, master of failure at reading social cues, could sense her uneasiness. "I see you were born here in England, but you've traveled and graduated top of your class at Ilvermorny?"

"That's right." She nodded firmly, her eyes never quite meeting his.

"So, what brings you back to England?"

"My father is ill…" As if afraid it wasn't enough information, she added hastily, "My mother is accomplished, but he needs around the clock care, and-"

"And you're trying to help make ends meet, is that right?"

Another nod.

"Graduated with honors. Able to perform a patronus - my, my. How impressive, and especially at your age. -Er, how old are you again, dear?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"Nineteen. Yes. I suppose if I did the math," he mused, glancing down at her date of birth. "And what is it your mother does?"

A pause. Horace noticed the way her hands began wrung together. Hermione Granger, to her credit, kept a gentle voice as she replied, albeit crisply, "I'm not sure what my mother's profession has to do with my own, Mister Slughorn. I've applied for the job, and if you'll notice, I'm more than qualified-"

"Overqualified is the word you're looking for, I believe," Horace corrected her, setting her resume parchment neatly on top of his table and pointing to a specific line on the page. "However, it seems you've left your blood status blank."

He didn't receive an answer instantly; Horace watched the gears in the young witch's head grind and groan, thinking up a valid excuse. Finally, she muttered out, "My mother is a dentist, sir. Both of my parents."

"I see." Horace let the room fall into an uncomfortable silence, pondering how best to approach his next request. This was always such a delicate matter, but it needed to be done. "And...could you shift your hair to the side, Miss Granger?"

He watched her hesitation, but she still presented her neck, nonetheless. And there was…

Nothing. Not even a trace of a mark.

"Please-" she began, but Horace cut her off with a quick wave of the hand.

"I'm sorry, you've wasted your time. As the sign in the window clearly states, blood status must be half blood or higher." Horace began to gather his things, though to what end he didn't know; this was his office, after all. Then again, anything would be better than a stuffy room filled with muggleborn air.

"But you said it yourself! I'm more than qualified!" The girl slammed her hand down on his desk, startling the older man. "Overqualified - your word!"

"Overqualified for a half-blood, yes. But - oh, my dear," Horace grimaced, guilt flooding his heart. "It isn't that I despise you. Quite the opposite, really. I have a second cousin who was a remarkable muggleborn witch."

"Then hire me," she challenged.

"And risk my entire potions business? I think not." Stuffing his paperwork into his briefcase, Horace made to move around the desk and dash to the door, but the shorter witch practically leapt out of her chair and blocked his path. A wild, determined look shrouded her eyes.

"Sir, you don't understand. If I can't find a job to help my family, my father will surely die."

"And if I hire you, I might as well be dead myself," Horace countered gravely, pushing the girl not-so-lightly to the side. She landed with a thunk against the edge of his desk, wincing. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger. Truly, deeply, I am. But I must…" He cleared his throat. "I must ask you to leave my office at once."

"But-"

"Now. Before I hale an Auror."

She left nearly the same way she came in - shaking, hair flying this way and that - but this time, when she strode across the floor to the door, she left a blaze of fiery footprints that singed the wooden floorboards on the way out. Right before she slammed the door shut, she said, barely above a whisper, "Mark my words, Mister Slughorn. You will regret this day."

As Hermione stepped out onto the streets of Diagon Alley, she sighed, staring down at her boots, which were now a charred shade of black instead of their usual brown. This would be the third pair of shoes she'd ruined and her fifth job decline this week. There was a snort to her left, and she turned on the spot, brandishing her wand and pointing it in the throat of a wide-eyed redhead.

"Oi, Hermione!" the man squeaked. "S'just me!"

Amused, she stared into the blue eyes of her best friend and counterpart, Ron Weasley. "I know. But perhaps this will teach you not to sneak up on unassuming ladies in the middle of the day?" With a smirk, she removed her wand and giggled.

"One problem with that," Ron countered crossly, rubbing his throat. "You're not a lady - you're a beast with inhuman reflexes."

"And don't you forget it." Hermione beamed.

"You're in awfully good spirits for someone who just got denied a job."

"How did you know I was denied?"

Ron motioned to her shoes, and a flood of heat rushed up Hermione's neck, settling into her cheeks. She tucked a lock of curls behind each ear before plopping down on the steps of Slughorn's Potions and Miracles, already setting to work on unlacing her boots. "Ginny will be cross with me. These were hers."

"You really ought to watch that temper of yours." Ron took a seat beside her to keep her company as she worked.

"You're one to talk, Ronald. Or need I remind you of the squabble you had last week inside The Leaky Cauldron?" Satisfied with the deepening shade of red to Ron's ears, Hermione yanked off the boot and tossed it down the steps. As she began to strip the laces off her other one, she added, "That absolute sod…"

"Yeah, the bartender had no right to throw me out."

"What? No. Not the bartender. Slughorn." She motioned back to the shop behind them. "And the bartender had every right. You were acting like a buffoon. Even if that Goyle did call you a..." The word fell short on her lips.

"Which is why I had every right to do what I did."

"Really? Going fisticuffs with a 20 stone dunderhead sounds intelligent to you, does it?"

"It wasn't like I could challenge him to a duel, Hermione."

"True…"

"Anyway, none of this matters, because George is taking us to lunch."

Hermione's head popped up at that. "George? Your brother, George?"

"Do we know another George?"

Skeptically, she quirked an eyebrow. "What's he want this time?"

"Oh, good. You're suspicious too."

"Of course, I'm suspicious. I'd have to be daft not to be. He's always got a trick up his sleeve - quite literally, at times. Especially since he began apprenticing under that fraud of a salesman."

"Lockhart," they said in unison.

"Ehhh…." Ron made a grimace, sparking Hermione's interest. "That's actually gone under."

"Since when?" she gasped.

"Since George started showing him up. He got sacked a few weeks ago."

When it rains, it pours, thought Hermione disheartenedly. "How is he going to take us out to lunch, then?"

"Dunno. But honestly, I'm so hungry, I couldn't care less as to the how, as long as it happens." Ron rubbed his stomach theatrically.

With the final boot off, Hermione extended her stocking-covered feet and gave a long stretch. She bathed in the sun beams peeking through the clouds above, trying to remain optimistic. No, she didn't land this job. But she had two more interviews this week. Surely something would stick. She needed it to. It was true - her father was dying, and no amount of magic could stop it. No matter how hard she tried to find a cure, there simply was none to the effects of a failing heart.

But she could keep him comfortable, and she could protect her mother from having to dip into her pension - if she could find a suitable job to help cover the expenses. "It's so disheartening," she whispered, more to herself than to Ron, who she knew had it just as bad as she did, if not worse. "Well, no use in crying over a spilled cauldron, right?"

"That's what Mum always says - but you know what no one ever talks about? What's actually spilled! I dunno about you, but if I had a cauldron full of felix felicis and it tipped, I'd be bawling my eyes out. - Er, Hermione? No offence, but you're not really going to walk barefoot, are you?"

"Don't be silly." With a simple spell and her wand pointed at her toes, Hermione pushed herself up to stand, but her feet never touched the surface of the stone beneath her. She hovered just above, beaming proudly at her spellwork. "Now, hand me those shoes. I'll work on them on the way."

As they walked, the two of them fell into a comfortable cadence of musical hums and not much else. They'd known each other since they were children; it was like the two of them shared a single heartbeat - even after she'd moved to America. The change had been hard, and saying goodbye doubly so, but life had been easier in the States. And she was about to be reminded why that was.

They strolled quietly down the street, past the street vendors and beggars on the corner. Hermione veered around a group of boys staring in the window of the Quidditch store, where they were unravelling their newest creation: The Silver Arrow. It was then that she tossed Ginny's boots into a nearby bin - there would be no salvaging them, unfortunately.

"Blimey," Ron gasped, stopping behind the gaggle of boys, over a head taller than them. "Hermione, get a look at this."

"It's a broomstick."

"Not just any broomstick," he countered, shaking his head. "That's the new Arrow. It's Helluva lot faster than the Oakshaft 79, but the creator only works on one at a time. They're super rare."

Hermione was about to pretend to be mildly interested when one of the boys in front of them turned around, possibly to talk broomsticks with Ron. That was, until he noticed the raised, puckered skin along the pulsepoint under his jaw peeking underneath his collar. It had been a beautiful mark, once. Just as beautiful as the soul it had belonged to.

But to the wizarding world of Britain, none of that mattered.

"Huh. What's an ickle squibby like you gonna do with a broomstick?" The boy smirked when his words caught the attention of his friends, who all turned to see the spectacle of Ron's scarred throat.

"Did you just say squib?" another boy asked, standing on his tiptoes to get a closer look at the towering form of Ron. "I've never seen one up close! Mum says they carry diseases!"

All of the color drained from Ron's face as blood rushed to his ears. For a man standing at nearly two meters tall, he looked as if he was that small boy standing on his front porch the morning he found out he would never harness magic.

"I...I-er-"

"That's right, boys." Hermione wrapped an arm around Ron's wiry bicep, tugging him forward. "He's rabid, and if you continue to tease him, he might bite you!"

"Hermione-" Ron laughed sheepishly, admiring the way the boy that had been crowding him suddenly jerked back in fear. Still, her words did nothing to deter the first lad, who gave a loud snort and stood his ground.

"Like I'd believe anything that a mudblood has to say." He tilted his head to expose the intricate design of the burning blue North Star, branded just below his jawline in the same spot as Ron's scar. Then, he took a step forward, right into Hermione's personal space. "My mum told me about your kind. You're even worse than ickle squibby over there."

"If you're referring to that overblown myth-"

"You've heard the story, right fellas?" The boy called over his shoulder smugly, reciting the tale from memory. Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes in exasperation. "Your mums have told you, right? In the beginning, magic was for everyone. But there were a few who committed unforgivable sins - misused magic. And when their children's time came to be marked, the magic repelled them. It wanted nothing to do with the traitors!" He spat on the ground at Hermione's stockings. "And so the muggles were spawned. Mudbloods are just magic thieves!"

"That is not true!" Hermione found herself shouting, her prideful nature taking over her logical thinking. "That's an old wives tale your mothers tell you to scare you! Your markings haven't been here since the beginning of time. If you actually did any research, you'd know that! How on earth could you actually believe-"

A hand lightly touched her shoulder. "Now, gents. That's no way to speak to a lady. Especially one with a friend willing to give away sweets to brats who skedaddle on their merry way elsewhere." Someone pulled Hermione backwards, stepped in front of her, and rummaged through his pockets until he brought forth a selection of various-colored candy canes. He wore robes the color of crimson with a matching top hat, making him look more like a muggle's version of a magician than an actual wizard. But Hermione would recognize that blaze of red hair anywhere.

"I know you," said the first boy, narrowing his eyes but still not too prideful to take a candy. "You're that Weasley."

"That Weasley? My, but that is flattering. Especially since there are so many of us." The man straightened his shoulders and tugged on the edges of his blazer, grinning ear-to-ear. "George Weasley, my good fellow. Best remember the name - you're going to be hearing a lot of it around town in the future."

The boy eyed George's tattoo that so nearly matched his own, an internal debate swimming around in his head. "Yeah...whatever." Deciding against his impulse, he shrugged, already popping the end of the candy cane in his mouth and shooting both Hermione and Ron a sneerful expression. "S'your choice to entertain the freaks."

"An excellent choice of words, I would say," George muttered to himself, turning around and sending Hermione a grin that perplexed her to no end. "'Allo, Hermione. Been a while."

Before Hermione could get a word of introduction in, Ron interjected, "I thought we were meeting you for lunch. Don't tell me you've changed your mind."

"We're not freaks," Hermione stated quietly, holding her head high. It needed to be said aloud. It needed to be solidified.

"No. Indeed, you're not. But as for the entertainment…" George's smile widened, piquing her interest.

"Food! Why aren't we talking about food?" Ron groaned.

"Relax, baby brother. Ol' Georgie-boy has that all sorted away. - Come on, follow me. There's plenty of food where we're going." He gestured forward with his arm. "Onward!"

As they followed George down the busy street, Hermione noted, "You're acting quite chipper for someone who just recently lost his only source of income."

"Am I? I'd say I'm acting the appropriate amount of chipper - especially for someone who has gained new ventures through the loss of a drab, incomplete experience that was my previous place of employment."

"But Angelina? Surely she isn't thrilled." Angelina, as they all knew, was George's wife and mother of their two children.

"Thrilled? I dare say not. But she's coming around to the idea, so that's something."

"I'm lost," said Ron.

"Not to worry. Stick with me, and you'll be found in no time." George tilted his head toward Hermione, or more so to her lack of shoes. She was still levitating just barely above the bricks beneath her. "Quite a handy - or should I say footsie - trick you have there."

"Levitation charms are quite common, George," she stated.

"Yes, yes. But the skill to hover just above the stone - that takes talent above the skills of even most elite wizards and witches alike."

"It's not that impressive," Hermione replied, letting her curls fall over her face to hide the forming blush on her cheeks. It was nice having someone compliment her spellwork, as it was so rare for anyone to give her the time of day. In America, it hadn't been this way. The only thing that mattered was if you could or couldn't perform magic. But here, back home, not all magic was viewed the same - even if it most certainly was. It all came down to the elitist mark given to those select few at birth. The world was changing, but the magical society was still bleeding their old ways.

And Hermione Granger, muggleborn and first witch in her family, was stuck smack dab in the middle of it all. Whether she wanted to be or not.

It just didn't seem fair - not the lingering stares or the whispers as she passed down the street. Most muggleborns didn't dare walk side by side with a marked pureblood, even if his reputation for being strange and a blood traitor preceded him. Still, that one, blazing blue star magically inked in his skin meant opportunity. It meant acceptance. From the moment that mark touched his skin in infancy, he was afforded a chance that not even half bloods could dream of.

It turned Hermione's stomach inside out.

"Right, here we are." George stopped just short of the sidewalk edging, gesturing to the building of 93 Diagon Alley across the street. It was a run down establishment with boarded up windows and the paint peeling off of the sills.

"It's just a building with a sold sign on it," Ron huffed. "There's no food here it all!"

"But not just any building, baby brother. My building."

Ron's jaw dropped comically. "What? You're lying!"

"I'd never lie about something as important as this. A little white lie here and there? Sure. But this-" George waved his hands around in a prideful way, "-is truth at its core."

Hermione pursed her lips, pondering. "George."

"Yes?"

"There is no way you could have afforded this on Lockhart's salary."

"You're absolutely correct, Hermione. But we still have Lockhart to thank, even if he doesn't exactly know it."

"Do we even wanna know?" Ron groaned as George locked arms with both and dragged them across the street.

"Let's just say there was a deed to a burned down villa in Glasgow that was gathering dust which made excellent collateral-"

"Nope." Hermione pressed her hands over her ears. "I'm not listening to this."

"Then don't. But do open your eyes, alright? You won't want to miss it." George stopped them just short of the door and produced a long, silver key from his pockets. "Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for."

"What? Food?" asked Ron.

A sense of thrill climbed up Hermione's spine, despite her common sense, as she watched George turn the key in the lock and listened to the gears inside turn. Something in the way his eyes twinkled sparked excitement within her. He always did have a knack for seeing the possible in the impossible...just what could he be up to this time?

When the last cog clicked into place, George twisted the doorknob, but not before turning to the others, grinning like a madman. "Leave your baggage at the door, yeah? You dreams begin here."

He shouldered the door open, and for a split moment, Hermione could feel the magic inside pulse like a heartbeat against her skin. Goosebumps traveled up her arms as she forgot how to breathe. She stepped inside…

Upon further inspection, she couldn't pinpoint what had given her that exuberant feeling in the first place. It was an empty building with an extension charm built into it. And when she said empty, she meant empty. Not a shred of furniture or product. The only light to be found spilling in from the windows, highlighting a raised ring in the center of the floor.

*(*)* Three weeks ago *(*)*

"George...what is this?"

"This is the future. Our future." George Weasley plastered on the largest smile he could muster, despite the butterflies threatening to burst from his stomach. He reached for his wife's hand and gave it a light squeeze. At least the children looked amused, even if there wasn't much to the building aside from some taxidermied beasts and charmed statues. "Angelina, I know how this looks."

"Do you?" she asked, the faintest hint of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth. "Good. I'd be worried if you didn't."

"It just needs a little work."

"What's that?" Fred, their eldest child, asked as he stared up at the feathered creature above him. It was the size of a carriage with six pairs of wings and a head similar to a hippogriff. Life had left the creature ages ago, but the way it had been preserved still managed to give it a sparkle in the eyes, as if it might spring back alive at any moment.

George looked down at the child named after his late brother, sensing the same curiosity he himself had as a young boy. He crouched beside the lad and patted his head. "That, Freddy, is a Thunderbird."

"Whoa." Fred stared wondrously up at the beast. "I've only seen them in books!"

"That's because they're native to North America," said Roxanne, George's youngest (brightest) child. "You wouldn't see one around here unless someone stole it."

"Or purchased it illegally," George commented.

"Like I said, Daddy. Stole."

Far too bright for her own good, that one, he thought to himself. "Well, it's not alive, so I think we'll be okay having it here, don't you think?"

While Roxanne gave him a skeptical look, Angelina approached, reaching out to stroke down the Thunderbird's downy mane. "This is marvelous, George. Really…"

"But?"

"But it's been open to the public since we were children. And how many times did it take for it to become boring?"

"Boring?" George perked up, shuffling his way back to stand. "Fred and I used to come here all the time!"

"I've never been here," said Fred flatly.

"No, not you, Fred. Your uncle." George looked around at the fantastic beasts forever preserved in their glory days. "This is hardly boring at all!"

Fred tugged on his father's robes. "I think you have too many dead things, Daddy. Maybe that's why mommy finds it boring."

"He's right," agreed Roxanne as-a-matter-of-factly. "You need something...alive." George watched the way his daughter's eyes danced in delight.

"Is that so, little lady?"

She nodded earnestly. "Something...sensational."

Pride struck George in the heart like an arrow. "That's a big word."

"It's your word. - You need something that isn't stuffed." Without hesitation, Roxanne marched right up to the Thunderbird and poked it in its belly.

"Like a unicorn!" suggested Fred.

Roxanne laughed. "Yeah! Or a thestral!"

"Thestrals aren't real."

"Yes they are! Uncle Ron says so! You just have to be special to see them!"

"I'm special!" Fred argued. "And I've never seen one."

"No, I'm talking really special. Like Uncle Ron!"

George and Angelina exchanged careful glances. Neither one of them had the heart to tell their kids the reason their Uncle Ron could see thestrals had little to do with being a squib and everything to do with witnessing their Uncle Fred's death. But Ron was special in other ways...and that got the wheels in George's head turning. Yes...Ron, the squib. A rare beast, indeed. And more integrity than half of the wizarding community. But they never gave him a chance, always looked down on him.

'You need something alive. Something sensational.'

"You want to what?" squeaked Ron, glaring daggers at his brother. "Parade me around like some show pony? The freak without magic?"

"Parade, yes," said George. "But a freak you are not. You're rare. Sensational. The both of you are."

When his eyes fell on Hermione, her heart skipped a beat. She had a bad feeling she knew where this was going. "No. No, no, no."

"Yes!" George encouraged. "Yes, yes, yes! It only makes sense-" He blocked her before she could retreat. "Listen, Hermione. You're the brightest witch your age. I know it. Ron knows it. But the world can't see it. Can't look past the blood coursing through your veins. Not yet - but they will." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and spun her around to the center of the ring. "Imagine being looked at not in disdain, but in appreciation. Imagine all eyes on you."

"I'd rather not." Just the thought of it was enough to make Hermione nauseated. "I'm not a beast to be displayed in a zoo."

George attempted a different approach. "The wizarding world will never accept you as you are. Not like this. Not with a chip on your shoulder and anger in your heart. - You and Ron both need jobs. You need them. I can pay you well. Enough to help you with your father and put food in your stomach. And in return, you can show those pureblood snobs what a muggleborn witch is really made of."

"You're not really going to buy into this, are you?" Ron asked her, crossing his arms. "He just wants us as pets that can perform for him so he can make a quick galleon."

"That hurts, Ron." George frowned. "I'm offering you this opportunity because I see great potential in what we'd be selling."

"And what would we be selling?" Hermione whispered.

"Hope," replied George seriously. "For future generations of the spectacular, bizarre, and unique."

"Yeah? And how would I fit into any of that?" Ron scuffed his boot along the floor. "I'm a squib remember. There's not an ounce of magic in me." Subconsciously, he rubbed over the scar along his throat - a symbol of the status ripped from him.

"Not in you - but in her." George nudged his head in Hermione's direction. "She's got more magic in her little pinky than most have in their entire body. And she's got the discipline to use it correctly. Together, I think you two could come up with a routine that would not only wow the crowd, but blow them, and their wallets, away. And we'd find others just like you-"

"Freaks?"

"Spectaculars."

Hermione stared up at the skylight above them, feeling the building's magic hum against her once again.

She needed the money; it was true. A part of her wondered if she would risk her integrity by jumping into business with George Weasley - it wasn't like he had an excellent track record for his schemes.

But even still...no one had ever looked at her the way the Weasleys did. As if she was worth something.

"Hope?" she asked, inhaling the scent of dust and magic. "Hope is more than we've ever been offered. Count me in."

Thank you for reading chapter one! I've already started on chapter two, which will deal with Draco's side of society. (If you haven't guessed, this will be a slow burn Dramione, but I promise it will be worth the adventure!)

Please leave a review if you have a moment? It helps the muse be slightly less terrifying. (My muse might be a cloaked figure standing in the corner of the room disapproving of everything I do.) XD I'd like to try to reply back to all reviews next chapter if I can!

With love,
A.