Title – A Little Goodbye
Author - Feather
Rating - G
Genre - General
Category - Harry Potter
Author's notes – In all honesty, I really don't know where this idea came from. Hermione, in case you couldn't tell, is my favorite character, and I have often wondered at her transition from the Muggle to wizarding worlds – the concept arouses a plethora of questions concerning dual identities, etcetera. Though it has been quite a long time since I have written anything, I hope you enjoy this piece - it is related to the drabble "Memento".
A native Londoner, Hermione was a precious five years, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, when she first stumbled upon the Leaky Cauldron. The sky was a watery November blue, the sun too pallid and weak to warm her wind- whipped flesh; seeking warmth blindly and unknowingly, as a baby drawn to its mother's breast, she stepped across the threshold of the shabby looking pub, desperate for any comfort shelter might offer.
It was as though she had stepped into another world entirely. Whereas her life until then had been a comfortable gray tableau of pleasing, trifling storybooks and impersonal kindness, the vivid, rich color of inexplicable liveliness momentarily blinded her senses. Almost huddled over from the cold, she attempted to thread her way to the bar, catching flashes of kind- looking men in warm woolen cloaks and women who emanated a power unlike anything with which she was familiar, familiar and ordinary to the pulsing bright crowd about her. Her little heart, unaccustomed to anything more wild than a particularly enthusiastic tea party with other chattering, lively little girls, was set aflutter by the seemingly-normal yet entirely mystical activity around her, and, shuffling through the small crowd as though it was a thick mist, she recognized the particular golden brilliance of the moment.
A man with shockingly red hair plucked her from the sea of knees and swirling cloak hems, remarking rather bemusedly to a woman with equally fiery hair, "It seems as though a wee Muggle as wandered in! A real Muggle, my goodness!" Uncertain as to what exactly this man was referring, and disinclined to think that it was complementary, Hermione struggled out of his grasp, wishing suddenly for her mother and clawing towards the floor. The man seemed to realize his mistake and, with practiced ease, placed her on the floor and knelt down, regarding her gravely. "Where's your mummy, little girl?" Shrugging helplessly into her little pink pea coat, in shock from both the frigid outdoors and the sudden cession of the activities taking place about her, Hermione doubled herself over and gestured vaguely towards the door.
The man nodded to his companion, scooped her limp form into his arms, and tucked his funny little scarf that seemed to miraculously change colors around her neck. "We'll have to go find her then, love, won't we, darling?" he crooned into her ear, shifting her to one shoulder as he opened the door. Before there had been at least watery sunshine to illuminate the outside world, yet gray clouds had overtaken the sky and brought with them a peculiar tension and a promise of later snow.
Hermione reeled at the sudden coldness of the world around her, and the more subtle loss of the almost magical aura of power, a presence intrinsic to the world that she had inadvertently entered, the something with which a part of herself previously undiscovered had instantly and permanently fused. Her mother, a steady women surely too dignified for hysterics, was pacing the sidewalks, eyes furiously scanning the world around her, yet did not crumple in piteous relief when at last her gaze alighted upon the shivering Hermione.
"Hermione, dearest," she cried happily, rushing towards the man. "I was very worried when you wandered away." The red-haired man, curiously clothed in cloak and robes of some sort, gently set her down. "Thank you so very much," her mother further added, firmly grasping Hermione's hand, outwardly seeming to take no notice of the man's apparel. "We must be getting along, but I will be forever grateful for your care of my little girl."
Hermione was not reprimanded, but tenderly tucked into her bed and reminded not to wander. To satiate her burgeoning curiosity that seemed only to increase by the day, Hermione was placated by cello lessons and piano concerts, books on insects and history and Shakespeare. Weeks of normalcy and gray London skies became months, and time faded her beloved memory of stumbling into a mysterious shabby pub. Golden afternoons of childhood wonder, of catching fireflies, of turning dusty pages of colorful tomes of fairy tales in the library down the street, gradually replaced memories of the particular shade of burgundy of a kind man's cloak and the smell of ale combined with something else. Each new wonder was a little goodbye to the mysterious, miraculous single afternoon.
When all that remained of her glorious afternoon was a wisp of familiarity whenever she gazed upon coppery red hair, Hermione received a letter by an owl. Far from the chatty little girl who strayed from her mother's grasp, Hermione had begun to grow into her intelligence that at times bordered on brilliance and her bushy hair, if not her unfortunate teeth, and had began to develop some of the poise and balance of a queen, her name's sake. The letter was delightfully heavy, brilliant emerald ink in a lacy, ornamental hand on a creamy peculiar parchment that neatly addressed itself to a Miss Hermione Granger, 278 Baker Street, Second Bedroom, End of the Hall, London, England, the Earth, the Milky Way Galaxy, the Universe. Tersely explaining that she was a witch and invited to attend one Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione was inexplicably reminded of an afternoon out of a fairy tale, in which her bland safe world suddenly became alive, when she was only five years. Instructed as to how to reach Diagon Alley, where she might purchase her supplies, Hermione's recollections were further recalled through the dredges of memory.
Hermione was unsure as to what to tell her parents, but they were delighted and bewildered upon receiving the news. She wished immediately to visit the shops of Diagon Alley, her youthful eagerness counteracting her slowly growing reserve of calmness and stateliness, but the trip was delayed until the last week of August.
Reaching the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione and her mother were both returned to the dreary November afternoon when, quite by accident, Hermione began to say a little goodbye to the Muggle world and her mother began to say goodbye to her daughter, neither of the two knowing it. Gathering the courage to open the door, Hermione turned the handle – and said hello to the wizarding world.
Disclaimer – I do not claim to own Harry Potter or other related works. Any similarities to other fan works are purely coincidental and unintentional.
Closing notes – If you have any comments, please review or contact me directly at Thank you for reading!
Author - Feather
Rating - G
Genre - General
Category - Harry Potter
Author's notes – In all honesty, I really don't know where this idea came from. Hermione, in case you couldn't tell, is my favorite character, and I have often wondered at her transition from the Muggle to wizarding worlds – the concept arouses a plethora of questions concerning dual identities, etcetera. Though it has been quite a long time since I have written anything, I hope you enjoy this piece - it is related to the drabble "Memento".
A native Londoner, Hermione was a precious five years, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, when she first stumbled upon the Leaky Cauldron. The sky was a watery November blue, the sun too pallid and weak to warm her wind- whipped flesh; seeking warmth blindly and unknowingly, as a baby drawn to its mother's breast, she stepped across the threshold of the shabby looking pub, desperate for any comfort shelter might offer.
It was as though she had stepped into another world entirely. Whereas her life until then had been a comfortable gray tableau of pleasing, trifling storybooks and impersonal kindness, the vivid, rich color of inexplicable liveliness momentarily blinded her senses. Almost huddled over from the cold, she attempted to thread her way to the bar, catching flashes of kind- looking men in warm woolen cloaks and women who emanated a power unlike anything with which she was familiar, familiar and ordinary to the pulsing bright crowd about her. Her little heart, unaccustomed to anything more wild than a particularly enthusiastic tea party with other chattering, lively little girls, was set aflutter by the seemingly-normal yet entirely mystical activity around her, and, shuffling through the small crowd as though it was a thick mist, she recognized the particular golden brilliance of the moment.
A man with shockingly red hair plucked her from the sea of knees and swirling cloak hems, remarking rather bemusedly to a woman with equally fiery hair, "It seems as though a wee Muggle as wandered in! A real Muggle, my goodness!" Uncertain as to what exactly this man was referring, and disinclined to think that it was complementary, Hermione struggled out of his grasp, wishing suddenly for her mother and clawing towards the floor. The man seemed to realize his mistake and, with practiced ease, placed her on the floor and knelt down, regarding her gravely. "Where's your mummy, little girl?" Shrugging helplessly into her little pink pea coat, in shock from both the frigid outdoors and the sudden cession of the activities taking place about her, Hermione doubled herself over and gestured vaguely towards the door.
The man nodded to his companion, scooped her limp form into his arms, and tucked his funny little scarf that seemed to miraculously change colors around her neck. "We'll have to go find her then, love, won't we, darling?" he crooned into her ear, shifting her to one shoulder as he opened the door. Before there had been at least watery sunshine to illuminate the outside world, yet gray clouds had overtaken the sky and brought with them a peculiar tension and a promise of later snow.
Hermione reeled at the sudden coldness of the world around her, and the more subtle loss of the almost magical aura of power, a presence intrinsic to the world that she had inadvertently entered, the something with which a part of herself previously undiscovered had instantly and permanently fused. Her mother, a steady women surely too dignified for hysterics, was pacing the sidewalks, eyes furiously scanning the world around her, yet did not crumple in piteous relief when at last her gaze alighted upon the shivering Hermione.
"Hermione, dearest," she cried happily, rushing towards the man. "I was very worried when you wandered away." The red-haired man, curiously clothed in cloak and robes of some sort, gently set her down. "Thank you so very much," her mother further added, firmly grasping Hermione's hand, outwardly seeming to take no notice of the man's apparel. "We must be getting along, but I will be forever grateful for your care of my little girl."
Hermione was not reprimanded, but tenderly tucked into her bed and reminded not to wander. To satiate her burgeoning curiosity that seemed only to increase by the day, Hermione was placated by cello lessons and piano concerts, books on insects and history and Shakespeare. Weeks of normalcy and gray London skies became months, and time faded her beloved memory of stumbling into a mysterious shabby pub. Golden afternoons of childhood wonder, of catching fireflies, of turning dusty pages of colorful tomes of fairy tales in the library down the street, gradually replaced memories of the particular shade of burgundy of a kind man's cloak and the smell of ale combined with something else. Each new wonder was a little goodbye to the mysterious, miraculous single afternoon.
When all that remained of her glorious afternoon was a wisp of familiarity whenever she gazed upon coppery red hair, Hermione received a letter by an owl. Far from the chatty little girl who strayed from her mother's grasp, Hermione had begun to grow into her intelligence that at times bordered on brilliance and her bushy hair, if not her unfortunate teeth, and had began to develop some of the poise and balance of a queen, her name's sake. The letter was delightfully heavy, brilliant emerald ink in a lacy, ornamental hand on a creamy peculiar parchment that neatly addressed itself to a Miss Hermione Granger, 278 Baker Street, Second Bedroom, End of the Hall, London, England, the Earth, the Milky Way Galaxy, the Universe. Tersely explaining that she was a witch and invited to attend one Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione was inexplicably reminded of an afternoon out of a fairy tale, in which her bland safe world suddenly became alive, when she was only five years. Instructed as to how to reach Diagon Alley, where she might purchase her supplies, Hermione's recollections were further recalled through the dredges of memory.
Hermione was unsure as to what to tell her parents, but they were delighted and bewildered upon receiving the news. She wished immediately to visit the shops of Diagon Alley, her youthful eagerness counteracting her slowly growing reserve of calmness and stateliness, but the trip was delayed until the last week of August.
Reaching the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione and her mother were both returned to the dreary November afternoon when, quite by accident, Hermione began to say a little goodbye to the Muggle world and her mother began to say goodbye to her daughter, neither of the two knowing it. Gathering the courage to open the door, Hermione turned the handle – and said hello to the wizarding world.
Disclaimer – I do not claim to own Harry Potter or other related works. Any similarities to other fan works are purely coincidental and unintentional.
Closing notes – If you have any comments, please review or contact me directly at Thank you for reading!