ONE
"Have you thought about University at all?" Mum asked in that oh-so-casual way of hers. As if the reason she'd asked for help putting dinner together hadn't been working around to a conversation about the future.
Hermione didn't stop chopping. They were having chicken noodle soup, Grandma Puckle's recipe. There was a lot of chopping and dicing involved. She'd habitually bunched the parsley and chopped at a 45 degree angle, the way fresh greens were almost always prepared for potions.
"I want to finish at Hogwarts first," she said, talking to the cutting board, pretending like it really was a random topic. "If I do well on my N.E.W.T.s, I might be able to get an apprenticeship."
"That's very old-fashioned, isn't it?"
"I suppose. Most of the Wizarding stuff is that way, though. I mean, you've seen the robes they sell for everyday wear." She glanced over her shoulder to smirk at her mother. The smile that was returned was tense at best.
"I just worry you're selling yourself short, dear. You have so many talents. There are so many options available to you."
"This isn't going away, Mum," Hermione said, scooping up the chopped parsley and adding it to the soup bubbling on the stovetop.
"What isn't going away?"
"I know you were hoping sending me to Hogwarts would train it out of me—and it has gotten rid of those uncontrolled bursts, thank goodness—but it won't," Hermione said. She picked up a dishcloth and wiped her hands just to have something to look at besides her mother. "It can't. That's not how it works."
"Darling—"
"I just thought you should know. It's not going away. It's part of me and part of my life, and that's how it's going to be."
"I can accept that, Darling." She was using her Understanding Voice, the one Hermione had always thought a little too condescending. "I don't like this group you've joined, though."
"They're fighting so people like me aren't second class citizens."
"They're vigilantes."
"They're activists."
"They're dangerous."
"Riding in a car is dangerous."
"Hermione-darling, please. Be reasonable."
"I'm being perfectly reasonable. My future hinges on this confrontation, Mum."
"Your future hinges on you being alive for it, Hermione."
"I'm not dropping out."
"I—"
Somebody knocked at the front door, saving them from the conversation. Hermione put the dishcloth by the sink, and said, "I'll get it."
The unmistakable shape of a pointed hat was silhouetted in the frosted glass of the front door. She froze for half a moment, taking her wand out of her back pocket. She'd expected somebody from the Order to visit last week when she'd returned home. Some form of communication, even just a letter telling her she didn't have to sit and wonder if the Ministry was going to prosecute her for destruction of property or something.
Or there was always the potential that a Death Eater would pay her a visit.
Death Eaters don't knock, she rationalized, hiding her wand behind her leg as she opened the door.
"Professor McGonagall."
"Hello, Miss Granger. What did you use to make your schedule manageable in your third year?"
"A Time Turner." She cleared her throat, thinking a moment before she came up with a question. "What book did you lend me at the end of the school year?"
"Laurel's Animagi."
"Will you come in?"
"Thank you, dear."
"Who's at the door, Hermione?" Mum asked from the end of the hall.
"What's going on, Professor?" Hermione asked, closing the front door.
"Are your parents at home?"
"Yes, but—"
"There has been a threat against you, Miss Granger. We have very little time." McGonagall looked down the hall to her mother, who had her eyebrows raised in open curiosity.
"You're from that group, then?" Mum asked, walking down the hall and hands worrying the dishcloth she must've picked up on her way out of the kitchen. It was domestic, grounding. Hermione swallowed back that first rush of panic, almost smiling when Mum stuffed one end of the towel into her back pocket.
"Mum, this is Professor Minerva McGonagall. Professor, this is my mum, Helen Granger."
\\
The safe house was a bit like Grimmauld Place in that it had narrow halls and was more than a little gritty around the edges. It was smaller than headquarters, cozier. There wasn't an overblown portrait waiting to shout at her, which was nice.
"How long?" Dad asked, looking around the foyer. He didn't look unhappy, exactly. It had been an hour since Professor McGonagall had shown up at the house, and the panic was beginning to wear off.
"Indefinitely," Professor McGonagall said bluntly. She flicked her wand, sending the shrunken boxes that were all their worldly possessions to a neat stack in the front room. Her parents each had a bag and Hermione had her trunk. The rest was in the boxes or left behind.
"I beg your pardon?" Mum asked, letting her bag thump to the floor.
"Who's this, then?" an old woman—a witch, if the wand poking out of her skirt pocket was anything to go by—asked as she came into view at the back of the house. She reminded Hermione of gypsies in children's books. She had a long, flowing skirt the color of red wine, a billowy peasant top the color of white wine, and an assortment of scarves that would make Trelawney jealous. She didn't have the hoop earrings, but she did have a scarf wrapped around her head. Her hair was steely gray streaked liberally with white, her face was deeply lined, her skin tanned the deep brown of somebody who spends long hours in the sun, and she squinted at them like she needed glasses. Her right forearm was just a bit crooked, like a break had been badly set. Her teeth were atrocious. Her eyes were the pale gray of the old Pureblood families.
"Helen and Matthew Granger," Professor McGonagall said, smiling tightly. "This is Eileen."
"Read about Hermione Granger in the damn paper," Eileen said, squinting in Hermione's direction. "You part of that lot that stirs up all the trouble."
Hermione glanced at Professor McGonagall, not sure if she should say anything. The professor looked pained, her lips pressed together as she followed Eileen deeper into the house.
A/N: First of all, thank you! The prologue hasn't even been up for a week and it already has 24 favorites, 40 reviews, and 91 followers. Holy shit. Honestly, one of my favorite things about all this is the feedback. I write the stories I want to read, and it's more than a little wonderful when you guys tell me it's something you want to read too.
And second, expect another update in about a week. Like I said before, I'm building this one piecemeal and it's slow going layering some of the storylines together the way I want them.
Thanks again!
—M
