A/N: Hello everyone. Thank you for the feedback you've given me concerning the prologue. I've decided to move ahead with this story. I wasn't sure exactly which direction I was going to choose for the plot, but I have that mostly sorted out - at least enough to finally continue.
Without further ado, here is your chapter. Parts of it have a Matilda-esque feel to them. I hope you enjoy it, and please, if you can, leave a review or send me a PM to tell me your thoughts about the story.
September 1987 - April 1988
Hermione Granger, once upon a time, had been a naïve goody-two-shoes. In fact, the authority figures in her life—her parents, teachers, and most of the other relevant adults—were all still very much under the impression that she embodied said traits.
And she did ... while they were watching. She'd mastered the act of the teacher's pet at an early age, partly due to the fact that at first, it hadn't been an act at all. Hermione had always been a precocious and inquisitive child, and so it had only made sense that she would gravitate towards her teachers to satisfy her thirst for knowledge.
She adhered to classroom rules with uncanny discipline for someone so young, unwilling to let anything come between her and the lesson of the day, the books in the library, or anything else related to her studies. In doing so, and in her social ineptitude, she managed to step on an ocean of tiny, trainer- and Mary Jane-clad toes. It hadn't been malicious on her part and many of her peers knew that on some deeply buried level, but in the end, it hadn't mattered.
You see, Hermione Granger was an oddball.
She carried the wildest head of curls out of everyone in her year, and they were frizzy, unmanageable, and gave her the air of an 8-year-old mad scientist. She had obvious buckteeth that distracted from what was actually a lovely smile. She wore starched pinafores, cable knits, crisply ironed button-up shirts, argyle, and leather boots, all starkly coloured, as opposed to the graphic tees, jeans, miniskirts, neon leggings, and football jerseys that were the preferred style of the vast majority of the student population.
She was prodigious in her intellect, the quintessential bookworm, the epitome of a geek. She was bossy and opinionated and assertive to the point of obnoxiousness during lessons. She didn't bother trying to make friends; there was no one in her classes who shared her passion for learning, and that was all she really cared about in a companion.
But it wasn't only her appearance or her disposition that drew the other students' attention; no.
Strange things happened around Hermione Granger.
The grass would part ways for her when she walked around in the playground during autumn, nose planted in some gigantic tome.
Animals, especially snakes, were drawn to her like flies to honey, and she would always speak to them as though they could understand her perfectly. What's more, from their reactions, it rather seemed like they did.
And then, to boot, whenever she needed a particular book, a few sheets of paper, or a pen or pencil, they would appear somewhere she was certain she'd already checked, and there would never be a logical explanation for it because it wasn't as if any of her peers would ever lift a finger to come to her aid.
No, it was the opposite, actually; because Hermione Granger was a freak, and freaks make easy targets for vindictive schoolchildren.
One day, Hermione went to put on her boots, only to feel a strange, prickly surface where the soles should be and to hear a nauseating squish as she put her weight onto one foot. When she took the boots back off and peered inside, angling them so that the fluorescent classroom light would shine into their depths and reveal their contents, she nearly screeched.
Someone had trapped upwards of twenty beetles inside of each her boots, beetles that now composed a gloopy film covering the sole of one boot and the bottom of Hermione's corresponding foot. Crushed, black exoskeletons and translucent blood tinged yellow had been visible in the viscous gunk.
She'd had to walk home barefoot in November. By the time she reached her doorstep, Hermione was hobbling in pain; her thin socks had provided very little protection from the cold pavement and icy sidewalks, and she'd gotten blisters on her heels and the pads of her feet.
And that was just the beginning.
In the months that followed, Hermione was tormented relentlessly. She was often witnessed limping out of the girls' lavatory, wincing as she adjusted her book bag on her shoulder should she be lucky enough to leave the loo with it at all (although it seemed to be one of the items that would always eventually make its way back to her, still holding her meticulous homework, pristine and intact despite having been tossed into the toilet bowls earlier the same day). The girls who cornered her and forced her into the toilet had a number of games they liked to play with Hermione, their favourite being the eternal classic: "Why are you hitting yourself?" On top of that, Hermione found all kinds of critters among her things on a near-daily basis, and when the live ones didn't seem to phase her anymore, they were substituted for dead ones, which would leave her miserable for the rest of the day. Then, she had to deal with the reality that her winter clothes were often deliberately doused with water by the time the final bell rang at three o'clock. For weeks, Hermione walked home shivering and was forced to take a warm bath upon arrival to get her body temperature back to normal and stave off hypothermia or pneumonia.
Hermione didn't tell her mum and dad about what was happening either, because at the end of the day, she was a pragmatist, and she knew that to do so would be pointless. Too many of the kids who harassed her had rich, influential parents who would protect their children and maybe even get her into trouble if she made a stink about their bullying. No, it would just make them angry and worried, Hermione reasoned in regards to her parents. Besides, she thought, they were constantly busy at their practices and at dentistry conventions; in short, they were hardly ever around. They loved her—there was no doubt about that in her mind, because when they were there, they were warm and affectionate—but they also neglected her, thinking her capable enough to take care of herself without their help or supervision.
To an extent, they were right; Hermione was incredibly self-sufficient for an eight-year-old and liked to be independent, that much was true. But she was also still an eight-year-old, and in her current state, she was outnumbered, overwhelmed, hurt, and at loss for what to do.
What bothered Hermione most, however, were the disruptions her schoolmates caused in class in order to distract her from her schoolwork. She was surreptitiously pelted with spitballs and the like whenever her teacher's back was turned; those who sat behind her, no matter the class, kicked the legs of her chair and desk constantly while she was trying to work; and whenever textbook work with a partner was assigned, she was the odd one out and was forced into a group of three with two students who would invariably hog the textbook, even when they had no inclination of completing the assigned work.
All she wanted was the opportunity to learn in peace, but her peers seemed determined to make that impossible.
And the teachers; Hermione grew to despise them. In her mind, the ones who didn't know what was happening to her were incompetent idiots and the ones who knew and did nothing all the same were as good as monsters. Who lets this happen to an 8-year-old? she would ask herself. I used to look up to them. I must have been blind.
The only exception to Hermione's contempt of the school staff was a teaching assistant whom everyone called Miss Emma, although her name was really Emmanuelle Wright. She was a tall, quiet, young woman, classically beautiful with her blonde hair, warm, blue-green eyes, and delicate features. She was also the lone person in the school who seemed to give a damn about what happened to Hermione.
Her concern became apparent one day in mid-February, a couple of days after the TA had arrived at the school. Hermione's female classmates had been feeling particularly bold that morning, and so the girl in question had exited the lavatory towards the end of the lunch recess with a bloody nose and the telltale signs of a developing black eye.
Miss Emma had happened to be in the adjacent hallway and intercepted Hermione on her way outside. After she'd done what she could to help her student stem the flow of blood trickling from her nostrils, Miss Emma had looked at the girl with a speculative glint in her eye.
"Hermione," she'd said softly, "I've noticed how dedicated you are to your studies. Would it be helpful for you to have a quiet place to work at lunch?" When the pupil answered with a solemn affirmative, a small flash of triumph had flitted across Miss Emma's features. "Alright," she'd murmured. "I grade assignments in Mrs. Faulkner's classroom during the lunch recess." She paused. "Hermione, what class do you have immediately before lunch? Maths?" Another yes. "Alright. I'll come collect you there at the bell and we'll head to Mrs. Faulkner's together. She always spends her lunch in the staff room, anyways. How does that sound?"
Hermione declared her approval of the plan and the haste with which she'd done so earned a sad, sympathetic smile from the TA. Miss Emma made as if to leave and so her student started to head for the door to the playground.
"Oh, and Hermione," Miss Emma called out suddenly, stopping the girl in her tracks. Hermione tensed as a slew of anxious questions ran through her head. Has she changed her mind? Was she making fun of me? Did I do something wrong?
Her fears were left unrealized. Miss Emma simply quirked a brow and glanced pointedly at the ground behind Hermione.
"Isn't that your book bag?"
Just like that, for the month and a half left of Miss Emma's contract, Hermione had a sanctuary. She was no longer ambushed during the lunch period, and while she was still poked and prodded and harassed in lessons where the TA wasn't present, Miss Emma made sure that Hermione was left well enough alone in Mrs. Faulkner's class. For the first few days during which the two of them spent lunch together, they both kept to themselves, steadily chipping away at the piles of work they had to finish. Finally, though, two weeks after the arrangement had been put into place, Miss Emma spoke up about halfway into recess.
"Hermione," she said quietly. Her student looked up, feeling a hint of anxiety at the tone of the TA's voice.
"Is something the matter, Miss Emma?" she asked, subdued.
The teaching assistant sighed heavily and gave the girl a grimace. "Yes, Hermione," she replied. "But please don't worry. You haven't done anything wrong whatsoever." Hermione was taken aback by the woman's perceptiveness, and it must have showed, because Miss Emma smiled indulgently at her then. "It was written all over your face, Hermione," she'd teased her gently, "You're rather like a book that way." The TA sighed again, sobering.
"Speaking of which," she continued, "We need to have a frank discussion." She paused. "I know what's been going on, Hermione. I know how the others have been treating you." Hermione looked down at her feet, reddening in embarrassment. "No, none of that," said the TA, her voice suddenly closer, "You look at me, Hermione Granger." The young girl started at that, and when she lifted her chin, the TA was sitting at the desk in front of her, facing the wrong way round so that she could look Hermione straight in the eyes.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. Do you hear me? Nothing," she told her pupil firmly. "You have been so brave, Hermione. They've been utterly rotten to you, and I suspect for no good reason, too. No," she said knowingly, "you rub them the wrong way because you're different. You're older than your technical age, you're brilliant, and you don't have the same interests as them; for kids like these, that's all it takes. Trust me. I know."
Hermione's eyes widened. "You know?" she asked, incredulous.
"Yes," replied Miss Emma, and her expression was deadly serious. "I was an outsider growing up, Hermione. I was almost as studious as you are—although nowhere near as brilliant—I was a gangly, awkward-looking thing, I was shy, and I was physically tiny, so I was an easy target. I got picked on for years before I finally learned how to defend myself. No one was there for me, either," said the TA bitterly, "so when I saw you with that bloody nose, and that look in your eyes that I always used to have when I looked at myself in the mirror after they'd done something to me, that look of being so alone ... I just knew. I'd suspected since the first day, but that was the clincher. I want you to know, Hermione," she impressed upon the girl, a frustrated look in her eyes, "that I tried to talk Mrs. Faulkner into helping you. I really did. And I've been doing everything that I can to keep those kids off your back in her class. But she and the other teachers," she shook her head angrily, unable to continue.
"They're cowards," murmured Hermione, righteous fury swelling up in her chest, turning salt water into acid in her tear ducts. "Sorry, Miss. I know I shouldn't say that," she added, chagrined, "But they are. They're afraid of standing up to the parents and the principal. They're afraid of being sacked, and I'm the one who has to pay for it."
Miss Emma's jaw clenched, and she nodded stiffly. "Yes," she said, her voice soft not from kindness, as Hermione was used to, but from a dangerous, icy kind of anger that seemed to roil like waves in her irises. "Don't apologize, Hermione. You're absolutely right: they are cowards. And unfortunately, because I'm just a teaching assistant, I don't have the power or the sway to officially help you beyond what I've already done.
"I'm tempted to tell you that I'm sorry, because I'm angry and sad about what's happened to you and I feel frustrated and guilty that I wasn't able to convince the teachers. But it's not really my fault, and in any case, me being sorry doesn't help you, does it?"
Hermione gave Miss Emma a morose semblance of a smile. "Not really," she admitted. "Although it is nice to have someone on my side."
"That's just it, though, Hermione," said the TA. "I can do more than just passively be on your side. I haven't been completely ... forthright ... with you. I had to be sure."
"Had to be sure of what?" asked Hermione warily.
Miss Emma leaned back in her seat, propping herself against the edge of the desk's surface. She whistled two notes and then a sudden, quiet pitter patter of feet became audible before she leaned down, coming back up with a chipmunk and a dormouse cradled in her hand. She cooed and crooned at them for a moment before saying to them, "Hazel, Cosette, this is Hermione, a friend of mine. Go say hello."
The two adorable rodents scampered over to the girl, sniffing lightly at her clasped hands and when satisfied by her smell, nuzzling them with their noses. Hermione couldn't help but smile and gently reach out a finger to stroke their heads. "Hello, you two. It's nice to meet you," she whispered. The two of them made a series of noises that were decidedly pleased-sounding and Hermione looked back up at her TA, stunned, as she began to understand what was happening.
As though she had read Hermione's mind and knew what she needed to see, Miss Emma looked around the class searchingly before pointing at the blackboard duster and closing her eyes. Slowly, the duster rose as though suspended on strings and moved through the open air towards the two females before settling itself down neatly in front of Hazel, Cosette, and Hermione, whose eyes were full of fear, wonder, and some undefinable but incredibly strong emotion.
"You're not alone, Hermione," murmured Miss Emma, "and you're not a freak. I don't know what this is," she gestured at the pair of animals now perched on Hermione's shoulder and nestling into her hair, and then motioned towards the blackboard duster, "but whatever it is, we both have it."
Her turquoise eyes bore into Hermione's chestnut ones. "And I can help you learn how to control it."
They wasted no time in the month they had left. Everyday at school, and even some days after school when Miss Emma didn't have to run off to her other part-time job, she and Hermione would go through exercises designed to help Hermione get to know her abilities. Miss Emma taught Hermione how to feel the energy inside her, how to visualize it in her mind, how to use her imagination to picture what she wanted to do with it, and, perhaps most importantly, how to be confident enough in herself to be able to actually use her power. That was Hermione's greatest weakness, Miss Emma had told her gently: her low self-esteem.
"You have so much potential, Hermione," the TA said to her. "You're a brilliant student, you have an innovative mind, and you have drive unlike that anyone I've ever met. Have some faith in yourself. Trust me. You are perfectly capable of doing this."
Hermione bit her lip uncertainly. "How did you learn all of this, Miss Emma?" she asked the TA.
The young woman smiled mischievously. "I taught myself, Hermione. And you know, in a way you've been doing it too, subconsciously. From what I can tell, your ability responds instinctively to your wants and needs. I'd be willing to guess that your connection with animals is so strong because you've been feeling lonely and you're in need of companionship, so your energy attracts friendly critters like those guys." Two glanced over to Hazel and Cosette, who were chasing each other around on the teacher's desk. The sight drew a pair of smiles. "And then there's the matter of your belongings. You want them back the way they were before your bullies got their hands on them, and that's always how they turn up in the end. It's incredible, really.
"You use your ability without even thinking about it. So now," she leaned forward, eyes dancing, "just imagine what you can do if you do think about it, if you harness that amazing brainpower of yours." Miss Emma beamed at Hermione, who was finally starting to grin and whose eyes looked suspiciously wet.
"You'll be unstoppable, Hermione."
That day was the first day that Hermione managed to deliberately move an object with her mind. It was a plain, yellow, number 2 pencil, and it wavered a couple of times in its path, but eventually, watched with bated breath, it positioned itself directly above Hermione's outstretched hand and dropped lightly into her palm.
Without even really thinking about what she was doing, Hermione put the pencil down on a random desk and then turned, flung her arms around Miss Emma's waist, and buried her side of her face in the TA's emerald blouse. Miss Emma froze in shock for a split second before a slow smile spread across her face and she returned the hug, mussing Hermione's hair gently.
"You see?" she said quietly. "You can do this, Hermione."
Much too quickly, on an unusually sunny day in April, Miss Emma's contract was up and she was required to leave the school to move on to her next placement at St. Mary's Primary School in Ireland.
When they met at lunch one last time that day, both the mentor and the pupil were tearful. They had become very close during their time together, and their relationship had evolved past teacher and student and had become more like a bond between sisters.
"I'm going to miss you so much, Emma," confessed Hermione; the TA had eventually insisted that her young friend drop the title.
"I'm going to miss you too, Hermione," Emma replied sadly. "But you know what? We'll still see each other from time to time. You have my phone number now; you can call me in Ireland whenever you like, okay? Even if it's two in the morning. You need me, you call. And I will come and visit you when I can, alright?"
Hermione smiled at her and nodded vigorously. Emma laughed gently at her eagerness before her features hardened around the edges with seriousness.
"Now. Before I go," continued Emma, "we need to talk about how you're going to handle your classmates now that I'm not around to lend a hand."
Hermione's expression darkened instantly; her dainty eyebrows pulled together in frustration and her smile became a pout. "Yes," she agreed, and then admitted, "I'm afraid, Emma. What if I give too much away, or I can't even access my abilities? What happens then?"
"Calm down, Hermione," chided Emma. "You've very nearly surpassed me in terms of your power and your capacity to manipulate it into doing your bidding." She smiled warmly at her protegee. "As long as you keep your head and use the abundance of common sense that I know you have in there," she tapped Hermione's forehead with her index finger, "you'll be just fine.
"Don't be afraid to do what's necessary to defend yourself, Hermione. And I mean that when it comes to your teachers too, not just the kids," clarified Emma, somewhat to Hermione's surprise. "Do what you have to do. But try not to go too far beyond that," she suggested. "Don't get me wrong—I don't care a whit what happens to those horrible children or to my ex-colleagues. I do, however, care about you; and I'd hate for you to get into trouble for hurting them too badly. I'm not saying that you would purposefully do that, Hermione," Emma reassured her, cutting Hermione off as her face scrunched up with worry and her mouth dropped open to speak. The TA added as an afterthought, "Although, you may well have reason to. And I can't honestly say that I would judge you if you did.
"But nonetheless, my point is this. It seems as though you're like me in that when you're feeling strong emotions, it's harder for you to control yourself and to remember to be careful about how much power you use. So, yes, defend yourself," said Emma firmly, "and scare them into leaving you alone, even, if you can. But Hermione—be careful."
Hermione nodded resolutely. "I promise, I will be," she told Emma, who then gathered her up into a tight hug.
"Good," said the teaching assistant, and Hermione could hear the strain in her voice as she fought back surfacing emotions. "Good."
Once Miss Emma had left, it didn't take long for the lunchtime intimidation to start up again. In fact, it only took one morning of class.
As Hermione was leaving Maths and heading towards the cafeteria the day after Miss Emma's departure, she was blocked by Vanessa Simpson, one of her most frequent and vicious tormentors, and she felt four bodies flank her from the sides and from behind—undoubtedly some of Simpson's cronies.
"Oh, Granger," crooned the burly girl in mock sympathy, her dull, grayish eyes gleaming with spite, "Has your bodyguard up and left you? I guess Miss Emma found out how much of a loser you really are and decided to get away while she still could. I mean, you're a clingy little thing, aren't you, Granger? She was probably afraid of turning into a creep like you by association."
Although Simpson's comments annoyed and even angered Hermione, for once, she wasn't afraid. She felt oddly separate from the spectacle that Simpson was trying to orchestrate.
"I'm surprised that you're smart enough to know a word like 'association', Simpson," Hermione bit back automatically, although she stiffened in surprise as the bold words slipped seemingly of their own accord from her mouth.
Vanessa Simpson's eyebrows shot up in incredulous fury and her cheeks flushed, turning her complexion ruddy. "Ooooh," the wretched girl hissed, "So she's finally found her tongue after all this time. Hey, girls—I think Granger here needs a reminder of who she's speaking to, whaddaya think?" Her little posse tittered encouragements, and Hermione felt tempted to roll her eyes. Sycophants, the lot of them, she thought to herself as she allowed the gaggle of girls to drag her into the lavatory.
When they were all inside and Simpson had turned the lock on the door, Hermione attempted to elbow the girls gripping her arms, all the while staring at their ringleader in quiet but open defiance.
"Putting on a show, Granger?" sneered the bully. "Well, I'll show you."
She made to lunge towards Hermione, but instead of flinching away or trying to make a break for it, Hermione canted her head to the right, an eerie focus taking over her expression.
Inches away from Hermione, fist halfway to the girl's cheek, Simpson stopped dead in her tracks, encountering an unknown resistance in the air. "What the hell?" she muttered, trying to withdraw her arm and sweating as she found herself fighting an invisible force that just wouldn't budge.
After a few seconds of that, during which time the other girls stared at their leader in disbelief, one of them finally spoke up and barked, "What are you playing at, Simpson?"
"I'm not playing at anything! I can't bloody well move, Nichols!" the girl snapped back at her minion.
"Are you taking the mick?" one of the others demanded.
"Do I look like I'm taking the mick?" screeched Simpson. "Piss off! You have fists; why don't you lot bloody beat her, already?!"
Hermione closed her eyes.
All of the sudden, the hands squeezing Hermione's arms dropped away and five sets of shrieks reverberated off the cinder-block walls.
Hermione stepped out of the circle that the girls had formed around her and watched in stony silence as they started smacking themselves and each other silly, all of them confused, angry, and terrified.
"What the hell is happening?" screamed Simpson as she backhanded herself.
"I have no idea," Hermione remarked loudly and clearly, arranging her features into an impression of perplexed fascination. "Why are you hitting yourselves?"
Five sets of eyes snapped to Hermione's face.
"This is you, isn't it, Granger?" snarled Simpson, the others shouting in agreement.
"Of course it isn't," Hermione retorted, her expression blank. "Don't be ridiculous, Simpson. How could I possibly be doing this?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I think you've all gone round the bend, personally."
Simpson shrieked again and began cursing Hermione with every foul word she knew.
"I'll get you for this, Granger," she threatened. "We'll go straight to Mrs. Hammond; she loves us and she hates you, and—"
"Oh really, Simpson?" interrupted Hermione, and just like that, it was her turn. A switch had flipped and a chill now suddenly radiated off of the younger, smaller girl that the others had made into a victim for months on end.
The tables had turned.
"So you're going to go up to a teacher and say, 'Sorry sir, sorry ma'am, but my friends and I were busy waling on a girl in the loo and then suddenly, we couldn't hit her anymore and instead we couldn't stop hitting ourselves,'?" Hermione's words were icy and sharp, lashing at the girls like icicles turned to makeshift daggers. "Or maybe you'll tell her that I somehow managed to overpower the—oh let's see—one, two, three, four, five of you?"
Hermione tilted her head slightly further to the right and all five girls felt their legs give out; they had no choice but to fall to the ground, unable to break the fall with their hands or forearms. Hermione heard the crack of a nose breaking and felt a surge of illicit pleasure.
"No one will ever believe you," Hermione told them coldly. "Not you, Simpson, and not any of your equally pathetic, disgusting friends."
She walked a few paces and then crouched down by Simpson's ear, but she made sure to speak loudly enough so that her voice would carry to all of her would-be assailants.
"Let's make this a lesson for you, hm?" she said with malicious false cheer before her voice oozed black as she spat her next words.
"Don't you dare come near me again, or a few scrapes, some bruises, and a broken nose will be the least of your worries. And the next time you consider picking on someone, maybe think twice about it." She paused. "Somehow, though, I doubt you have the capacity for that."
Hermione stood, and as she surveyed the lot of them with a combination of pity and disdain, she relinquished her hold on the girls and left them to lick their wounds on the damp, filthy floor with a cool, "Have a good day, ladies." She unbolted the lavatory door and pushed it open with a wave of her hand, smirking slightly when it banged into the wall with a loud thud as she made her way out.
I'm never going to be helpless again, Hermione vowed to herself giddily, adrenaline sprinting through her veins in a euphoric, dizzying rush.
Walking down the hallway punch-drunk from her own hormones while she listened to the groans of her tormentors echoing pitifully from the loo, Hermione had never felt more invincible.
