"Hermione?" Mrs Granger called up to her daughter. "Could you come down here, please? Your father and I need to discuss something with you."

Hermione sighed, and pushed her book aside; at this rate, she was never going to finish her Christmas-break reading. She could just imagine what she was going to say to Professor Tollers when she got back to school: "Well, sir, I tried to read the rune-books you assigned, only my mother kept calling me down to discuss where to hang popcorn balls."

Since Anne Granger's passion for Christmas decorating was something of a local legend, it was quite reasonable of Hermione to suppose that this was what she wanted for. It was only when she entered the living room and saw the tense, serious expressions on her parents' faces that she suspected that something more consequential might be afoot.

"Have a seat, darling," said her mother, indicating the sofa cushion next to her. Hermione sat down, looked up at her stone-faced parents, and waited for the bolt to strike.

"Hermione," said her mother after a few moments, "I'm sure you've noticed the – well, the changes that have been taking place in you recently."

That was putting it mildly, Hermione thought. Ever since she had gotten back from school, she had been metamorphosing in hitherto undreamt-of ways. Her legs alone had gained four inches since her birthday on the 20th, and she didn't even want to think about what had happened to her bustline; she could just imagine Ron's vacant stare when she got back to Hogwarts.

"Well," said her mother, "the reason for that – it's difficult, just coming out and saying it, but… well, the fact of the matter, Hermione, is that your father and I aren't your real parents."

Hermione blinked slowly two or three times. "You're not?"

Mrs Granger shook her head. "I'm sorry, dear," she said. "We would have told you earlier, but your mother – your birth mother, I mean – didn't want you to know until you came of age. You see, there are certain things…"

An obscure alarm bell suddenly sounded inside Hermione's head. "Hang on," she said. "You're not going to tell me I'm Blaise Zabini's twin sister, are you?"

Her parents exchanged a puzzled glance. "Blaise who?" said her mother.

Hermione leaned back, irrationally relieved. "Nothing," she said. "Just a boy at school. So I'm not, then?"

"Well," said Mrs Granger slowly, "not unless this Zabini character is the son of Queen Hippolyta fashioned from the clay of Paradise Island."

"No, I don't think so," said Hermione. "His mother's a wealthy sensation-monger – that's why Professor Slughorn likes him – and his father…" She trailed off, as the implication of her mother's words sank in. "Wait… did you say 'Hippolyta'?"

Her mother nodded. "Tell me, Hermione," she said, "what do you know about the Amazons?"

Hermione frowned. "Just what everyone knows, I guess," she said, a little embarrassed at not being able to display unusual erudition on the subject. "During Greece's Golden Age, the goddess Aphrodite created a race of ideal warrior women: preternaturally strong, fast, endurant, all that sort of thing. And immortal, of course." She was doing her best to maintain her usual dismissive attitude to such nonsense, but, looking into her parents' deadly serious faces, she was finding that harder than usual. "They founded their own city on the island of Themyscira, and were later forced to go into hiding there during a war between the gods."

"Exactly," said Mrs Granger. "Well, about seventeen years ago, the Queen of the Amazons decided to send an ambassador to the world of men – one who could live among mortals as one of themselves. Since none of the adult Amazons seemed right for the task, she sent her own infant daughter to be raised by two childless mortals, with a spell on her so that her Amazon blood wouldn't surface until she came of age. You were that child; you are Hermione of Themyscira, princess of the Amazons."

Hermione was silent for a moment, trying to sort through the dozens of conflicting emotions that this revelation had awakened in her. After a few moments' thought, however, one minor but pleasing aspect of the whole situation occurred to her, and she grinned. "Well, well," she said. "Won't this be a kick in the pants for Draco Malfoy?"

Mrs Granger arched an eyebrow. "Another boy at school?" she enquired.

"She's told us about this one, Anne," Mr Granger reminded her. "The blond Slytherin boy, you remember?"

Hermione nodded. "He's been ragging me for years for being a 'Mudblood'," she said. "Just wait until he learns the truth about me."

"Truth," said Mrs Granger suddenly. "That reminds me. Edward, could you go get the chest?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Hermione's foster father, and rose from the ottoman and headed for the attic. He was back a few minutes later, carrying a small but (to judge by his exertions) quite heavy wooden chest with a mystic Greek symbol on the lid.

Hermione took it from him (she was surprised to find that it didn't seem heavy at all to her; evidently the preternatural-strength bit had been true, anyway) and lifted the lid. Inside were two silver bracelets, resting on a length of yellow rope that seemed to glow of its own accord.

"Gifts from your mother," said Mrs Granger. "The bracelets will deflect any spell, up to and including the Killing Curse, while the lasso will cause anybody you bind with it to speak only the truth. There was also an invisible aeroplane, but it wouldn't fit in the box; she'll have to send that directly."

Hermione nodded, and closed the lid. "Well," she said, taking a deep breath, "thank you for telling me all this. I'm glad to know it, and I will try to do credit to my heritage – but now, if you don't mind, I really do have to finish these rune-books for Professor Tollers."

"Oh, of course, dear," said her mother. "Go ahead."

The two Doctors Granger's eyes followed their foster daughter up the stairs with a certain wistful, apprehensive air, as Merope's eyes might have followed Œdipus as he left Corinth.

"Well," said Granger père after a moment, "I think she took that rather well, all things considered."

"Yes, I know," said his wife. "We've raised a worthy Amazon princess, though I say it as shouldn't."

Mr Granger nodded. "So," he said, "when are you going to tell her about the Union-Jack leotard?"

Mrs Granger sighed. "Not until she asks."