Back upstairs in her bedroom, Hermione remained awake for hours, mentally sifting over everything McGonagall said to her throughout the previous day. She remembered how different she felt on her most recent trip up the stairs to her bedroom, a journey she'd made everyday since she learned how to walk. She felt, for the first time, as if she could really understand herself, and, also for the first time, as if her whole life up until that moment had been a humongous laughable joke. She'd believed, all eleven years of her life, that she'd stay stuck as the designated oddball forever, but now, McGonagall told her that all the strange things that had ever happened to her (or rather, that she'd made happen to others) signified her belonging to another lifestyle. These strange situations, oddly enough, actually symbolized normalcy, just not in the world her parents brought her up in. Oh, the power of perspective. But even though all Professor McGonagall said seemed so honest, she found it hard to believe everything. How could witches and wizards hide so well out in secret all around the world? Surely someone had to slip up on the rules at some time… but, of course, perhaps that problem could easily clear up with a magic spell.
Magic spells! Hermione always spent most of her time reading nonfiction (she liked the surety that came with facts), but when she picked up her occasional fictional read, she'd always been baffled by magic. It didn't make any sense at all—how could you speak a few phrases of gibberish and expect to make lightning strike someone? However, now that she was confronted with the field of real magic, she suddenly felt a giddy eagerness to pursue it and learn as much about it as she could. Its unpredictable nature seemed now to excite her rather than irk her. The way McGonagall explained it just made everything sound so normal, and that was something Hermione needed more of in her life. From transfiguring teacups into rodents and fighting strange creatures like pixies (which, it turns out, are nothing like kind fairies), everything had a simple, magical, explanation.
But then, the bizarreness of it all exhilarated Hermione—like McGonagall let her in on a huge secret: the biggest secret in the world, a whole other way of life. Suddenly, all those years left out from party invitations or ignored at the lunch table, while her classmates whispered secrets to each other under their breaths, didn't matter. The safe walls of Hermione's quick mind would take the secret of the Wizarding World, a world where she hoped to one day belong in, to the grave. At that moment, she felt normal, or at least as normal as a newly discovered young witch could be, and to her it felt better than anything in the whole universe.
Hermione rubbed her stiff back, just realizing how long she'd sat leaning on the rugged surface of the heavy wooden chairs beneath her breakfast table. She puffed up a pillow and gingerly laid back on it, attempting to ease into an uneasy sleep. In bed, she always read a chapter or two from her favorite book before she could succumb to sleep, but after her exhausting day of revelations, she didn't think it would take long to delve deep into the land of her dreams.
Just as Hermione began drifting off, a thought occurred to her, as thoughts often do when one hangs on the brink of slumber. What if she could never belong in the Wizarding World either? What if she could never fit into any society—magical or muggle (to use a word from Professor McGonagall's extensive vocabulary)? Well, she certainly didn't have a magical background—what if she couldn't fit in anywhere? Or—what if, just what if, everyone from wizarding families already knew exactly how to transfigure toothpicks into needles? What if everyone who was anyone played the game "Quidditch"—how could she ever admit to her intense fear of heights? Her list of worries droned on and on in her head like little fiery wasps humming in her ears. No matter how hard she tried to drone them out, a new problem, even more dreadful than the last, crowded her mind, and by the time Professor McGonagall arrived back on the Granger's doorstep to take Hermione's family to visit Diagon Alley—in order to collect Hermione's school things (her parents decided on sending her to Hogwarts the previous night)—and to get permission to connect their chimney to the magical floo network (only for Hermione's transportation back home from the magical world during Christmas break), Hermione no longer thought it such a good decision to leave the sanctuary of her simple home and join the complexities of a society built on magic.
The sun shone dully through a cover of soft gray clouds like a blanketed child breaking from sweet slumber on the morning of Hermione's first encounter with the magical world. Though she felt rather queasy, she brushed off her nerves like she did the dust accumulating on her shoulder from the Underground, and tried to match the rapid pace of Professor McGonagall, quick, though she didn't look it. McGonagall had abandoned her long robes and sleek hat for an oversized purple blouse tucked into a long violet skirt that stretched all the way to the ground, for the sake of secrecy—an old woman wearing robes didn't stroll casually into the London Underground everyday.
"Professor McGonagall," Hermione gasped between large gulps of air, "last night, I didn't think to ask, but—"
"Oh of course there's a lot we still haven't had time to discuss—don't worry Miss Granger, it will all make sense once you arrive at the school and begin classes." Hermione shuddered to think she'd have to go that long without satisfying her curiosity about the magical world. She couldn't even imagine arriving at Hogwarts without the faintest idea how to brew a potion like the ones McGonagall told her about the previous night. She continued her question;
"I just wondered, Professor, how do you get into this platform? I don't think I've ever seen 9¾ on a platform sign." It'd been a while since she'd been to Kings Cross Station (as her family traveled by plane to their vacation spot this summer holiday), so she might just have forgotten about that particular platform, but she thought it best to make sure.
"Of course not, dear child! Do you want groups of muggles walking in on a whole platform full of witches and wizards?" After fixing Hermione with another one of her stern expressions, she continued to explain how to get onto Platform 9¾ through one of its entrances: the invisible barrier between Platform 9 and Platform 10. It was all completely nuts, but it fit into everything McGonagall said so far, so Hermione took it in her stride.
McGonagall led the Grangers up a bustling street boasting shops of every kind. Busy shoppers roamed around the sidewalks, walking in and out of shops selling books, boutiques filled with clothes, and even a mini parlor selling How To guides to magic tricks, which Professor McGonagall made a point to scoff at while she strode by. Hermione had just wondered where on earth Professor McGonagall was dragging them off to when the woman stopped abruptly in front of a lifeless shop the three Grangers had failed to notice prior to having it pointed out to them. A dusty sign above the shop read "The Leaky Cauldron."
Instead of going inside the gloomy pub, which McGonagall wasn't too fond of, but the looks of it, she led the Grangers through a small walkway just large enough for a single person to walk through at a time. McGonagall explained this wasn't the usual way to get to Diagon Alley, but the path was paved specially for first-time visits to the place. The four ambled through the long winding path in single-file, before reaching the vast square garden it opened into—though you couldn't really call it a garden. The cobblestone flooring bore no life except for a litter of shrubs here and there and small crowd of weeds sprouting out through cracks in the rocks. McGonagall brought out a small wooden stick, which sparked at its end when she pulled it out of a pocket in her overlong skirt, and tapped it lightly on the top of her head. Immediately, her "muggle clothes," as she called them, started becoming replaced by a set of long, burgundy robes with the fluidity of running water. Evidently forgetting this behavior did not scream "ordinary" to the Grangers, she flicked her wand once more, and a few of the bricks lining the wall of the square glowed red. Before long, the entire wall to which they belonged melted into the ground in front of the quartet's feet, leaving no sign that it stood there just moments before.
"Wow," said Mr. Granger, amazed, "would you look at that—melted! Just like ice! How absurdly wonderful…Oh my…"
"Indeed." Mrs. Granger echoed, squinting through thick lashes at the sight the melted wall revealed. Hermione didn't trust herself to speak. She thought her mouth had already dropped clean off its hinges to join the weeds peeking out of the ground under her feet.
Large structures loomed up in front of her, taller than the brick wall that previously blocked the buildings from view. Huge shops opened onto a large crowded street with a throng of many oddly colored robes joining together to form a rainbow school of fish pushing and shoving to gain access to sales and bargains. Owls soared freely over the heads of the hundreds of witches and wizards, flitting from shop to shop, cooing softly into their many feathers. The tingling of dozens of bells echoed softly in the distance, adding to the soundtrack of hundreds of muffled voices and the thudding footfalls of many more feet. A golden sign hanging from the shop closest to the Grangers read "Twilfitt and Tattings," which glittered profusely though the sun in the sky remained hidden behind storm gray clouds. Loud chatter filled Hermione's ears, and she strained to hear the people speaking.
"C'mon Bert give it a break. It's just not worth five Galleons—that right there. You can't seriously think that's dragon skin, can yeh? Three Galleon's my last word—oh, alright then, I'll throw in a Sickle." A stout man gestured wildly at a tiny brown pouch sitting on the counter of a dark, dingy shop. The shopkeeper looked annoyed, but nodded and held out his hand, and before Hermione could see what he took from the man, Professor McGonagall, her thin lips pursed in a flat line, had hustled her onward.
Seeing witches and wizards in their element, Hermione immediately felt uncomfortable in her shirt and jeans. Her stomach churned nervously as she attempted to cover herself with the miniscule scraps of paper she held in her hands, which included a list of the supplies she'd need to purchase. Already, the Grangers had begun to draw attention to themselves, what with their peculiar dress and their flabbergasted expressions while viewing things probably as usual to the typical witch as toilet paper.
Hermione watched as women in pointy flowery hats and billowing black robes exchanged thick round coins for books and quills, and as children her own age, similarly dressed, raced around the corner shouting about a new racing broom—the fastest ever. McGonagall must've forgotten to mention that witches and wizards used a different type of currency in her Wizarding 101 lesson; Hermione shouldn't have foolishly thought Hogwart's Deputy Headmistress told her everything one could know about magic. Plainly, however, Hermione remained right about one thing—fitting into this world would take more effort than she'd ever thought.
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