AN: Okay, so I have decided to continue with this story on FFN as well as AO3, so sorry for the splurge of chapters. It was too much work, but I've decided, for now, to continue.

Hermione tries to work out why Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall want to see her, but nothing can prepare her for the news she's about to receive.

Thursday 19th September 1996, 02:48 pm

Dear Diary,

Reasons why McGonagall and Dumbledore might want to speak to me:

* I have won an award for my outstanding academic abilities

* They worked out that I was the one who brewed Polyjuice Potion and turned myself into a cat during my second year (accidentally, of course)

* Slughorn has reported back that I am failing in Potions, and they want to keep me back a year

* Dobby snitched on me knitting hats and leaving them around the Gryffindor common room in an attempt to free the Hogwarts house-elves (it didn't work)

* McGonagall regrets asking me to be a Prefect, despite a successful year. She wants to revoke my badge.

These are all perfectly reasonable suggestions. I have gotten up to many extra-curricular hijinks since I started at Hogwarts, and most of these go against the school rules.

Despite writing a list about it, a small voice inside my head tells me that I'm overthinking the entire situation. Funnily enough, these thoughts sound precisely like Ron. He's forever telling me to relax and that I 'always assume the worst,' as if nothing disastrous will happen. He's so laid back; he's almost horizontal and great at keeping a cool head in the face of danger.

Once, we got caught in Devil's Snare, and we needed to make a light to scare it off. Ron was the one who reminded me I was a witch.

Come to think of it—it's always Ron. Although I love Harry dearly, he's more like a sibling to me. We don't fight or bicker, and although we're close, Ron is the glue that keeps the three of us together. If Ron and I ever argue, Harry usually takes Ron's side in the issue and prefers to hang out with him over me.

There's a different kind of closeness between Ron and me that I've only started to notice. Although I spent a lot of my summer holidays with my mum, she couldn't take the entire two months off. When she was at work, I tended to gravitate to the Burrow, as I usually do when I have free time, and we're not in school. Usually, Harry is there too, but his parents took him away for an extended break this year.

I was a bit nervous when Harry first told us he wouldn't be around as much. Would I even have enough things to talk about with Ron? But it only took us ten minutes to shake off the awkwardness of facing almost a whole holiday just the two of us, and after that, we became inseparable.

If anything, it strengthened our bond. There's something in Ron that I don't share with Harry. That's not to say Harry and I aren't great friends. But I'm starting to believe that there might be something more with Ron...

When we're not bickering, he's the one who calms me down, and he's always the one I want to tell my deepest and darkest secrets to. When something goes wrong, Ron is the friend that comes straight to the front of my mind, as I know he'll try his best to make it better and will fight all of my battles alongside me.

Even as I write about him, my pulse is quickening, and I can feel it throbbing in the side of my neck. However, that might be the deep sense of foreboding from waiting at the door of Dumbledore's office.

I promise that I'm trying my hardest not to panic. I'm doing all of the breathing exercises Madam Pomfrey taught me, but they're not working. I'm even struggling to hold my quill correctly at the moment because my palms are sweaty.

But I believe my panic is justified. Professor Dumbledore has never invited me to his office. Harry has been there countless times—he's the Headmaster's favourite student, after all—but not me. And I've only been to McGonagall's once. At the start of my third year, I decided to study all of the classes available as electives, on top of the mandatory lessons.

Which turned out to be a bad idea.

Despite both McGonagall and Dumbledore trying to talk me out of it, I persisted. To help me, they asked the Ministry for a Time-Turner, and for some crazy reason, the Department of Mysteries approved the request. I spent most of my third year hopping back and forth through time, trying my hardest to attend two classes that were taking place in the same period.

It was far too much work, even for a witch like me who loves to study. I often couldn't work out when I was and ended up burning out, especially after volunteering to help Hagrid defend Buckbeak, his Hippogriff, after it attacked Draco Malfoy.

I'm not the calmest of people anyway, and I don't mind admitting that I'm highly strung and stubborn, but the stress of such a massive workload drove huge rifts between me, Ron and Harry. I was snappy with them almost all the time, and the tension was made worse because Crookshanks was suspicious of Ron's old rat, Scabbers.

At one point, Ron even accused Crookshanks of eating Scabbers. We almost didn't recover from that.

Instead of driving us apart, though, the whole situation made us stronger. Once we'd gotten over our pets fighting. It turns out, Ron is great at noticing when I am getting too stressed out, and he forces me to take breaks and makes sure I eat. He is such a good friend to me.

I ended up dropping Divination and Muggle Studies. The first was after an almighty strop, during which I walked out of Professor Trelawney's classroom and never returned. It was a load of old tosh anyway. The teacher is a fraud; if Harry died once, he died a hundred times, according to her predictions. After all, tea leaves don't tell stories, they're a tasty refreshment, and that's it.

And the latter? Well, after eleven years of living as a Muggle, I decided I didn't need the extra knowledge. After all, had I known that we'd spend the first time studying how television works, I'd never have signed up to it in the first place.

Anyway, I digress.

It didn't take long for me to get to the Headmaster's office on the third floor, even weighed down by my overstuffed school bag. Ron is constantly nagging me to take a couple of books out of there and only carry around the essentials, but you never know when you might need a textbook. Even Hogwarts: A History . As soon as I got to the office, I realised that I didn't know Dumbledore's password, but before I could even open my mouth, the stupid gargoyle that guards the entrance told me I had to wait.

That's how I ended up here, scribbling away to you whilst I wait for Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall to be ready to see me. If I didn't have you, then I think I'd be driving myself mad theorising about why they wanted to speak to me. The list is relatively rational for me.

I wonder how my potion is doing? It's probably a mess by now and the deepest purple ever, as I doubt either boy has thought to check on it for me.

Although, I would be annoyed if it turned out to be perfect while I wasn't there.

Ugh, I'm so mad that Dumbledore and McGonagall are making me wait. A low murmur is wafting from the top of the staircase that leads to the Headmaster's office, and by the sounds of it, there are more than two people up there. I wish I had a pair of Fred and George's Extendable Ears to help me eavesdrop and put a stop to the nervous churning in my stomach.

Please don't tell the twins I said that! I hate all Weasley Wizard Wheezes products, even if they do involve impressively intricate and complex magic.

To-do:

* Research complicated potions

* Review and edit Charms essay

* Practice non-verbal spells

* Arithmancy equations 20 - 35

* Work out how long my sentence in Azkaban might be for brewing illegal potions

I can hear footsteps on the stairs. Maybe Professor Dumbledore is coming to put me out of my misery?

Until I remember to write again x

Hermione looks up as the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office shifts to the side, and the staircase descends. The bottom of Professor McGonagall's robes appears first from the ceiling above. The steps make no noise, adding to the ominous nature of the invite. The lack of sound doesn't quell the nerves churning through Hermione's stomach.

The Deputy Headmistress steps out into the corridor. Her head turns left then right, a tight smile appearing on her face as she sets her eyes on Hermione. She gives the teenage witch a curt nod before saying, "Miss Granger, we're ready to see you now."

"W-we?" Hermione squeaks. "W-who else is here?"

"You'll see."

Professor McGonagall gestures for Hermione to follow her. The young witch smooths down her heavy wool skirt before hauling her school bag back onto her shoulder. Taking a huge breath, Hermione steps onto the staircase behind the professor and waits for it to begin its ascent.

The door to the office opens without a push, and Hermione's mouth widens as she takes in the space behind it. The room is large and circular, full of curious silver instruments that whirr, tick, chirp and emit coloured puffs of smoke as they go about their business. Portraits of former school headmasters and headmistresses adorn the walls, their occupants in various states of alertness. Professor Dumbledore is already sitting behind an enormous, claw-footed desk. His hands splay across the gnarled wood, and a thoughtful look rests on his face.

But he isn't the only person in the office. Standing next to the headmaster is a tall, graceful man with grey streaks in his tawny hair and bushy eyebrows. Hermione recognises him as Rufus Scrimgeour, the new Minister for Magic who has only last month taken over from Cornelius Fudge. Hermione has heard good things about him so far, although the only reports have come from the Daily Prophet, and they're not precisely the most truthful of publications.

If the appearance of Scrimgeour isn't confusing enough, sitting in two of the seats opposite Dumbledore is the visitor Hermione saw before breakfast this morning, and…

"Mum?" Hermione frowns, her breath catching in her throat as a ton of awful thoughts race through her head. Her body goes cold, as if there were a Dementor in the room too. It's only ever been her and her mum. There are no other family members to worry about, yet the appearance of her mother sitting in Professor Dumbledore's office sends a shiver of dread down her spine. "What are you doing here? When did you get here? I thought the plan was for us to meet up on Sunday?"

Jean Granger looks tired. Dark circles sit under her eyes, and deep lines decorate her face, despite her relatively young age. "Well, that was the plan, originally. But then I was sent an owl and given special permission to floo here. Awful experience that was too. From now on, everyone can come to me."

"We can lift the charms around the castle for a specific person," Dumbledore states, as if anticipating Hermione's next question. "That's how your mother is able to sit in this room, and wasn't turned away as soon as she stepped foot onto my hearth. It's an exception I am willing to make, given the special circumstances."

He nods towards McGonagall's visitor, who lifts the shiny black handbag perched on the edge of her knees and places it carefully on the floor. She rises to her feet, straightening her deep purple dress coat, reminding Hermione of the potion still bubbling away in Slughorn's dungeon. She was close to getting it right this time, and she's conflicted between longing to get back and finish brewing it and finding out why she's been called to the office this afternoon.

Without the matching hat, Hermione can see that the woman has deep brown hair, not unlike her own, although it looks a lot straighter and is streaked with grey. It's pulled into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. She looks oddly familiar, but Hermione can't quite put her finger on the reason why.

"Is this her?" the visitor asks, stepping around her chair to take a better look. Her eyes rake up and down Hermione's body, causing the teenager to pull her bag further onto her shoulder, wincing as it weighs her down even more. Still, she tries to keep her head raised high and a smile on her face, even though the unexpected assessment unnerves her.

"I was expecting a little more, but I guess this is a good base to work with."

Frowning, Hermione opens her mouth to question what the rude intruder means, but a shake of her mother's head forces her to close it once more.

"Perfect," the woman continues. "A lady never gawks like a goldfish. Lesson number one."

"Miss Granger, please take a seat. I suspect you have a few questions as to why we asked you here this afternoon, but perhaps Minerva can begin first." Professor Dumbledore points at the empty chair between Jean Granger and the stranger.

Hermione considers it whilst chewing on her lip. Heavy tension sits in the air, not helped by the warm fire burning in the hearth. She would love to run away from it all, yet there's a small amount of lingering curiosity refusing to let her leave. Hermione takes the offered chair with a huff, letting her bag drop to the floor with a heavy clunk.

She waits as Professor McGonagall walks around the desk, settling in the last remaining chair in the office. With a flick of her wand, a pile of papers appears as if from nowhere. Minerva rifles through them before saying,

"Hermione, I would like to introduce you to my dear old friend, Beatrice. I've known her since we were young and we attended Hogwarts together. We were in Gryffindor for seven fantastic years and stayed in touch even after school. I was Beatrice's confidante and even became her special advisor for a while between the end of my Quidditch career and becoming a professor here."

"That's all very lovely." Hermione forces a smile onto her face, even as impatience and frustration threaten to take control of her mood. "But I'm not sure how any of that concerns my mum or me. I don't mean to be rude, but I was in the middle of Potions, and I think that I should—"

Dumbledore interrupts Hermione's ramblings, "Well, you see, Miss Granger. As it's your seventeenth birthday today, we must discuss an important issue with you."

"I think it's better we let Beatrice explain, don't you, Albus?" Minerva interjects.

Hermione's eye's flit to McGonagall's friend, who has since retaken her seat. She pivots towards Hermione without even looking like she's moving, and the teenage witch doesn't miss the way the lady folds her hands in her lap or how only her ankles cross at the base of the left front chair leg. In contrast, Hermione's mother sags in her seat, still in her work trousers and dentist's tunic, a white streak of filling solution marking the collar. Jean Granger's unruly blonde curly hair fights to escape the neat bun she teased it into this morning, and she wrings her hands as if Dumbledore has just given her the worst news possible. A concerned frown rests on her forehead.

The older witch places a hand on Hermione's arm but immediately withdraws it when the teenager flinches. Hermione turns to look at her anyway as she begins to speak.

"Minerva was only half right when she introduced me. My full name is Beatrice Anne Windsor Sherington, Dowager Queen of Magical Britain."

Beatrice's voice fades out as Hermione tries to make sense of the words. Queen of Magical Britain . If she remembers rightly, 'Dowager Queen' is a title given to the wife of a dead king, but there hasn't been a magical royal family for at least fifteen years, according to the books she's read. And the last person to sit on the throne was a prince, not a king. A group of fanatical pure-blood wizards eradicated the bloodline when they killed Prince Hugo because they disagreed with the crown's stance on many vital laws and social issues.

"Hermione, love." Jean takes hold of Hermione's hand, tugging her attention away from Beatrice. The young witch turns her head in her mother's direction and is surprised to see tears shining in her eyes.

"I haven't quite been honest with you over the past seventeen years. Beatrice, well, the Queen. Sh-she is your grandmother, which means your father," Jean's voice trembles, and she pauses to compose herself. "Oh gosh, this is hard to explain."

"Your father," Beatrice continues, "was my son. Prince Hugo Phillip Windsor Sherington. Crown Prince of Magical Britain."

A loud laugh erupts from Hermione, and she uses her spare hand to cover her mouth before more escapes. Her head twists between her mother and supposed grandmother, giving her both physical and mental whiplash. Her heart pounds an irregular rhythm against her chest as her palms grow clammy.

This isn't real. They're pulling my leg. Or my potion went awfully wrong, and I'll open my eyes to find myself in the hospital wing.

She squeezes her eyes shut and counts to three, but when she opens them again, she's still in Dumbledore's office with five sets of eyes staring at her.

Then it must be a sick joke.

"Okay, you can give it up now. I don't know how Harry and Ron managed to get you all on their side, and I'm sorry, Minister, if they've wasted your time." Hermione turns in her seat, shouting at the trinkets that still tick away behind them, "Okay boys, you can come out of wherever you're hiding. The joke is over. Well done. You win."

The whirring of the devices is the only response Hermione gets, and her shoulders droop. If it's not a joke, then perhaps that means…

"I can assure you this is no laughing matter, Miss Granger," Scrimgeour states, a severe look on his face. "Now that you are of age, you have become the heir apparent. The time has come for you to take your rightful spot on the throne and assist the Ministry in leading the Magical community into the twenty-first century."

Pulse racing, Hermione shakes her head. Her stomach threatens to expel the meagre lunch she managed to shove into her mouth in between classes earlier.

"No, no way. I'm not a princess. I mean, look at me!" She gestures at her too-skinny body and Dr. Marten Mary-Janes. "I'm a teenage witch. Magic aside, I'm about as normal as they come. Princesses are popular, pretty, and good with people. I have none of those attributes. I have two friends, and that's it. The rest of the school population hates me because I'm a nag and a know-it-all. I'm awkward, annoying, a freak .

"No, I refuse to listen to this any longer," she pauses, searching for the right word to say. A hundred swear words fill her mind, but she refuses to let them spill from her mouth, even though they'd help her prove her case. "The whole thing is codswallop and has gone a step too far."

Hermione jumps to her feet, ignoring the tears that fill her eyes as she hoists her bag onto her shoulder. A hundred emotions thunder through her head like a rampant Erumpent; confusion, betrayal, hurt and anger. There's no way she can deal with any of them with a group of adults staring back at her.

How dare her mother lie to her, then, like a coward, tell her in front of a room of other people. Hermione needs to get out of this office with its oppressive heat despite its airy ceilings. She has to get far away from her mum and this queen before she explodes at them or spews out a load of words that she may later regret.

Without another word, she turns on her heels, ignoring the sound of shattering metal as her bag knocks over a handful of Dumbledore's trinkets. Good . Taking long, purposeful strides, she reaches the exit and, far too impatient to wait for the stairs to deliver her back to the corridor, hurries down them as fast as she can.

⁂

Once she makes it to the hallway, Hermione stops, trying to work out which way to go. Her breath comes in short, rattling gasps, and her mouth is dry. Without even realising it, she has started to cry, and hot tears roll over her cheeks.

Her first instinct is to try and make it back to the Gryffindor Tower. She could shut herself in the sanctuary of her four-poster bed, curtains drawn tight to block out the whole world, but if she risked it, she might bump into Lavender, her minions, and Cormac. There's no way she can face them alone, especially in her current state. She's likely to burst into tears or vomit, and that will only increase their bullying regime.

A sudden yearning for Ron tugs at Hermione's heart, and her breathing steadies. Despite their constant bickering, the lanky redhead has a knack for calming Hermione down and cheering her up when she's low, even if he occasionally is the reason behind her miserable moods. She turns in the direction of the moving staircases, planning on heading straight to the Great Hall in the hope that he's already at dinner.

As she stops on the top step, however, she remembers that it's still her birthday, despite the crazy conversation that took place in Dumbledore's office. Ron and Harry were desperate to give her a cake.

There's no way she can face all the singing and celebrations right now. Her previous high hopes for a relaxed evening with her best friends is about as appealing as snuggling up to a Blast-Ended Skrewt. They'll have questions about the meeting, and there's no way Hermione wants to even think about it right now.

Fortunately, there's one place she can go in the castle where hardly anyone else ventures, especially not at dinner time. There's no way she can face food this evening; she's not hungry, anyway. She takes the staircases down to the first floor then steps onto the landing. Ducking her head, she weaves through the crowds of students, intent on making it into the depths of her favourite shelves of books in the library before she loses her mind.

⁂

Hermione only makes it halfway down the corridor before the sound of her mother calling her name stops her. She refuses to turn around and instead fixes her gaze on her destination at the end of the long oil-lamp lit hallway as she shouts, "Go away, Mum!"

But the footsteps continue to approach, persistent in their pursuit of Hermione. She knows Jean Granger too well, and she will not give up until she's had a chance to speak to her daughter. With an exasperated sigh, Hermione turns into the nearest empty classroom, throwing her bag onto the floor and following it with a hard kick.

The door closes with a light click behind her, and Hermione turns towards her mum, fire racing through her veins. Jean looks even more tired than when Hermione left the office, and it's almost enough to calm the teenage witch down. But then she remembers the previous conversation, and another flurry of rage bubbles in her stomach.

"Can't you leave me alone?" she yells, her hands clenched into angry fists at her sides. "You shouldn't even be here. The school is dangerous . How did you even manage to traverse the staircase by yourself? Unless you lied about that, too? Are you a witch? After today's confessions, it wouldn't surprise me."

Jean sighs and rubs her forehead. "No, I am not a witch. If I were, do you think I would waste my time earning a miserable wage staring at Michael Moscovitz's cavities?"

Normally, the joke would earn a giggle from Hermione. It's been a longstanding one between the two of them since she was small. Michael has been one of her mum's patients since before Hermione can remember and has bitten Jean Granger more times than they can count. But rage clouds her sense of humour today, and absolutely nothing is funny.

"What's going on, then? You can't honestly expect me to believe that woman is my grandmother? I've never seen her before in my life!"

Glancing around the room, Jean spots a rickety old chair and settles on it, closing her eyes. She rubs at her temples, and a fleeting moment of concern tweaks Hermione's conscience. Her lack of patience supersedes it, though. She doesn't want to relax, and her foot taps a steady rhythm against the cold stone floor as she waits.

"Queen Beatrice is your grandmother, Hermione. I met your father, Prince Hugo, during my studies at the University of London." Jean sighs. "Oh, he was dreamy. Handsome, and we had the same political beliefs. In fact, we met at the Rock Against Racism Carnival in Victoria Park. Of course, he didn't tell me about his royal background when we first started dating, but it didn't take long for him to tell me he was magical or about his family.

"It was strange, to begin with. Magic only exists in fairytales and romantic comedies, or so I thought. But then he made a massive bouquet of roses appear out of nowhere, and I had no reason not to trust him. And after that, well, it was a whirlwind, but it was fantastic.

"Plus, it made my life a lot easier, having a magical prince for a boyfriend."

A wistful smile appears on Jean Granger's face, and once again, her eyes shimmer. Hermione's hard stance softens, but she refuses to give in straight away. She's still mad at the fact that she's hearing all of this now, even though her mum and dad's tale is a romantic one.

Words fall out of her mouth anyway, despite her resolution not to give in. As she speaks, Hermione notices her tone is softer than before. "What happened? You didn't get married?"

"No, we didn't." Jean blinks, and a lone tear escapes her eye. "We wanted to. Even after only a couple of months of knowing him, I knew he was the man for me. But the political landscape in Britain was changing, both magical and muggle. It was far too fast for us to keep up with. The pure-blood regime in magical Britain was gaining traction, led by a man called Tom Riddle. He believed that people like you and me didn't deserve to exist in a world with magic. Hugo, on the other hand, believed in equality. He wanted everyone to have the same opportunities.

"Christmas 1978 was hard for us. He wanted to keep me safe. In the new year, we decided to part, but it was a terribly hard decision to make. I didn't find out that I was pregnant with you until after the fact, but by then, it was too late."

Whilst her mother spoke, Hermione gravitated to a dusty desk at the front of the room. She leans against it, her hand clutching the edge hard enough to turn her knuckles white with the effort. The other arm wraps around her torso as if trying to provide herself comfort.

"What happened?" she squeaks, the words catching around the lump that's formed in her throat.

Jean chews her lower lip, considering the question. She takes her time before she replies, "You're going to have to ask Beatrice or Professor McGonagall about that because I don't fully understand all of it, and it happened such a long time ago. All I recall is trying to get ahold of Hugo to tell him about you, but I couldn't get in touch with him. Eventually, a letter came by owl informing me that he'd been killed. Albus and Beatrice came to visit me. They brought along Minerva and another woman called Bagnold. They wanted to ' help me decide what to do .'

"Together, we agreed to keep you hidden. Fortunately, the magical community didn't know about my relationship with Hugo. It was easy enough. I wanted you to have a normal life, and selfishly, I was hoping you wouldn't end up as a witch. I was worried that the people who came after your father would have you on their list, too, even though they didn't even know you existed. The others agreed but under one condition. If you showed any sign of magic, we would have to tell you about your history, preferably before you came of age. I-I kept on stalling them, but I ran out of options."

Jean hangs her head, taking great interest in her worn white trainers. "I'm sorry, love. But you have to know that I only did it to protect you."

Hermione's head spins with the story her mum has told her. She can't make head nor tail of any of it, despite being the brightest witch of her age. The whole situation dumbfounds her. However, one pressing issue keeps bouncing to the forefront of her mind:

She's a princess.