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So far... After the early death of all her friends, and the collapse of both magical and Muggle civilisation by the 22nd century, the Fates provide a means for the aged Hermione to be reborn. But the young child's former memories and powers are only briefly recalled and forgotten again intermittently. Fearing a split personality, Hermione's mother takes her to a clinic at which the girl magically compels the doctor to give her a clean bill of health. Now read on...
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Chapter 3
Truth Will Out
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~~~ The Magickial Girl ~~~
Autumn quickly gave way to winter. On New Year's Day, Anne Granger resolved to save towards a new three-piece suite for the lounge, Edward promised to replace their ageing television set and to paint the back garden fence, while Hermione, who had read Peter Pan over Christmas, determined to remain a little girl forever.
Soon spring was close at hand and full of promise. During these months, Hermione had increasing periods when she could draw upon the memories and powers of her former future self, yet still she had to experience her new childhood to gain a balance and adjust. So, for the most part, she remained oblivious of her true nature except in an unconscious, instinctive way. On the last Saturday in March she was dancing, and hip-swaying, and singing to the radio...
"Thum boyth kith me, thum boyth hug me..."
Anne Granger grinned at her husband, sharing a happiness in every sign of their five-year-old's normality. Smiling, he folded his newspaper and walked over to switch on their new television.
"Use the remote, darling," said Anne.
"Oh... right. Uuh, where is it?"
"It slipped down the back of that saggy seat cushion where you were sitting."
"Thought we were getting new furniture this year, weren't we?" he muttered.
"Cauthe we are liv–ing in a magickial world, and I am a magickial girl. ... You know that we are liv–ing in a–"
Mrs Granger frowned. "Are you sure those are the right words, Hermione?"
"Oh, Mummy! Don't you know anything!"
"But shouldn't that word be–?"
"How'd you get BBC1 on this thing?" grumbled Edward, cutting in.
"The number buttons, dear. Press the number one button."
"But I AM pressing the '1' button!"
"You have to point it, Ed." Mrs Granger thrust her empty hand towards the television to show him by gesture. Hermione mimicked her and the channel changed to BBC1.
"There, you see?" said Anne.
"But... but I didn't press it that time..." blustered Edward. "Stupid remote control – they'll never catch on, that's for sure."
"What time's it start? The National?"
"Well, the race doesn't begin for another twenty minutes but I want to hear what they've got to say about the favourite, Greasepaint."
"Ith that the betht horth, Daddy?"
"Well, it's the horse that most people have bet will win, sweetie."
"How much will they win?"
"Erm... let's see... The odds are 13/2 but it's best to back it each way in a race like this so you get a quarter of that returned even if it comes first, second, third, or fourth."
"Edward! Don't get her interested in gambling, for heaven's sake! You know how I feel about that."
"She needs to know how the world works, darling, so she can make good judgements."
"She's only five!"
"It's just a bit of fun. It's the biggest horse race in the world, Anne, and it's only once a year!"
Hermione had her little purse open and was inspecting the contents. "Tho, if I bet my 50 pence pocket money, what would I win, Daddy?"
"If you bet Greasepaint 25 pence each way at thirteen to two for a win plus a quarter for a place and it won, you'd get... uuh..." He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and reached for his newspaper.
Hermione murmured, "Half of twenty-five time'th thirteen, that'th about 162p and a quarter ith 40p – that'th more than two poundth!"
The father stared in astonishment at his daughter. "Sheesh! – is that what they teach in primary school these days?"
"Can you add it to your bet, Daddy?" said Hermione, holding out a sticky palm with the coin. "On the favourite?"
Mr Granger opened his mouth to speak but his wife interrupted with a puzzled frown. "Are you sure, Hermione? Wouldn't you like one of those other horses with better odds? You'd win fifty times that, wouldn't you?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and said rather haughtily, as if explaining something obvious to a dim three-year-old, "No, Mummy, fifty time'th nothing ith thtill nothing! Greathepaint ith the betht horth – ithn't it, Daddy?"
"Erm..." But 'Daddy' excused himself by running out into the hall to phone in their combined stakes on Greasepaint. He called back rather dryly, "Pity nobody's produced a remote that can make phone calls, eh? That might be of some use instead of a stupid TV click box that doesn't do what you want it to."
When he returned, the horses were lining up, and his wife, whose face now carried a very worried expression, was still talking to her daughter. "Are you certain, Hermione? You can still change your mind."
"Oh, please, Anne, she's not going to turn into a gambling addict over 50p! Let's enjoy the race."
"But..."
Edward frowned at his wife. "Are you alright?" His frown deepened. "You don't look well..."
"THEY'RE OFF!"
Edward was instantly distracted from his wife's demeanour by the horses galloping away. But as the race proceeded, if he had taken his eyes from the screen for even a moment, he would have seen that Anne appeared positively sick with fear. Towards the end of the race she had sunk into a chair in the far corner of the room, unnoticed.
"He's running third! Come on, Greasepaint!" yelled Mr Granger, and he raised some dust by slapping the old sofa's arm like a horse's rump.
"Racing towards the Elbow, and Mr Snugfit is clear of Corbiere, Greasepaint, Last Suspect, and Classified!"
"Come on, Greasepaint!" bellowed Mr Granger, bouncing on the edge of his sofa, "Come on, you mother!"
"Come on, you mother!" cried Hermione at his side, waving a little fist in imitation of her father.
"Edward!" croaked Anne. "Please!"
"Inside the final furlong, and it's Mr Snugfit being challenged again by Corbiere – and Last Suspect putting in a tremendous run! It's Mr Snugfit from Last Suspect, and Last Suspect is determined to get up on the near side! And Last Suspect has won it! Mr Snugfit second, Corbiere third, fourth is Greasepaint..."
"Each way!" Hermione cried triumphantly, "We get 40 pence for fourth place leth 25 pence lotht on a win, that'th 15 pence profit, Daddy! Jutht think, Mummy! Fifteen pennith for doing nothing!"
Mr Granger was not quite as enthusiastic as his daughter – even though he'd bet five pounds each way and won ten times her winnings. As the excitement dwindled, he glanced guiltily at his wife. "Anne?" He jumped to his feet and went over. "What's wrong, darling? You look white as a sheet!"
"I... I..."
"What is it? Can't you speak?"
"Last..." she gasped, weakly holding up a slip of paper.
Mr Granger took the paper from her and studied it, aghast. "You bet on Last Suspect?" He staggered back a step. "You bet the winner!" He blinked, wide-eyed for a few moments. "But why? You never gamble, Anne! Still, at least you–"
His voice croaked then failed as he looked at the amount on the receipt. "A thou–? A thou–? A thous–?" He couldn't quite fully say the amount. "You put our entire furniture savings on a horse?" His mouth gaped really wide. "You won over £25,000?"
"No, I didn't know about each-way betting then. I placed it all to win and got better odds ante-post a few weeks ago. We've won £66,000." His wife had found her voice and was examining Edward's expression carefully. His eyes bulged unblinkingly and he opened and closed his mouth silently like a codfish.
"But why, Anne? Why?" he finally managed to say.
"Cauthe I got the real love – the kind that you need, and..." Hermione had gone back to strutting and prancing and singing along with the radio. She was using the TV remote as a pretend microphone against the side of her throat and somehow it was making her voice louder. Anne Granger turned to look towards their daughter. Edward followed his wife's gaze, and understanding dawned in his eyes.
"You'll come running back... you'll come running back... you'll come running back – to me-ee-ee..."
Edward had gone over to the briefcase on his desk at the side of the room, and had pulled out some papers; he was scrutinising them carefully and muttering to himself. "So Anne got the winner from Hermione but Hermione backed a different horse – she bet on the logical one with the best chance. It's as if she didn't remember knowing the real winner!" He glanced over at his daughter slowly windmilling her arms back and forth over her head and singing:
"Ti–yi–a–yime ith on my thide – yeth it ith."
Anne skirted around Hermione to join her husband. "Your investment shares?"
"Remember years ago when she wrote INTEL on my Financial Times? I figured it out the next day when I was reading the issue. Intel is a tech company and they're doing incredibly well." He averted his gaze guiltily before continuing, "and my broker advised me to stick with them."
"You mean you've already invested in the company?"
He nodded. "It's multiplied dramatically; tech is the big thing now." Edward looked at Anne's betting slip. "You know, these winnings could buy a lot more stock too. ... It'll pay for her education and set her up for life. She deserves the very best. Anne, we have a genius for a daughter – scary, but a genius!"
His daughter was stomping her little feet hard on the carpet synchronised to the music. "I thed, Time! Time! Time! ith on my thide."
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~~~ Talking To One's Self ~~~
Over a year passed by in which Hermione learned to dilute her lucid, mature intervals so as not to worry her parents. They never lasted long enough for her to achieve much other than make notes ready for that day when hopefully she might awaken fully and continuously to her original memories. And sometimes... sometimes she would write to her younger self, preparing her childish emotions for that event...
Little Hermione sunk low in the back of the car to hide an aggrieved expression as Mrs Granger drove her home after a bad first day of a new school year. The child hadn't meant to get into trouble. It certainly wasn't her fault that Rodney Thompson's shoes had refused to trip up Sally Biddle. Instead they'd run off with him screaming round and round the playground. Not content with that, the shoes then ran him into the caretaker's shed and the door locked itself without even a key! Why was it always she who got the blame! And why did these things only happen to her!
Once through the Grangers' front door, she ran upstairs to her room and flung herself on the pillow. Mummy hates me because I'm a freak. I'll never, ever be normal. If only I had–
She stopped sobbing and sat up, rubbing her eyes. If only I had a best friend who really knew ME! Of course I do! The young girl had waited longingly for this day then had forgotten because of the misery of the school episode.
Hermione sprang off her bed and stared at the carefully-ringed calendar on the wall, nodding to herself in confirmation that she hadn't got the date wrong, then opened her desk and slipped a finger behind the loose wooden board at the back. Several envelopes were there that she'd found lodged under her pillow on different days during the summer months. She carefully pried out the latest one which was still sealed, and re-read the message upon it to be sure:
PRIVATE! For Miss Hermione Granger ONLY!
Only to be opened on 1st September, 1986.
She tore it open and began to read aloud:
"Hello, Hermione,
"It's me again – your big 'sister-friend'! Your older self!
This wasn't the first such message but even so, Hermione's mouth fell open wide and she blinked away the last of her tears, entranced by what she was reading.
Awful day, huh? Yes, I well remember that return to school for your sixth year and that bully – serves him right! It was definitely NOT your fault! But the worst part was Mum's disappointment in you; it felt – and feels – so unjust. But don't worry, it's only because she loves you so very much!
I told you before that you are special and these experiences happen to you for a reason. You will learn to control and hide the power that is within you. These 'accidents' are triggered by strong emotion and the same probably applies to your growing recollections of your 'other life'. Perhaps I can help you there. Now I want you to read the next paragraph very carefully and see if it stimulates a memory...
Remember your 'imaginary' friend, Harry Potter? Well, he's a real little boy and one day you will meet him. Harry is to be your best friend and he will like you very, very much!
Hermione's face beamed with joy. "I jutht knew he wath!" She hugged the letter to herself for a few seconds before continuing...
In a few weeks you will be seven years old. Seven is a very special number and I am hopeful you might make a breakthrough in your understanding. I cannot say much more until then.
Your dearest, caring soul – YOU!
I am yours,
Hermione
Hermione smoothed her hand repeatedly over the message, as if to touch her point of contact with another universe – a world she could only hazily recall now and again. But her recollection of Harry Potter was a little stronger now. She closed her eyes and dwelt on the faint memory of an old man wearing glasses – no! He was surely not quite that old but... almost middle-aged, careworn and broken, hair greying before his time.
She sighed. So, how could he now be a little boy? How was she to ever find him? And what if he didn't like her?
She went to her dressing table and stared in dismay at the scruffy sorrow-streaks down her face. As she hastily tried to rub them aside, her mouth was gaped wider, causing her over-sized teeth to protrude even more. With a wail, she instinctively covered them with a hand then grimaced. Thick bushy hair, which had become dishevelled when she burrowed into her pillow, now spiked up at all angles, making Hermione feel like a thorny briar after an unfriendly wind. Shaking her head did not help. The reflected face screwed up again and she fought back more sniffles...
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~~~ Ironing Things Out ~~~
A couple of Saturdays later, Mrs Granger was pressing her husband's cotton shirts in the lounge. The air carried a warm toasted-linen smell that her daughter breathed in with great satisfaction as she typed on her BBC Micro computer. Although the weather was cool, the sky was bright and the roofs of the houses on the other side of the road shone in the autumn sunshine. The little girl released a sigh of contentment.
"Hermione, have you made up your mind yet where we'll lunch for your birthday next weekend? There are only five days left to decide," said Mrs Granger, with one finger pressed upon the wall calender. "You don't still want to go to–?"
"Peppery Pathty Paradithe!" announced the child, nodding her head vigorously.
Her mother pulled a face. "But we often go there. Don't you want to eat somewhere more special for once? We can drive into London if you like – make a day of it. You'll be SEVEN, remember!"
Her daughter gawked, open-mouthed, as if mesmerised; the significance of the number had slipped her mind but now the import of the message from her other self came back with full force, THEVVEN! THEVVEN! ... SEVEN!
A flood of remembered ideas engulfed her thinking like a tidal wave. Harry needs your help! Gather yourself! Prepare!
Her mother continued, unaware that anything momentous had occurred, "Then we'll visit a bookshop like we agreed. You can have one storybook and one sensible book on any subject you like. Do you want to go to Waterstones or Foyles?"
"Mum, there's quite a good one on Charing Cross Road; can we go there?"
Mrs Granger hesitated with a puzzled expression on her face but, distracted by a loose thread on a shirt collar, she simply murmured, "Yes, of course."
"Might we take the A3 route then divert through the east of Surrey? It's only an extra fifteen minutes and there's very pretty countryside and villages if we go that way."
"I don't see why not." Mrs Granger frowned inwardly as she slid a coat hanger into a neatly-ironed shirt and hung it on a clotheshorse. Something seemed not quite right...
"And..." persisted Hermione.
"What, darling?" Mrs Granger was back at her ironing board and reaching for another shirt. She scrutinised this one more closely to see if any of the cuffs were frayed.
"Mum, could you... there are some extra things I need – for erm... my studies, I mean. Would it be possible... I mean, would it be awfully rude of me to ask... if Dad might lend me some money?"
Mrs Granger laughed as she carefully laid aside her steam iron with a hiss, while she crouched down to hug her daughter. "You don't need to borrow from us, sweetheart! We're your parents! We'll buy you what you need."
"Mmm... there's rather a lot – books and uuh, cookery tools and jars, and erm... things. I want to prepare for uumm... secondary school you see. I know it's a long way off but..."
"Well, if you're sure." Though preoccupied with tweaking her steam setting, Mrs Granger again felt a niggle of doubt...
"It's not for my birthday – I'd even give up my presents. This is why I... I'd like to open a savings account. I have an idea for an investment too – that will pay for what I need."
"An investment?" Anne Granger smiled wryly. "You mean like Daddy's shares?"
Hermione hesitated. "Like... Intel."
Mrs Granger gasped. Those five letters had haunted her since Hermione wrote them six years before.
"And Last Suspect," added Hermione, searching her mother's expression carefully.
Anne Granger sank down onto a chair, struggling with her emotions. "It's you again, isn't it? That other girl," she murmured, unsure of herself.
"Mum, I'm your little Hermione and I love you very much." Hermione went over and held her mother's hands while she explained, "There are some things I need to tell you but I don't know if you'd believe me."
"We have to try?" said Mrs Granger, tearfully.
Hermione nodded, and after a while, her mother nodded too. The young girl drew a deep breath before continuing.
"You must believe me when I tell you that I'm still your six-year-old Hermione with a child's emotions and feelings, but more and more I am discovering within myself... special abilities and... knowledge. This information makes it clear I have a duty to perform for... well everyone really. It's extremely important, Mum. Will you help me?"
"With what? What's this about, Hermione?"
Hermione sighed. "You've seen me predict things that have not yet happened, right?"
"Yes..."
"That's impossible, isn't it? It's not scientific, is it? It makes no logical sense, surely you agree?"
"Yet you did it. How? How did you do it?"
"Using magic, Mum. Magic is real."
Mrs Granger stared at her daughter for several seconds, then jumped to her feet. "Oh, no, you're not getting involved with black magic! Who's been talking to you! Someone at school? What did they tell you!" The woman's eyes turned rapidly within, then widened as new fears occurred to her. "What have they done to you!"
Hermione bit her lip, bracing herself... "I knew I'd have to show you eventually. Will it convince you if I conjure up a vase of flowers?"
She leaned over and with a wave of her arm, did so. Her mother stared in astonishment at the bowl of violets that was now nudging aside the teapot on the coffee table. But the adult saw only what she expected to see; her daughter had apparently lifted it up from below.
"Where did you get those!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Clearly, she'd have to perform something more dramatic. "What if I make Dad's shirt continue pressing itself?" The half-ironed garment that still remained on the ironing board duly sat up, and one sleeve reached out to grasp the iron...
"Stop! Stop!" cried Mrs Granger, horrified.
"Or if I disappear before your eyes!"
There was a soft pop, a knock on the door, and Hermione walked into the room almost before her mother realised she had vanished.
"Stop this at once," shrieked her mother, hands clutched to her face. "It can't be... there can't be such a thing as magic. Who arranged all these tricks?"
"They're not tricks, Mum, and nobody arranged them. If you don't believe me, then you ask me to do something that would have been impossible to predict, something nobody could have arranged before."
Mrs Granger was shaking her head; her lips were set very firmly. She said, "I suppose pulling a rabbit from a top hat is out of the question?"
Over a century of perfecting her wandless magic, made such a task ridiculously simple for Hermione Granger. She conjured the hat and lifted out a little white baby rabbit.
"Just a trick!" Mrs Granger looked wildly about, then pointed. "Open that window!"
Hermione barely lifted a finger and the top of the sash window slid down a few inches.
"Not that one – the bottom one, the one that's been jammed since last year!"
With an enormous creak, the lower window rose up. Frantic now, Mrs Granger pointed outside, "The Hansons! They're always parking their damn Peugeot on our front!"
With a lurch and a metallic creak of its suspension, the vehicle sprang into the air and settled itself across the road, almost wobbling a passing cyclist off his bike. Mrs Granger clutched the window frame weakly as she turned to her daughter. Her voice was an almost inaudible, frightened whisper... "Make it rain. Nobody can make it rain."
Hermione winced and stared up at the sky. Wizards had never truly mastered the weather because most attempts had resulted in serious and often terrifying consequences. "This will take me a few seconds and it will only be local conjured water..." She closed her eyes to concentrate. Only when she heard the heavy patter of raindrops on the window panes did she open her eyes and close the window. "Do you believe me now?"
Mrs Granger stared for a long time at the blue sky beyond the rain-streaked glass, then she went and sat down on the couch, deep in thought and quietly crying to herself.
"Is there anyone else making you do this? Is anyone else involved? Has anyone hurt you?"
Hermione smiled. "No, Mum, it's just me. Of course..." – again she hesitated – "I'm not the only one in the world who can do magic."
"There are others? You've seen them?"
"No, Mum, I've not seen anyone but my... insight informs me there are many thousands around the world."
Mrs Granger stared mournfully at the busy shirt which had now gleefully started work on a pile of tea towels. The white rabbit looked on with its nose twitching inquisitively.
"Oh, Mum, magical folk can help us! They can help non-magical people, and we can help them." Hermione's mouth twisted up as she recalled the previous fate of the human race. "In fact, they'll need to if... that is, well, let's just say the prospects for the world are not great without a blend of science and magic. I think it was meant to be; the human race has evolved two survival skills which complement each other."
"And you can see this in the future? Like you could see Intel's share price improving? Like you saw the Grand National winner?"
"I can see what will happen if mankind relies too much on natural science while magical folk fight with each other over whether to control or ignore them – everyone fails! Muggle civilisation needs magical support and guidance, and most wizards don't realise how much they already depend on goods and services provided by technology – cars, radio, even house bricks."
"Muggles? Wizards? So you're a...?"
"I'm a witch, Mum: pointed hat, flying broomstick, cauldron, magic wand – the lot."
Burning with curiosity, the little rabbit hopped up on the ironing board to study the shirt's progress more closely.
Mrs Granger shuddered. "You have to give me time, Hermione..."
"NOOO!" shrieked Hermione, rescuing the baby rabbit from the shirt's clutches as it swung the steam iron...
The alarmed girl popped the rabbit back into the hat, vanished them both, then undid the charm on the animated shirt. Only a neat stack of laundry remained behind as the ironing board strut-scissored out, carrying the iron to their usual place in the hall cupboard under the stairs. Hermione vanished the flowers – despatched the tea tray to the kitchen for good measure, then turned back to her mother, realising how this was all too much for any non-magical to adjust to quickly.
"I'm sorry, Mum, but I need you to get a grip right now. I don't know how long my current perception will last – minutes? hours? days? Dad'll be home soon and–"
"Omigod! Your father!" Half-rising from the sofa, Mrs Granger pointed frantically at the clock on the mantelpiece. "He'll never believe in any of this no matter what we tell him. What on Earth do we do?" She sank back onto her seat and closed her eyes, wincing in despair.
Hermione bit her lip, unsure how to answer. She went to the window to stare out. All of her rain had fallen. Another car drew up outside where the Peugeot had once marked its territory. The driver got out and frowned in puzzlement at the wet road glistening in the early evening sunshine.
Her mother was now staring blankly at her husband's photograph above the fireplace as she continued babbling frantically to herself. "We must be subtle... a gradual approach, yes? Acclimatise him to say... a simple card trick first... 'pick a card, any card' – that sort of thing..."
"Mum..."
"Then when he accepts that, go on to... tipping over a balanced coin from say, six inches away..." She made a wild, jabbing motion with her fingertip.
"Mum..."
"I'll explain it as telekinesis!" Mrs Granger sprang to her feet, staring into the fire, her confidence growing. "Edward might find it easier to accept his daughter has some kind of paranormal mental ability that–"
"MUM!"
Her mother blinked in bewilderment as if she had only just remembered that Hermione was there.
"Yes, dear?"
"Dad's already here," said Hermione, pointing to the open doorway where her father stood listening.
"What's up?" he said.
"I'm a witch, Dad," said Hermione, whisking her arm about as if she had a wand.
"Yeah, I know. What's for dinner, Anne? Have we got any paella prepared? I'm so famished my stomach is actually using Morse code to–"
"Y-you ... know? What d'you m-mean, you know?" said Anne, stumbling over her words.
"Of course. ... Oh, come on, Anne! Those predictions? All those books flying off that shelf when she was younger? And that time you wouldn't believe me when I said I hadn't repaired your vase? And what about that Thompson boy getting locked in the school shed without a key? And then there's–"
"But why didn't you say something!" shrieked Mrs Granger.
"Because you'd never have believed me!" cried Edward. He eased his voice down a little and added a touch of an apologetic tone, "I thought I'd wait until she's grown up and can explain it herself."
"GROWN UP! She's way past that, Edward – she's a god! Peugeots and rabbits and shirts and... she made it fuggin' RAIN, Edward!"
"MUM!"
"A goddess, I think you mean, Anne," said her husband with a sympathetic grin as he put his hands over Hermione's ears.
"It's not funny, Ed!" cried Anne. "You wait till–"
Hermione cut her off by waving her arms between her parents. "Sorry, both of you, but we may be in a hurry so–"
There was a dull thunk from the fridge in the kitchen. The room door swung open and a huge bowl of Paella flew in, escorted by plates and cutlery and three colourful lap trays. As they came in for a perfect three-point landing on the coffee table runway, the Paella began to steam and serve itself with a big wooden spoon.
"Dad, that one's yours," Hermione said briskly, "Mum – there you go. ... Come on, I'll explain what's going to happen on my birthday next week while I still can. You'll need some less conspicuous clothing – long and dark with a hood will do – I can modify your old trench coat, Dad. Then we have to rehearse..."
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
Sorry this chapter took longer than normal to post but the loss of reader statistics and the website crash a couple of weeks back broke my routine. The total silence from the owners didn't help my mood either!
Note that, in Deathly Hallows, Moody says the Ministry detects any magic performed near a magically underage witch or wizard, but in my story, Hermione's magical age is over 130 so the trace can't detect any magic near her at all. Of course, if she is visibly seen to use very advanced magic then she'd have some explaining to do! Her physical birth date is recorded at Hogwarts so she'll still get the letter when she's eleven. :)
Many thanks to menm for beta-reading and helping clarify any confusing sections. Thanks also to everyone for comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
- Hippothestrowl
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