Lots of theories in the reviews about who Hermione's mother is. I guess you'll just have to wait and see! cue evil cackling

BOOK 1: HERMIONE GRANGER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE

Chapter 7: Hallowe'en

Hallowe'en approached, and Hermione was tired.

Her days had settled into an exhausting rhythm. She went to her classes and study sessions. In her free periods, she attended kinesthetics tutoring, where the older students would drill Hermione and the other muggleborns on movement forms. In the evenings she went to Cambrian class. She squeezed Potions essays and Herbology sketches and Charms practice and all her other homework into lunch hours and late nights.

The kinesthetics sessions were fine, she supposed. Like the Cambrian classes, they were led by sixth year students. The fifth year and seventh year students, Hermione understood, had important Ministry exams to sit in the spring, so any tasks suitable for "upper year students" inevitably got assigned to the sixth years.

The difficulty with kinesthetics was that there was no real curriculum, and what practice exercises they had were clearly aimed at small children. So Hermione moved her arm to calls of "What time is it, Mr. Werewolf?" and learned to stay still if the tutor hadn't said "Merlin says." When Hermione asked the tutor about it, a Hufflepuff named Abigail Smith, she muttered that, "that's how my mum taught me."

Michael Corner stopped coming after the first week. At first Hermione was impressed at his willingness to defy the wizards. Then she got the reason he'd stopped out of him.

"Oh, well…" he stammered during Transfiguration, after she'd seen him use a flourish they hadn't been taught in kinesthetics to transform a coil of string into a solid metal ring. "Terry mentioned that some of the Apprentices—you know how our Professors have them?—some of them take on private tutoring for some extra money. So I, uh, I wrote to my parents and turns out one of Flitwick's, you know…"

Hermione simply walked over to sit down next to Draco in silence. She felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner. Of course there was a better way if you had money. And she couldn't even blame Michael; he needed all the help he could get, same as her, and if she'd been in his position she'd have paid for the tutoring in a heartbeat. For that matter she couldn't even blame the apprentice. None of this meant that she liked it.

Hermione did not manage to transform her coil of string into anything that day.

And then there was Cambrian. Hermione was slowly getting better–slowly, but faster, she thought, than the rest of the class. The problem was that nothing they had learned helped her make sense of the conversations around her, let alone the esoteric texts she saw the older students reading. She could say, "Hello my name is Hermione," and, "What time is it?" If the other person spoke slowly enough she could converse about how many sisters she had and what color her shoes were.

None of the advanced textbooks were about shoe color. And the slow, measured pace that the tutors used was so different from the rapid, twittering cadence of Padma as she threw what Hermione assumed were insults at her in the dorms. If Hermione's experiences with French and Latin were anything to go by, the curriculum wouldn't get to "colloquial slurs" for quite some time.

Classes continued in a bumpy, up and down rhythm. Potions, Herbology, History of Magic–Hermione was fairly certain she was at or near the top of those. It was a little hard to tell. Herbology involved a lot of group work and a lot of praise from Professor Sprout. The class was straightforward, and now that she was on good terms with Neville, who was some sort of Herbology prodigy, she didn't feel bad asking him when she hadn't quite followed why the dirigible plums had to be rotated counterclockwise when bringing them out of their pots.

History of Magic had so far been entirely lectures and taking notes, and they hadn't even gotten their first essays back. Defense Against the Dark Arts didn't even bear mentioning. Hermione had no idea what type of qualifications wizards were supposed to possess to become teachers, but if Professor Quirrell met them the standards must be quite low indeed.

In Potions, Professor Snape hardly said a word to her, though she couldn't figure out if it was because he disliked her or because of whatever weird thing was going on between him and Draco.

Draco Malfoy had, against all odds, become Hermione's default class partner. It wasn't so much that they liked working with each other; it was simply that neither of them had made any friends in Ravenclaw so they wound up together by default. And when he wasn't taking out his temper in surly tantrums against the shrivelfigs, he was actually quite good at classes.

So Hermione was reasonably confident she was doing well in those classes, but she didn't know she was doing well. The standards for teacher feedback were simply so different than what she was used to, and that feeling of being adrift bothered her more than she would like to admit.

It was still better than how she felt during the wand classes. Charms and Transfiguration, as they had from the beginning, continued to be Hermione's biggest challenges. The theory was fine, she was easily keeping up with discussions. But when it came time to actually cast spells… even after two months of kinesthetics Hermione found the motions jerky. She'd been able to memorize the compact notation, so she didn't need to keep flipping to the tables at the back of The Standard Book of Spells, but her motions were robotic, her transitions like two unmatched glasses jammed into each other, and she had none of the fluid grace that the wizard-raised students possessed.

At least in the movements she was no worse than Sue or Michael (despite the extra tutoring). But she still had her–issues. It had gotten a little better, and the wand no longer felt painful in her hand after a long period of using it, but it still didn't feel natural.

"You could ask Professor Flitwick," commented Sue one study session after Hermione had actually stomped her foot in frustration over a color-changing charm.

"No," said Hermione, so fiercely that Sue didn't bring up the issue again.

There were two bright spots for Hermione in those early weeks. One was the castle itself. In spite of herself, Hermione found she adored the ancient building. The stone walls, the endless corridors filled with artwork, the soaring atria with staircases that moved. She even loved the dungeons, which were damp and creepy and everything that castle dungeons should be.

The other bright spot was Enchanting. Despite the unfortunate first day of being partnered with Ron Weasley, the class was easily her favorite. After the self-sizing bracelet, the class had worked on a mug that would keep your drink warm, a small wooden dart that would always hit a particular target, and an enchanted mirror. The mirror wasn't any different than all the other talking mirrors in the castle, but Hermione had found it strangely satisfying to paint the silver on the back of small sheets of glass they were given. So much so that she didn't even notice until afterwards that the required wandwork to turn the silver liquid and back again hadn't given her any difficulties.

Enchanting was one more reason Hermione was tired. On their second day of class, Professor Trocar had mentioned that the classroom was just one of the workrooms they had at Hogwarts. There was another, larger one, simply called the Stores, that was an actual production studio. That workshop was where Professor Trocar, her apprentices, and upper year students with the aptitude created many of the enchanted objects used around the castle. Glassware for Potions, ceramic and metal containers for Herbology, fire-proof gloves for handling dangerous creatures or simply enchanted flames—it all came from the Hogwarts Stores.

Hermione was immediately fascinated. One reason was the realization that she could spend more time on what was far and away her favorite class. Enchanting simply clicked with her, in a way the other classes didn't. Even the ones she was doing well with still felt like she was expending every ounce of effort she had to keep up with the students from wizarding homes. But enchanting? Enchanting was the one spot where she could forget about all the troubles she had with the other students, all the difficulties her wand was still giving her, and just sink into a project.

Even the monotonous ones—maybe especially the monotonous ones—held appeal. Sitting there, braiding leather or painting dragon blood or inscribing geometric patterns in a precise order, slowly filling up a space to completion, was immensely satisfying.

But that was only one reason she liked the stores. The other was that she needed money.

Hermione was midway through her second week at Hogwarts when a particularly nasty plant had reached out and torn a hole in her black robe. This happened often enough to other students, so Hermione had thought nothing of it, asking quietly if one of the prefects could perform a mending charm.

The prefect could not. Apparently some magical property of the plant meant that its spikes caused damage that couldn't be magically reversed, at least not with the standard reparo. The prefect suggested that Professor Snape might be able to fix it, but there was no chance Hermione was approaching the dour Potions Master.

Then, the next time she wore that robe, she had points deducted for being out of dress code! She explained the situation, but was informed, by Professor McGonagall of course, that it was the student's responsibility to maintain dress.

This was a problem. At the moment Hermione could make do with just two robes. But if she ripped one of her remaining ones she would be in trouble.

The solution for an ordinary student, of course, was to write home and ask their parents to order a new robe, shipped to the school. But Hermione had nobody to write to, at least nobody who could manage getting sickles to Madam Malkin's on her behalf.

And Hermione realized that having a little bit of her own money might not be a bad thing, even if she didn't need a new robe. She was under no illusions that she'd ever have the type of steady income that she could use to hire a tutor like Michael's, but at the very least it would be nice to be able to make the occasional purchase outside of the annual trips to Diagon Alley on the muggleborn student stipend. She could practice potions on her own if she had extra ingredients beyond the standard kit. She could buy additional reference books for when she wanted to go deeper into one of the subjects they covered in class. Having at least some money in the wizarding world would help her out immensely.

The stores offered that, at least someday. Professor Trocar mentioned it in class, and when Hermione followed up with her she confirmed that students could do jobs around the stores, working on the supplies they created for the school, for pay.

At least, students who passed the Apprentice's rigorous examination could. Hermione wasn't at that level yet, but looking at the older students who were, she thought that with extra practice it would be within reach by the end of the year.

So, every morning before breakfast, tired as she was, Hermione got up early and made her way to the stores. She always saw Professor Trocar there; in fact the statuesque teacher was more reliably there than any other place, including the Great Hall at mealtimes.

It was exhausting, but it was the one thing Hermione could hold on to, the one thing that made staying at Hogwarts bearable.

But on Hallowe'en, when Hermione came down the stairs, it was not to the usual empty common room. Mandy, Izzy, and Sue were all waiting for her.

"Hello?" said Hermione uncertainly.

"S'mae!" said Mandy brightly. Far too brightly, for this early in the morning. Izzy looked barely awake, and the sun was just peeking over the mountains, giving the entire common room a reddish tinge.

"So, we wanted to catch you, before you run off to… wherever you go."

"Yeah?" said Hermione.

"It's just… why don't you sit down?"

Hermione considered for a second, then sat across from the girls.

"We want you to do well here, Hermione. At Hogwarts. Doing magic. And we think… we think it might be easier os you at least tried to assimilate to wizarding culture a bit."

"Oh." said Hermione. "You do."

She looked at the group. Izzy wouldn't meet her eye, but Mandy and, surprisingly, Sue were both looking at her and nodding.

"And what do you think I should do to, um, assimilate?"

"Well, for a start, join us in the homework groups," responded Mandy. "It makes it easier on everyone os we work together. And I know you have Cambrian classes in the evenings," Mandy went on, as Hermione showed signs of interrupting, "but we're often still working when you get back, and I promise nobody minds sharing notes. It's not like you're off playing gobstones and then expecting a handout. We all know you're working hard."

Mandy looked at Izzy now, and nudged the redhead with her elbow. Izzy seemed the most reluctant participant in the group, next to Hermione.

"And," said Izzy, still not looking Hermione in the eye, "it wouldn't hurt to spend time around students from, you know, wizarding families. I know how tough it is, when you come from a different culture. But… well if you don't learn the culture here you'll always be an outsider, won't you?" Izzy spoke flatly, as if it were a speech she'd rehearsed before giving it.

"Yeah!" added Mandy. "It's like… os you moved to Japan, say. Wouldn't you do your best to learn Japanese customs? And os you didn't even try, could you blame the people there for not including you?"

"If I moved to Japan," Hermione said slowly. She thought for a moment, while the three girls on the couch across from her shared hopeful looks, wondering if perhaps this metaphor had gotten through.

"Do you think, in this example, that it would matter why I was moving to Japan?"

"I don't—" began Mandy.

"Like, for instance, your analogy seems to presume that I've decided that I want to move there. But what if, I don't know, what if I was perfectly happy with my life in England, and then one day some Japanese people showed up, and informed me that because of some skill I had, that I had to move to Japan and leave all my friends behind. And that if I didn't, if I wanted to stay with my friends, that I would have my memory wiped and my magic skill bound so I could never use it again. Would you say in that scenario that I owed it to the Japanese people who forced me to come with them to learn their culture?"

"That's…" began Mandy, "but you weren't…"

"Told that I had to cut off contact with my friends, join the wizarding world, and come to Hogwarts, or else my memory would be wiped and my magic bound? Yeah, McGonagall made that one pretty clear to me."

The three girls at least looked a little embarrassed, Hermione thought.

"And I thought that at least you," Hermione inclined her head towards Sue, "would get that, instead of throwing in with a bunch of people who think we're barely more than trained monkeys!"

Hermione stormed off to breakfast. This idiotic intervention had already cost her her time working in the shop this morning.

"Hermione!" She forced herself to stop.

Surprisingly, it was Sue behind her. And, even more surprisingly, Sue was angry. More angry than Hermione had ever seen her.

"I tried," said Sue. "I tried to be friends with you, I asked you to work with me, and every single time you've stomped off to sulk on your own. So excuse me for deciding I'd rather hang out with people who have actually been nice to me."

"But they're not!" protested Hermione. "They look down on us just because–"

"And you think my life before was so much better?" interrupted Sue. "My parents barely speak English. I used to find excuses for every school outing so the teachers wouldn't realize I don't have an NHS number to give them. And you're hardly the first English girl to compare me to a monkey."

"I didn't–"

"If I held out for only people who never looked down on me, I'd be completely alone. Which I guess is what you are. Hope that works out for you."

With that, Sue stomped past a dazed Hermione.

Hermione wandered to breakfast, her anger now tempered with a mixture of guilt. Sue had tried to approach her, to be friendly. And Hermione had been so lost in her own head, with her own struggles, that she'd brushed the other girl off. She'd just–she'd just been too caught up in herself.

Hermione sighed. She'd give Sue space at breakfast, then she'd track down the girl to apologize.

Hermione planned out what she was going to say, absentmindedly munching on the scones and jam in front of her.

And then, to her immense surprise, for the first time ever an owl landed in front of her. Numbly, she reached out to pull the letter off of its leg. There must be some mistake, she thought.

The front of the letter was addressed to

Miss Hermione Granger

℅ St. Helga's Girls School

Inverness

That was her–she wasn't sure about the address, it must be something Hogwarts came up with for muggleborns to receive correspondence.

The return address listed the Hospice Saint Vincent de Paul, Manchester.

For one, brief moment, as she ripped open the envelope, Hermione actually thought that Ma had written, that somehow she had–

The paper inside was neatly typed, on the hospice letterhead.

Hermione stuffed the paper back into the envelope and fled the table.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she sat there, in the bathroom stall. She held Figaro to her chest. She must have gone back to the dorm to get him? She couldn't quite remember.

Her poor robot hadn't worked since they'd entered Hogwarts, just like McGonagall had said he wouldn't. Hermione still held on to him. Hermione had gone to Professor Trocar, just a couple of weeks ago, for a second opinion. The tall woman had no comfort to offer in her resonant voice. Electronics simply did not work at Hogwarts.

The letter was on the floor, somewhere.

She'd missed her classes, probably. Lunch, maybe? The bathroom she sat in didn't have a window, so she wasn't completely sure what time of day it was.

At one point several other students came in to use it. She heard them mutter to each other in Cambrian, but other than that she didn't know who they were.

She stared at the floor. She knew she needed to read the letter. She would. Just a few more minutes and she would pick up the letter, open it, and read it.

"Hermoine!"

She heard the voice from the door of the bathroom. She was debating whether she should say something when somebody pushed in the door of her stall.

Hermione thought she should probably be upset that they would do that, but she was having trouble dredging up the feelings.

Mandy stood there, framed by the bathroom stall, while Izzy's red hair poked over her shoulder.

"Hermione! We were looking everywhere for you! Where–" Mandy cut off as Izzy poked her in the rib, and tilted her head in a meaningful gesture towards Hermione.

"Oh. Have you–have you been here all day?"

Hermione thought for a second. "I guess? I came up here after breakfast. What time is it?"

Izzy pulled Mandy back from the doorway and stepped in herself. She knelt down on the floor in front of Hermione.

"Hermione hun," she said, in her soft lilt, "are you okay? We're sorry about this morning. It wasn't the best way to approach you. But… we do really want to help. You don't have to do everything alone."

Hermione didn't respond to that. Numbly, she just pointed to the envelope on the floor. "Can you read this to me?"

"Oh. Oh, sure," said Izzy, nonplussed by the change in topic. She pulled the letter, now fairly crumpled and a little damp, out of the envelope.

"Dear Miss Granger,

We write with our deepest condolences to inform you that Jean Margerie Granger passed away on the evening of Sunday, 27 October.

In accordance with Ms. Granger's will, she has been cremated and a funeral set in motion for Saturday next.

Yours in sorrow,

Father Michael Olson

Hospice St. Vincent de Paul"

Izzy handed the letter back to Hermione. Behind her, Mandy looked at Sue, who Hermione hadn't even realized had come with them.

"Was that–" began Mandy,

"She was my Ma," said Hermione.

"We can talk to Flitwick," Mandy went on, "he'd let you go home for the funeral."

"I'm not going home," said Hermione flatly. She'd been thinking through all the options as she sat there, apparently all day.

"Your dad–" began Mandy

"My dad isn't really around any more." Hermione knew the other girls were getting a badly wrong impression of her family life. It was true enough for now, though, and she didn't have the energy to explain anything more thoroughly.

"Ma's friends," Hermione began, "the people in the neighborhood, too many of them knew I could do magic. So they all– a bunch of wizards came and they don't really remember me anymore." Hermione could see from the other girls' faces that they didn't really follow where she was going with this. "So I can hardly show up to a funeral without any explanation as to why they don't remember their friend's kid, can I? And I can't– I don't want to go and pretend I'm some distant relative. I can't do that."

Now the bemusement was replaced by pity.

"It," Hermione held up the letter, "wasn't unexpected. She'd been sick for a while. But I thought… I thought…"

And then Hermione broke down into sobs, and barely realized that all three girls had squeezed themselves into one stall to wrap their arms around her.

Finally the tears dried and the girls pulled back.

"We're sorry," Mandy began, "we hadn't really thought through things from your point of view, and—"

Hermione cut her off. "No, I'm sorry, you couldn't have known. And you're right. I was avoiding the study group because I was being stubborn. We should— that is, I'll start studying with you."

"Um, girls?" said Izzy softly.

"Sue, I've been a terrible roommate to you. I should have— we could have been in this together, but I didn't—"

Sue gave Hermione a small smile.

"Remember—" Izzy started to say.

"We'll help you with Cambrian!" declared Mandy. "I've been trying to only speak English but maybe it would be easier if we had some Cambrian sessions as well!"

"GIRLS!" Izzy shouted. "REMEMBER WHY WE CAME TO GET HER?"

Hermione was confused for a second. Then a giant club smashed through the bathroom door.

The troll was enormous, which was a momentary benefit; it was too large to fit through the door. But it was also strong, and with an angry roar, it punched a hand through the frame and the wall next to it to widen the opening.

Crouching down, it stuck its head into the room. The head was out of proportion, a small coconut perched on a great lumpy body. It had mean little eyes and skin like dull granite.

All four girls had their wands out, but Hermione at least had no idea what to do with hers. The only class in which they might have learned something useful was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell hadn't taught them anything.

The other girls seemed to at least have some ideas.

"Aflictio!" shouted Mandy. A jet of orange light shot from her wand, but bounded off of the troll's skin without effect.

"Conjectivus!" yelled Izzy, but something seemed to go wrong; the spellglow fizzled out half way to the troll.

All the lights and noises were only making the troll angrier. With a roar it pushed itself forward, plaster and wood cracking as it emerged fully into the loo.

Hermione had to choose. Figaro was gone, and what was left of him was at least weighty enough to provide a bit of distraction.

Hermione flung the dead robot at the troll as a distraction, and braced herself to run. Goodbye, Figaro, she thought.

With a beep, Figaro came to life in the air.

The robot grabbed onto the troll's head, metal struts digging into the hard skin. One of his legs managed to hit at just the right angle to drive up the troll's nostril.

The troll hadn't noticed the robot hit it, but it could tell that something was jammed up its nose. Backing up into the hallway, it snorted and shook, pawing at its head with overlong arms.

Figaro held on valiantly. Hermione's heart jumped to her throat. Figaro was alive! For now. She'd thrown him at the monster.

"Figaro!" Hermione yelled, and launched herself at the troll.

Before she reached it, however, another voice shouted out.

"Wingardium leviosa!" The club the troll was holding flew up into the air. Hermione caught a glimpse of a blond boy swiping his wand down, and then the club plummeted, landing with a sickening thump on the troll's exposed forehead.

The troll swayed on its feet, then with an enormous thump collapsed to the floor.

Hermione was on it in an instant. "Figaro!" she called again.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the robot leapt into her arms, vibrating with pleasure and emitting soft beeping.

Only then did Hermione realize who was watching her.

"Draco?" she said in surprise.

"Malfoy?" echoed Mandy behind her.

Draco flushed.

"I thought—" he started. By now Sue and Izzy had joined them in the corridor, both staring open-mouthed at Draco. He looked embarrassed, like he'd been caught doing something shameful.

"Well it would have been a terrible hassle to get a new potions partner trained up this late in the year." Draco sniffed and lifted his chin.

The tears, the adrenaline from the fight, the sheer impossibility that Draco Malfoy of all people had come to rescue her: Hermione felt all of the emotion that had been blocked up inside her all day dissolve and flow out, leaving her empty. She felt strangely light, like it wasn't really her doing anything but some other version of her she was watching on the tele.

Hermione smiled and grabbed Draco's arm. "Come on, all of you. We need to get out of here before one of the Professors shows up."

The group of them fled back to Ravenclaw tower.

When they got through the door ("If a plant grows from a cutting, is it a new plant or an extension of the old one?") the rest of the first years were waiting for them.

"Oh. You're safe!" stammered Michael Corner.

Hermione couldn't understand herself. She felt… giddy, and bereft, and exhausted, and wrung out. But she thought, maybe for the first time in months, that she might be a little bit happy.

"Hey Michael," Hermione said, "Tony said you were working on some math for Quidditch. Can you tell me about it?"