Disclaimer: All characters and situations used here are the creation of Ms. J. K. Rowling, including the wonderfully complex Hermione Granger and her doting dentist parents. I thank that ingenious woman for giving us her world to play in!
Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the proprietor of Braun Books, who is the sole reason for the lingering scent of marijuana in his shop, I'm sure. It is his little store that set the wheels of thought into motion for this story.
The day Hermione Granger got her Hogwarts letter, she had an epiphany.
She and her dad had left their cozy home that morning, deciding to take a quick jaunt to London for the day. He'd bought her an ice cream for lunch, because, as he said, her mother wasn't there to see. They'd shopped all of their favorite stores, picking up trinkets for Hermione's mum so she wouldn't feel left out. For himself, Mr. Granger bought a fine new hat to wear to work, and he picked a silly floppy-brimmed one out for Hermione, saying she'd need a cool summer hat to wear on the beach when they went on vacation. As evening drew to a close and London quieted, they stepped into Hermione's favorite store: a bookshop that specialized in New Age, fantasy, and magical paraphernalia. On other trips to London, Hermione had never failed to at least stop in and see what was new, to marvel at the crystals, candles, and magic books that littered the shop. Her family didn't necessarily hold with such things, but her imagination thrived on believing the fantastic, so her father indulged her.
In the cool dusky light that spilled in the windows, the shop, stuffed with its charms, ornaments and books, seemed even more magical. Hermione only smiled at her father when he said he was going to nip down the way for a bit of tea before the drive home, if that was all right with her. She lightly ran her fingers over egg-shaped crystals in the window and watched her father hurry down the street. Turning, she happily took in the sight of dozens of books, all tumbled helter-skelter over shelves and across tables. She settled herself cozily in an overstuffed orange chair and picked up a book entitled Clear Up Your Karma: How to Enhance the Peace Inside and flipped through it. Slowly, she worked her way through the books resting on the table next to her, reading a paragraph here, a sentence there.
Her stomach jerked suddenly as she set down the last one, and a wave of anxiety, of uneasiness washed over her. She cautiously looked around the shop, but could find no reason for her discomfort, as she was alone but for the proprietor, whistling merrily at the back. She stood up, intending to head for the door, but her eyes fell on a table covered in midnight blue cloth that she hadn't seen before. Resting on it were several long ordinary-looking sticks, all of them placed carefully in velvet-lined boxes. Taking a quick look at the proprietor, Hermione made her way to the table and stood looking down at them for the longest time. Slowly, her hand inched forward and hovered over one, a dark mahogany in a red velvet box. It seemed to her that warmth seemed to radiate from it, bouncing from her hand to the box back to her hand. She shook her head. That was fancy, of course. How silly, a stick that feels warm. Resolutely she picked up the stick and held it like a baton.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then she felt a warm wash of prickles encase her whole body, and the hairs on her arms and neck stood up, and she gasped. The sensation was gone as quickly as it had come, and the uneasiness went with it. The stick remained in her hand, and as she raised her eyes to the front windows, she knew what it was. A wand. She watched with new eyes as people outside the window hurried past, but she felt oddly separate from them, as if she no longer belonged with them, as if she was now a part of…something else.
It was there, in a cramped shop that smelled of incense and marijuana, that Hermione had her epiphany. Holding that wand in her hand, which now was cool and smooth to the touch, Hermione knew beyond all doubt that she didn't belong with the people on the street, or even with her own parents. She knew now why she hadn't ever fit in at school, why she'd always found solace and companionship in fantastic stories and in her books. She wasn't meant to fit in. This world wasn't hers.
Hastily setting down the stick, Hermione backed away from the table, fear and relief battling inside her. Relief that she had at last answered a question that had eaten at her for years, fear that if she didn't belong with normal people, where did she belong? Where could she go? Her head throbbed and her stomach churned. She let herself out of the shop into the gathering gloom, and turning around, bumped straight into her very surprised father. She merely shook her head when he asked her what was wrong and simply asked to be taken home. Concerned, he took her hand and buckled her into the car like a child. On the long drive home, he didn't ask any more questions, just patted her knee from time to time or stroked a finger down her cheek.
When they let themselves into the warm light of the kitchen, Hermione's spirits lifted. She was home, she had parents who loved her, and she had time to figure out what the feelings in the shop meant. She smiled at her father and slipped on her new hat, and he smiled back with obvious relief. They found Hermione's mother in the front room, and Hermione opened her mouth to launch into a description of their day until she saw her mother's face. It was pale and reserved, not cheerful and sweet as it normally was. Sheets of cream paper sat in her hands, utterly still. Mr. Granger hurriedly sat down next to her and pulled the paper out of her hands. He visibly paled, then read all of the sheets by turn as Hermione looked at them both with rising alarm. When he was finished, Mr. Granger simply stared at the sheets of paper for a moment, then pulled Hermione over to sit between himself and her mother. He pulled off the hat and set it on the floor, handing her the paper as he did so. Hermione glanced first at the letterhead: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it said, Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore. She read on.
Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at HogwartsSchool of Witchcraft and Wizardry…
She read the rest, not quite willing to believe. She knew now what the flush of warmth and prickles had been in the shop. She knew why she didn't belong with normal people, and best of all, she knew now where she did belong. She flashed a beaming smile at her parents, both of whom still looked pale but more relaxed.
"So this is it," said her mum. "This is where you're supposed to be."
"I suppose so," said Hermione wonderingly. "I'm a witch. I can do magic." The words felt foreign and odd on her tongue, but they were like chocolate candy, smooth and sweet. Her father kissed her forehead and put his arms around herself and her mother, and for the first time in her life, Hermione felt utterly, completely and absolutely content.