A/N: This was a story I lost access to on a different account. I've finally gotten around to getting it posted again. Please enjoy and take the time to leave a review whether positive or negative.

Chapter 1

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror, eyes roving every inch of the all too familiar face, examining her, criticizing her.

She smiled hesitantly at her reflection, but her front teeth poked out before the corners of her mouth had even traveled a quarter-inch and the smile faded from her face.

She could remember the laughs and jeers of Jessie Pollock, a classmate, who wondered why the daughter of dentists had such ugly teeth.

She clenched her lips shut. She'd been so upset that she hadn't even pointed out to the boy that dentists couldn't shrink teeth. Now she was glad she hadn't said it because it probably would have just made the situation worse.

"Hermione, can you come downstairs, dear?"

Hermione tore her gaze away from the mirror at her mom's call, catching one last glimpse of the honey-brown eyes that seemed to pity her, before pulling the door open and heading downstairs.

"Coming!" she shouted back.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs she slowed upon seeing an unfamiliar, strangely dressed woman standing in their entry hall.

"Oh, um, hello," she managed to say.

Her dad introduced her as her mother rushed off to the kitchen, most likely to grab the tea tray and some biscuits.

"Hermione, this is Professor McGonagall, she's from a school for the gifted and she wants to meet you." Her father beamed at this last bit.

Hermione's eyes briefly flitted over to her father, his brown hair cut short to tame the bushy curls that matched his daughter's, brown eyes alight. She returned her gaze to the woman standing in front of her.

The woman was wearing maroon robes, her hair pulled up in a tight bun at the back of her head and square glasses sat perched on her nose.

She definitely looked like a teacher, Hermione thought, warming up to the woman already.

"Good day, Miss Granger," the Professor had a strong Scottish accent, making her greeting sound rough, but the smile that accompanied it was so soft.

"Perhaps we should all go sit down," her dad motioned behind them, guiding Professor McGonagall into their living room.

Hermione followed dutifully.

She sat on the sofa while her father offered McGonagall the seat across from her before relaxing into his favorite armchair. "So, you said the school you work at, what was it called, again?"

"Hogwarts."

Her father blinked at the unusual name. "I don't think I've ever heard of it."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, "No, I don't expect you would have. It's not a school that many are accepted into. It's only for those that are," she paused, searching for the right term, "gifted in a certain area."

"Oh, well, Hermione's gifted in many things. She's been accepted to a high-achieving school in London this year, but we'd be interested in hearing what your school has to offer. What particular gift are you referring to?" her father asked curiously.

"Magic," she said simply.

Magic. Hermione's mind raced, eyes darting back and forth as she processed that simple word. It was probably one of a few subjects with which she was unfamiliar. Her parents had stopped reading her fairy tales by the time she was four when she had brought up the unlikeliness of a woman willing to kiss a frog; they were slimy and gross and no one in their right mind would do it.

Her interests and studies had always lain in the more practical things. Give her an equation that consistently explains the action of something falling to the ground any day. But magic? No, nothing about it was believable, let alone unequivocal.

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek, lost in her mind. She jerked when the whistle of the tea kettle sounded from the kitchen, and then a moment later her mother walked in, stopping at the entrance to the room as she noted the awkward silence.

"Is everything alright?" Her mother's eyes jumped from her father to her, then to the woman who sat stoically and out of place.

Hermione's father tore his eyes away from McGonagall to look at his wife.

"Well, the professor was just telling us about our daughter's gift of magic," he said flatly.

Mrs. Granger began to laugh, but upon seeing the seriousness with which Professor McGonagall held herself, the laughter died down into an awkward chuckle. "I'm sorry, what?" she finally managed to say.

McGonagall folded her hands primly in her lap, "I know you may find this hard to believe, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. I'm not sure I'd believe it if I were you, but your daughter is a witch and Hogwarts is a school of witchcraft and wizardry."

"You can't be serious," Mr. Granger said as Mrs. Granger sat the tea things on the table.

"Oh, I assure you, I am," she said, looking at them over the rims of her glasses, her lips a tight line.

Her mother took a step back. "Is this some kind of joke? Because I don't find it funny in the least."

Professor McGonagall pulled a thin stick out of her robes and swished it, the tip pointing at the lamp sitting on the end table next to her. The lamp suddenly turned into an eagle which proceeded to let out a loud piercing kreee.

Hermione's mother took a step back and let out a screech to match the eagles.

Hermione's eyes widened, unable to believe what she was seeing. But the majestic animal looked so real, the feathers glossy, reflecting the light of the room. His head rotating from side to side as he took in everyone.

McGonagall swished her stick again as the eagle began to spread its wings and the giant bird turned back into a lamp.

"H-how did you do that?" her mother stammered.

Her father had scooted to the edge of his seat as if he'd been going to reach out and touch the bird.

McGonagall tucked the stick back into her robes, "I assure you, Mrs. Granger, magic is very real and it flows through your daughter's veins."

"Blimey," her father exclaimed, "That was brilliant. And you say our Hermione can do things like that?"

McGonagall inclined her head, "Not yet, Mr. Granger, but with training, she'll be capable of much more."

Hermione's mom had pulled herself together and now stared at the woman they had invited into their home.

Hermione's mind was trying to grasp what Professor McGonagall had said. Her? A witch? All of her reading had led her to the conclusion that there was no such thing as magic. There was reality, and the reality was that no prince would save her from the dragon and fall madly in love with her, and no fairy godmother was going to wave her wand and make her beautiful.

"Well, I think it's ridiculous," she finally said

All three adults turned their gazes to her.

She crossed her arms, sinking into the couch cushions, "I mean, really, everyone knows that there's no such thing as magic. Are you going to take her word for it because she managed some type of illusion? Next, she'll be pulling out a crystal ball and telling us our future."

"Hermione! Manners, please," her mother reprimanded.

Professor McGonagall raised her hand to quiet her mother. "It's perfectly alright, Mrs. Granger. To be introduced to a concept that's been relegated to children's stories as reality is a shock. Skepticism is to be expected."

She turned to face Hermione head-on. "For your information, Miss Granger, divination is a very imprecise branch of magic. I don't put much stock in it. But I can see that you're not one to be easily convinced. What proof do you need, Miss Granger? Maybe if I turned myself into a cat?"

She stood up and turned on the spot and where a woman had once been, a tabby cat with square markings around its eyes stared up at her. Hermione's eyes widened as the cat slunk across the carpet, muscles bunching as it leaped into her lap so that Hermione could feel the weight and warmth of the creature.

Hermione reached out and hesitantly stroked the soft fur—real fur— her fingers gliding across its back, tail twining through her fingers.

Having had enough, the cat jumped off her lap and back into the form of the stern-looking woman. Professor McGonagall sat back down and eyed Hermione, raising a single eyebrow in challenge.

"You seem like an observant girl, Miss Granger. Can you tell me that you haven't noticed that strange things seem to happen around you? Things that your books can not explain?"

Hermione hesitated, remembering the time a patch of water had frozen over just before Jessie Pollock had stepped onto it, causing him to slip and break his coccyx.

Or the time Nancy Windrow had been attacked by chalkboard erasers after calling her a loud-mouthed know it all.

There had been quite a few occasions where her tormentors had met with horrible, and unlikely, consequences.

She was hesitant to admit it, but what other explanation did she have? She stared down at the carpet, fingers playing with a loose thread on the sofa cushion. "S-so, all the strangeness...it's because I'm a witch?"

Professor McGonagall dipped her head.

Hermione's mind raced through the possibilities. How many of the fairy tales that she'd shelved so long ago were true? Based on what she'd just seen, the transfiguration part was true. But what about kissing a frog? Her nose wrinkled at the prospect.

But what if the other stuff was true; the prince, the fairy godmother, becoming… beautiful? What if this school was a place where she could belong? Where people would finally accept her?

Hermione sat up straighter, "And there'll be more people like me, then, at the school?"

Professor McGonagall nodded. "For the most part, yes. Of course, most students will be coming from families that are magical as well and so have grown up in that world. But there will be plenty of other students like yourself that come from Muggle families."

All three Grangers said in unison, "Muggle?"

"Non-magic people. Those who have no magic themselves but who, sometimes, produce witches or wizards."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, a frown creasing her forehead. She had never considered that there would be those who'd grown up in the fairy tale world; who probably knew everything about it. How could she compete with that?

Professor McGonagall saw her unease. "I can assure you that being Muggle-born won't put you behind your peers of magical heritage. I think you'll do well there, Hermione."

Hermione looked into the woman's eyes as she used her given name for the first time and felt almost reassured by the softness she saw there.

"Are there any books I could read to catch up on the things I need to know?" she asked.

The professor reached into a pocket of her robes and pulled out a book with a beautiful black cover and handed it to Hermione. "I thought that this might help you learn a little about the school before you get there."

Hermione read the title. Hogwarts, A History. With the book in her hand, she felt some of her previous uneasiness give way to confidence as she opened it and caressed the pages. This is where she felt comfortable; as long as she had a book she'd be okay.

"And of course, there will be plenty more that you can buy when I take you all to Diagon Alley in a few days."

She pulled a thick envelope out of her pocket and handed it to her father. "There's a list of the supplies that your daughter will need."

Her dad broke the seal, and Hermione rose slightly out of her seat as she looked on expectantly. He pulled out a letter written on parchment paper, eyes scanning the document as his lips moved swiftly with the words he was reading.

"Come on, dad, what does it say?" Hermione realized she probably sounded like a whiny child, but she was anxious to know the contents of the letter.

"It says," he spoke slowly, as he finished reading, "that you've been accepted to the school and that term starts-," he looked up at McGonagall. "That's only three weeks away!"

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, that's cutting it a bit short, don't you think? I mean, what if we hadn't believed you? What if we just called the police and had you committed?"

McGonagall snorted, and then cleared her throat, adjusting her glasses. "I assure you, Mr. Granger," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice, "I would never have allowed it to go that far."

He seemed thrown off by her lack of gravitas toward what he had said, but he quickly recovered. "Still, it's not exactly a lot of time to process, is it?"

"No, it's not," she conceded. "But I will be with you every step of the way. I promise."

Her father nodded slowly. "Alright then."

He set the letter down and unfolded a second piece of paper. His eyes widened, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline as he read it.

"Blimey, dragon hide!?" He shook his head in disbelief.

He tapped the paper against his hand as he finished reading. "So, you all really brew in cauldrons and ride around on broomsticks, then?"

"Well, broomsticks are most often used to play Quidditch than actual transportation."

"Quidditch?"

"Yes, it's our most popular sport."

"And it's played on broomsticks?" He pursed his lips and nodded in appreciation. "Sounds far more interesting than football."

Hermione rolled her eyes; her father hated sports.

"Can I see?" she asked him, holding out her hand.

He stretched his arm across the coffee table and she leaned forward to pluck the paper from his hand.

She skipped the first section on attire and went right to reading her required reading. She smiled at the author's names and marveled at the subjects she'd soon begin to learn.

Her mother, who had stood quietly by, chose this moment to speak.

"I don't know if we should let her go, Joseph."

Hermione nearly gave herself whiplash as she looked up from the paper and at her mother. She suddenly felt cold and sick to her stomach. The prospect of not going, after finally deciding to believe, hadn't occurred to her. But now that the possibility had been introduced, she felt abject horror.

Her father reached out and squeezed her mother's arm. "I know it's a little unexpected, dear, but—"

Her mother laughed, but it held no joy. "Unexpected? Try insane. Even if what this woman says is true and we're not all about to wake up in a looney bin, why should we let Hermione go to a place that no one has ever heard of with people that no one knows about? And another thing, how do we know that magic is even safe?"

Her father didn't have an answer for this. He had gotten caught up in the excitement of it all and now his wife's fears had become his own.

Professor McGonagall's voice filled the silence. "Mrs. Granger, I understand your trepidation. Discovering the unknown can be a frightening thing, and stepping into it even more so. But it will be more dangerous for your daughter if she were to stay here."

"You're just saying that." Her mother's eyes were wary but she didn't sound too sure of her reply.

"I am not. If your daughter were not to attend, her magic would continue to strengthen. Without the necessary instruction, it would grow out of control and she would become a danger to herself and those around her."

Her mother's face paled as she looked at Hermione, fear in her eyes.

"I just… I just want my daughter to be safe."

McGonagall stood. "As do I, and I promise that I'll do everything in my power to make sure that happens."

Her mother nodded and Hermione felt the warmth return to her body.

"Why don't you just pack pens, sweetheart?"

Hermione and her parents were perusing the assortment of parchment and quills inside Scribbulus Writing Implements. Hermione had found a beautiful set of eagle feather quills and proceeded to beg her father for them. He had scoffed at the use of such old writing equipment.

"Because, Dad, everyone uses quills in the wizarding world."

"But it's completely impractical." He picked up a quill and held it up for inspection. "Do you know how tedious it is to write with one of these things? You have to dip it in the ink about a hundred times just to write a paragraph."

"It's not about practicality; it's about the magic of it. Pens are just so mundane."

He looked at the tag on the set of quills, letting out a strangled laugh. "Yeah, and about ten times less expensive. Mira, talk some sense into your daughter."

But her mother was absorbed in experimenting with a bottle of color-changing ink that the store had left out as a sample. "Hmm, what was that, dear?"

Realizing he stood alone in his thoughts on the matter he acquiesced. "Oh, fine. But you better learn how to turn lead into gold at this school," he grumbled.

They had left the store with her father's pockets quite a bit lighter.

They continued (Professor McGonagall always close, but giving them room to explore) and bought the rest of her equipment and robes, leaving only her books and wand left. Her parents had already decided to leave the bookstore for last. Knowing their daughter's love for books, they had concluded that nothing else would get done if they went there first.

Hermione entered Ollivander's wand shop alone. Her parents, loaded down with packages, opted to sit outside. Her skin tingled as she felt something akin to electricity in the air.

"Ah, last one of the day, I think."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath as an old man seemed to appear from nowhere, making her heart feel as though it would jump out of her chest. "Excuse me," she said.

"They say the best is always saved for last." He smiled, the dim light casting a glare on his glasses. "Now, let's see if we can find a wand that suits you, hmm?"

Hermione swallowed loudly but didn't trust herself to speak, so she nodded.

"Hold out your wand arm, please."

Hermione immediately extended her right arm, and Ollivander proceeded to measure her. But not just her arm. He also measured the distance between her eyes, from shoulder to opposite hip, and then again on the other side. When he measured the distance between her nostrils she couldn't figure out for the life of her why that was an important measurement.

Hermione marveled as the measuring tape continued his work, while the man himself began removing a box from the shelf.

"Here you are, my dear. Just give it a wave."

Hermione copied a move she'd seen in a movie once and nearly poked Ollivander's eye out when the wand flew out of her hand.

She clamped her hand over her mouth. "I am so sorry," she mumbled past her fingers.

He waved her off. "No matter. Obviously, that was not the right one." He pulled out another box, pulling out the wand from inside. "Give it a go."

She barely flicked the wand this time, keeping a firm grip on the handle. He jerked it out of her hand.

"Nope. How about another?"

Hermione wasn't sure what he was looking for, but two wands down and she was already discouraged.

Ollivander climbed a ladder and grabbed a box from an uppermost shelf, gingerly removing the wand. There was a gleam in his eye as he handed it to her.

"Try this one."

Hermione held the wand with a loose grip, feeling as though it were a natural extension of her arm. She took a deep breath and gave it a quick twirl, ending with a sharp flick. She gasped as a bright light shone from the end, illuminating the room in an almost blinding light.

She lowered the wand and the light finally dissipated to reveal Ollivander grinning at her.

"I wouldn't give up on those dragons just yet, Miss Granger."

Hermione was flushed with pride. She carried her wand in its box close to her chest. She was so exhilarated that it wasn't until she reached the book shop that Ollivander's comment about dragons struck her as strange. And stranger still was that he had known her name.

Hermione had spent the rest of her summer lost in the pages of her new school books. Of course, she usually spent most summers in this manner, but this summer was different. She wasn't just discovering something new about the world she lived in, she was getting to discover an entirely new world, and one that was infinitely more fascinating than one she could have ever imagined.

Before she had even boarded the train at platform 9 ¾ she already felt as though she'd made the trip a hundred times over, the journey having been recounted in Hogwarts, A History.

Her parents stood by the train, having helped her stow some of her belongings, and shuffling nervously, feeling out of place on the platform teeming with witches and wizards.

"Hermione," her father finally said, "you know we're very proud of you."

"Very proud," her mother chimed in hanging on to her father's arm.

"But do be careful, alright. Write to us as often as you can and let us know how you're doing."

She enveloped her parents in a hug. "Of course I will, and I'll miss you both terribly. Thank you for letting me go."

Her parents held her tight and she could feel that they wanted to hold onto her in more ways than one. "Of course, pumpkin. We love you."

Hermione pulled away and her parents reluctantly let her go.

"I better go get changed before it's time to go," she said.

Her mother sniffled and her father smiled encouragingly before she turned and raced onto the train, leaning out the door to wave at her parents before going to her compartment to get changed into her robes.

She expected to be alone, but when she opened the door there was a disheveled boy on his hands and knees peering under the seats. When she walked in he looked up at her with a tear-stained face.

"Have you seen a toad? I've lost him already and we haven't even gotten to school yet," he said pleadingly.

Hermione smiled at him, "I haven't but I'll help you look. Let me get my robes on and we'll go look together."

The boy wiped his face as he stood and smiled at her, "Thank you. I'm Neville by the way. Neville Longbottom."

"Hermione Granger," she said, extending her hand.

Neville took it and shook it before leaving the compartment so Hermione could change into her robes.

Hermione spent the rest of the trip helping Neville look for his toad, taking the opportunity to talk to the other students, noting that most of the kids her age didn't know half as much as she did.

She felt as though all of her reading had prepared her to do as well, if not better, than her peers.

However, nothing could have prepared her for seeing the castle for the first time. The moving pictures didn't do it justice. The tall spires loomed before them and she could hear whispers of exclamation from the other students, no one willing to raise their voices above hushed tones.

The students exited the boats on the other side of the lake, the boats rocking in the swell of the water lapping at the shore. When everyone was back on solid ground, Hagrid escorted them up the stone steps and into the entrance hall.

Hermione tried to remain composed to appear less like a Muggle-born, but her eyes were everywhere; taking in every fixture, every painting, every shadow cast by the dancing light of the candles. And she wasn't the only one; students pointed out the most mundane thing that Hogwarts seemed to elevate to the magical.

They were led into a small room off to the side of the Great Hall by Professor McGonagall. Hermione was comforted by the sight of the familiar teacher.

And then it was time to enter the Great Hall, where eyes followed them as they walked down the length of the tables to the dais upfront.

Hermione breathed deeply, trying to focus her mind to prepare herself for whatever came next. She had been able to list all the spells she had already learned, trying to determine which one she would need when they had been left alone in the smaller chamber, but now she struggled to name even one.

"Get it together, Hermione," she berated herself under her breath.

She took another breath and then looked up at the ceiling, which appeared to be open to the night sky. And then she remembered what she had read in Hogwarts, A History.

"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History," she whispered.

That simple fact alone helped her to settle her nerves and gather her thoughts.

They all quieted as Professor McGonagall stepped up onto the dais and placed a rumpled looking hat on a stool.

Hermione studied the hat but could make no sense of what it could possibly be for. Were they supposed to know the proper name of the wizard garment? Or perhaps from which time period it was derived?

Then the hat began to speak.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folks use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The whole Hall broke out into applause, except the first years, who were still trying to figure out what was going on.

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" she heard a boy named Ronald Weasley say. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Wrestling a troll? She rolled her eyes.

But his words only distracted her for a moment. She hadn't read anything about this in the numerous books she devoured. It sounded like some sort of personality test conducted by a… hat.

She'd read about the four houses of course and on the train ride, some of the older students had gladly shared their opinion on which one was the best.

They all sounded quite impressive, Gryffindor most of all, but she wasn't quite sure where she'd fit in if it came down to a test based on her personal qualities; they couldn't be learned from a book.

She supposed the best place for her would be in Ravenclaw. Then a horrible thought occurred to her. What if people in the magical world were smarter than their Muggle counterparts? What if here her intelligence and aptitude for learning were not exceptional?

"Granger, Hermione."

Hermione had spaced out, missing the sorting of the first students.

She took a steadying breath and then stepped up to the stool. Professor McGonagall placed the hat on her head as soon as she was situated.

Hmm, what have we here?

Hermione sat rigidly, feeling the voice in her head analyzing every inch of her.

Most unusual, most unusual, it muttered.

Hermione bit her lip.

What are you so afraid of?

He could see that? She shut her eyes tight, she didn't want him to see that.

There's no use trying to hide from me, the Sorting Hat said, Don't worry, I know exactly where you belong, before shouting out

"Slytherin!"

Professor McGonagall removed the hat from her head and she heard one of the first years say disbelievingly, "But she's a Muggle-born."

She searched the Professor's face for some type of explanation, but the older woman's face held no answer.

The words spread like wildfire through the Hall as she stepped off the dais and made her way toward the sternly composed students clothed in green and black, trying to find one face among them that told her that she belonged, just like the sorting hat said she did. But their expressions gave nothing away.

But why would there be? She knew from her reading that not only did Salazar Slytherin not accept Muggle-born students into his house, but he was of the opinion that they didn't even belong at Hogwarts.

Her fear of being unprepared was now dwarfed by her new predicament of being in a house that thought of her as less than. Proving that she was a good witch had now taken a back seat to proving that she should be a witch at all.

She took her seat, noticing that a few of the students glanced at her with unreadable expressions.

"Hello," she said meekly. No one responded to her, but she could see that some of the students further down were craning to get a look at her.

She turned back to the sorting, trying to keep the tears out of her eyes. The last thing she needed was for her new housemates to think she was weaker than they already did. This is not how she had imagined starting her year.