Chapter 8: Regrets?
She was supposed to be scared. She was supposed to be nervous. She was supposed to be crying at leaving her family behind. She was supposed to do and feel and think lots of things, but oddly enough Hermione couldn't feel any of those feelings or do any of those things that traditions and social norms dictated she was supposed to do and feel. Then again, she didn't do supposed to very well, especially these days.
"Well, everything's in order, then," called her father's voice over the din of the crowd around them. "Right, then, Hermione, got everything you need?"
"Yes, Da, I do," she answered, having forgotten just about how many times that day he'd asked her that. There was right before they left the house... then as they piled into the car... then halfway to the Leaky Cauldron, not to mention at the Leaky Cauldron... and probably several more times in Diagon Alley, which Hermione had learned was the name of the cobblestoned wizarding paradise behind the magical wall in the back alley outside of the Leaky Cauldron. She giggled to herself about the play on words and all the literary jokes one could get out of it, but when she tried to explain the humor to her parents they just smiled politely at her, and shrugged at one another.
"Hermione, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?" Addie asked, kneeling down in front of her daughter and holding her by the shoulders, an act which all in all made Hermione feel very, very young. "It's not too late, you know. We can still find something for you here."
Hermione smiled stoically. "No you can't. You've been looking for years. I guess it found us before we were ever going to find it. Don't cry, Mum," she added awkwardly. "Now the only thing you have to worry about is covering up the truth about where I am."
Addie laughed a bit through her tears. "I know. It will make things quite a bit more relaxing at home."
"See? Make the best out of a bad situation, I say. Really, Mum, I'll be fine; I've been able to take care of myself for years, and, well, you really haven't minded. I can look after myself at Hogwarts," she reassured her mother, dropping her voice a bit so the other Muggles around them would not hear her talking of the secret school. "Besides, I read, in Hogwarts: A History that there are Prefects there, as well as the Professors, who'll make certain I follow the rules."
"Oh, we're not worried about that," Archie broke in, smiling, even though Hermione could see that he too was tearing up. He sniffed, then coughed a bit. "Just... no more secret trips?" He added a wink.
"No promises," Hermione retorted with a devilish grin. "No, really, I don't want to mess this up. I'll follow all the rules. I'll do all my lessons. I've already read Hogwarts: A History twice, didn't get to read it a third time, shame really, and I've read through most of my school books. I've even tried a few spells. Only I can't show you here, and apparently there'd be some commotion if I did. There's some sort of restriction on underage use of magic, which surprises me that they didn't come after me for trying the simple things I did try—"
"Hermione!" Both parents said in unison. "You're rambling again," her mother said, laughing and wiping a tear away from her eyes.
"Oh, I know, I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "I'm just too excited is all, I guess."
"We know," Archie said fondly. "Now. It's about quarter til, so you should get to your platform so you can load your things on the train."
That was the cue for Addie to stand and retreat to her husband's side. "We can do this," she whispered, squeezing his arm, but Hermione overheard and grinned at her parents.
"Don't start regretting your decision now, it's too late," she said. "Though I hope you have forgotten telling me mere minutes ago that it's not too late," she added, grabbing onto the trolley, on which was loaded her heavy school trunk. She carried a knapsack in which she'd neatly folded her robes, emblazoned with a proud Hogwarts crest, so she could change into them on the train. She struggled a bit to get the trolley to move, and when she had trouble navigating it through the throngs of passengers waiting in the platform area of King's Cross Station, her father took over for her.
"Here we are!" she exclaimed as they paused between platforms nine and ten.
"Well, which one is it?" her father asked, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. It was September first, but quite warm still. "Nine or ten." He angled the trolley toward platform nine, but looked toward platform ten.
Hermione pulled her ticket from the pocket of her trousers and scrutinized it, though she knew exactly what she was looking for. "Neither, Da. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."
As was customary of late, Archie and Addie looked at one another helplessly, shrugged, then looked at their daughter for an explanation. "Darling? Can you repeat that?" Archie asked.
"Nine and three quarters," Hermione obliged. It's sort of like the entrance to Diagon Alley... it's there, if you're looking for it. Sort of exists parallel to everything we know. You and Mum can't come with me, though. I'm sorry." Even as she said it she felt herself choke up, realizing that this was it, at least until Christmas holidays, which she knew, from her readings, that she got off. "I will come home for Christmas," she told them, smiling bravely. "And I'll send an owl every week. At night though, so the neighbours don't get suspicious." She sniffled and wiped away her tears.
Her mother hugged her tightly, then her father joined in. After a moment Hermione disengaged from the group hug. "Ten til. The train leaves at precisely eleven o'clock, I want to be punctual." She took a deep breath. "It'll all be fine, I have absolutely no regrets about any of this," she reassured them, and she truly felt that this was the truth. "It will be the best for all of us. Just... make sure if you have Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Curran over Isabella doesn't break my piano. And tell her to stop chewing gum, it'll ruin her braces. She didn't want to hear it from me." Hermione finished with a nod of finality that somehow managed to make her parents laugh.
"We're the ones who are supposed to be giving you advice," Archie said.
Hermione grinned. "Oh, sod supposed to!" she exclaimed, and then, before her parents could chide her for her choice of language, she pushed the trolley as hard and fast as she could make it go, and ran for the barrier between the two platforms. She didn't stop to think that logically she could be making a very big mistake that her skull could be regretting very much. She didn't stop to think that for all intents and purposes running into a brick wall was a bad idea. She didn't stop to think. She just didn't stop.
She closed her eyes.
There was a slight rushing sensation that left her with a tingling in the pit of her stomach, and she opened her eyes slowly, squinting at first, then opening them fully. Behind her was a very solid-looking brick wall, and her past. Before her was a scarlet steam engine, bearing the words "Hogwarts Express" on it in gold. Wizards, witches, and children of various ages, in various states of Muggle or wizard dress milled about, talking, laughing, crying. Hermione smiled and held her head high, suppressing any fear or possible regret. This steam engine before her was the vehicle to her future.
She was embarking on an adventure in a world very few people knew existed. Who could regret that? She heaved the trolley over toward where a corpulent porter was stowing trunks. "Hermione Granger, first year at Hogwarts," she stated calmly and proudly. He muttered some gruff thanks and brushed her off, leaving her wondering what to do, where to go next. It was now only three til eleven, and there were only a few students and parents now milling on the platform in varying states of distress.
"You'll go next year, Ginny," a frazzled red-headed woman said, exasperated, to her equally flame-haired daughter, who pouted and stomped after her as they left the platform area.
"Excuse me, are you a first year?" asked a gangly red-haired boy who was already in robes, only these bore a crest of crimson and gold and read "Gryffindor". He had a silver badge with an ornate P pinned to his collar. "I'm a prefect," he said, slightly pompously. "You'll want to go find a compartment to sit in for the duration of the trip. Wand use is prohibited, though. Just a reminder."
"Oh, of course," Hermione said with wide eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it, with the underage restrictions and all—" she cut off when she realized he'd moved on to reprimand two other red-headed boys who were still on the platform, whispering head to head, evidently plotting something. She turned and strode confidently toward the train, took a deep breath, and boarded, leaving all fears, regrets, and supposed to's behind.
Hope was the only emotional baggage she brought with her. And that could hardly be called baggage at all.
The clock in the station chimed the eleven o'clock hour in with deep booming notes that reminded Hermione of Beethoven, and those knocks of fate upon his door. Fate was knocking on her door, but in a good way. And at this she found herself giggling a bit, because it was the first time she'd ever really thought about giving fate any credit for anything in her life. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was luck, or coincidence, or even just sheer irony, but whatever it was she was glad of it.
The train's whistle sounded, deep and throaty, and there was a lurch that nearly knocked Hermione off her feet. She grabbed onto a nearby bar to steady herself, and then realized she needed to find a place to sit. Butterflies emerged in her stomach; she could almost visualize dormant chrysalises breaking apart within her, to reveal butterflies of nervousness. She steeled herself against these feelings. No, she needed to start off better than this, and she would. With resolution she balanced against the lurching of the train and made her way down the long, snaking corridor, glancing in windows as she passed, until she found a compartment with some younger looking students who appeared to be first years, like herself. The door was open.
She took a deep breath and stuck her head in. "Is that seat taken?" she asked politely.
"No, come on in," said a sandy haired boy with freckles and an Irish brogue. "I'm Seamus, Seamus Finnegan. Who're you?"
"Hermione. Hermione Jane Granger," she said, entering and taking the empty seat. Conversation continued where it must have left off, and Hermione just listened. Once or twice she glanced out the window at the rushing countryside, which grew less civilized and more wild the further north they traveled. Yes, she was Hermione Jane Granger, and she was headed away from an old life that didn't understand her to a new life that would. She was an Indigo Child, a prodigy, a genius, but underneath all of that she was indeed just Hermione Granger, and she now had a place to belong.
It was a good realization.
