Best Witch, I Promise
"I'm going to be the best witch ever. I promise," eleven-year-old Hermione said to her father, a look of determination on her face. He looked at her, wide gray eyes as black curls cascaded around his face. He at first looked surprised, and then he grinned at her, that grin only her dad could do when he was pleased about something, although Hermione did pick up a bit of sadness in her father's eyes.
There always seemed to be a bit of sadness there, and as she got older, it was harder for him to hide that sadness that lurked in his gray eyes. Nobody had gray eyes like her dad.
…
She didn 't remember when he'd introduced her to the world of Worst Witch, but then perhaps the fact he'd always read to her, sitting her down in his lap as his melodious voice brought the characters alive, her eyes wide at the wondrous worlds someone wrote about in those books, but for some reason—perhaps she always knew—Hermione's favorite was Worst Witch.
It was to the point that the paperback copies of the books were worn at the spine, and Uncle Lettie decided it was time to fetch them new copies. "Your paperbacks," her Uncle Lettie said. "Your mum got them for your dad for his birthday. It was the one right after you were born."
So, according to Uncle Lettie, it was like fate, although she couldn 't tell him about how she found this to be the case later on.
"And I got you both the third. The way both of your eyes sparkled, and you crawled right up into his lap so he could read it to you. He loved every moment of it, reading those books to you, so much so you can tell that they've been well-loved."
So, the old copies ended up backed away, treasures of sorts, while the new paperbacks were placed on Hermione 's bookshelf where her father every so often would come and snatch a book to read. Sometimes after she'd finished her school work, she would sit on her book reading one book while he sat at her desk in a chair too small for him or even on the floor cross-legged.
And then Jules came along, and they took turns reading to her. She remembered how her dad took her to that movie adaption of the first book where she was on the edge of her seat watching Mildred Hubble, and she thought to herself she wanted to be a witch just like Mildred even though Elizabeth hated the movies.
…
Except she didn 't.
Hermione was older now, and she definitely didn 't want to be a clumsy witch. She was too bright for that, and that she already realized was one significant difference between her and Mildred. Without hesitation, she took advantage of reading every single one of her textbooks from back to front, so she knew everything about them. Mildred didn't have such an advantage, being the first witch not of magical blood.
And her dad—he watched from the dinner table, quite amused at her antics, grinning from ear to ear as she read the books even though he didn 't know any of the contents in said book.
And from the Worst Witch books, she 'd come to understand that there would be prejudices against her, that there would be those who think that she wasn't, couldn't be a successful witch, so she determined when she would go that she would be the best witch ever. "I think I'll be in Ravenclaw."
"Ravenclaw?" Her father asked.
Hermione looked up at her father. He was playing with Play-Doh, keeping a seven-year-old Jules occupied and out of Hermione 's books. "The students are sorted into four different houses."
She explained the houses, and her dad nodded his head. "Ravenclaw. It would definitely be nice if you were sorted into that house rather than Slytherin."
"Why would I be sorted into Slytherin?" Hermione's nose wrinkled. She'd already read about how those from Pureblood families had a preference for Slytherin, and as such, she knew she'd face prejudice from others in that house if she were sorted there. "Why would the hat sort someone who is Muggleborn into a house where Purebloods are, Purebloods who would have an issue with them?"
"You never know," said her father with his tendency to go with the flow of things, which at that moment included Jules smashing everything he made with her tiny fist, laughing as she did so while he took the smashed lump of Play-Doh to create something new for her to smash, quick like.
"Smooshy!" Jules cried out after finishing smashing the lump of Play-Doh to smithereens.
"Smooshy!" her dad replied.
…
"Will you be okay?" her dad asked, helping her get her trunk from the back of their car.
"I'm a big girl," Hermione said.
"I mean, will you be fine finding the platform on your own."
"You're the one who suggested it was an in-between kind of thing," Hermione smiled at him. "Which makes sense."
"Hmm, yes." He looked away, rubbing his neck.
"You don't like crowded places," Hermione piped up. "And it's going to be really busy at Kings Cross because everybody who goes away to school will be going back!"
"True." He looked at her. "Are you really…"
"Yes. I'm going to be the best witch!" Hermione said. "I promised you! And this way, you and mum can have someone watching Jules, who isn't Elizabeth."
"Oh." Her father's gray eyes blinked a couple of times, likely imagining leaving the older of Hermione's two sisters in charge of the youngest. His frown deepened. "I'm sorry Elizabeth didn't come with us as you wanted."
"She doesn't…" Hermione frowned. Elizabeth, who'd been read the Worst Witch books as she had, was very adamant that magic wasn't real and that she would have nothing to do with magic. She smiled at her dad, who definitely disliked crowds and was looking around the parking lot at King's Cross rather nervously. "Don't worry! I'm going to be the best witch ever, I promise!"
And so she went and found nine and 3/4 on her own, being quite the independent young witch, although some of the older students helped her in lifting the trunk up onto the train so she could find a compartment to change into her robes. It was the first time she got to wear the robes since she 'd brought them home, and her parents snapped a picture of her in them to tuck away somewhere where others couldn't see while Elizabeth thought she looked pretty dumb.
And there was a picture of Jules trying on the oversized robes in all her seven-year-old glory, holding out her arms just as Hermione had for to have her photo taken, grinning ear to ear before squealing, "Worst Witch!"
She was then off, and they needed to catch her—it was always their father who was fast enough to catch Jules and scoop her up, her laughter ringing through the house.
"Best witch," Hermione smiled to herself. "I'm going to be the best witch. Just wait and see!"
