The summer sun shone on the small English suburb, beckoning its residents to abandon their indoor pursuits and enjoy the weather while they still could. No one in town seemed able to resist the warm pull—old ladies decided to walk their dogs a block or two longer than necessary, mothers abandoned their washing in favor of weeding, and it seemed that every child in town flocked to the streets and playgrounds.
In one small home just across from one of the tree-filled parks, one young girl remained in her bedroom. She sat at her clean white desk with a stack of books to keep her company, methodically working her way through them. However, even she could not resist peeking out her window every page or so to take in the sunshine. At last, she too seemed to realize that the sun's pull was too strong, and marking her page carefully, she put her book under her arm and took it downstairs.
"Mum," she said, stopping in the doorway to the kitchen. "I think I'll go to the park for a bit."
"That's wonderful, Hermione," her mother said, lighting up at once and turning from her dishes to her daughter. "I just saw a few of the other girls heading that way as well."
Hermione's face fell. "I was planning on bringing my book," she said quickly. "I was just thinking it might be nicer to sit under a tree than at my desk, that's all."
Hermione's mother dried her hands quickly on a dishcloth and came to see what her daughter was reading. "European History: The Middle Ages to the Renaissance," she said, glancing at the title under Hermione's arm. "Why not something a little more suited to the holidays? We got you that set of Victorian novels for Christmas."
"Mum," Hermione said, her voice filled with forced patience. "You realize I'm starting secondary school in less than two months. I've got to be prepared."
"Prepared? For what? Darling, you've been top of your class since nursery school, you think that's suddenly going to change?"
Hermione did not answer but looked away, and she did not fight when her mother took the book from under her arm and laid it on the kitchen counter.
"You're only going to be a child for so much longer, Hermione. Enjoy it while you can."
"I enjoy reading," Hermione said, and her mother had to laugh.
"I know you do," she said fondly. "And your books aren't going anywhere. It's too nice a day to be cooped up. One afternoon playing with your friends won't do any harm."
Rather than argue, Hermione turned away and headed for her front door. Maybe it wouldn't hurt anything to lose a few hours of studying, but she wasn't sure where her mother got the idea that the girls down the street were her friends. Hermione walked slowly across the street to the park and scanned the area. The playground had been taken over by much younger children, but Hermione soon saw the girls her mother had mentioned sitting in the grass under a large tree. She braced herself, took a deep breath, and marched their way. There were four of them, sitting in a circle, and as she approached, one spotted her and whispered to the others, who watched her join them.
"Hi," Hermione said, attempting to keep her voice light. "Nice day, isn't it?"
The other girls surveyed her for a moment before responding. She knew all of them—a few her whole life. She'd been in class with Jennifer and Tilly only last year, and Laura had actually been her best friend when they were about five or six. Daniela lived just two houses down, and their mothers often had coffee together.
After a moment, Tilly shrugged and said, "I suppose," which the others took to mean that they would not be excluding Hermione from the circle. Daniela and Laura scooted over a bit to make room, and Hermione, relaxing, sat down between them.
"Jennifer was telling our fortunes," Daniela said. "It was just about to be my turn."
Hermione remembered creating the folded bits of paper as a child. She'd thought it silly even then, but she didn't see a fortune-teller in Jennifer's hands now. "How are you doing that?" she asked, hoping she sounded polite rather than condescending.
"I can read palms," Jennifer replied, not bothering to hide the superiority in her voice.
Hermione could not disguise her skepticism this time. "What do you mean? You can't tell the future by looking at someone's hands."
"You can if you practice," Jennifer said. "And I've been practicing all summer. Here." She held out her hand to Daniela, who placed hers in Jennifer's, looking excited. Jennifer inspected the skin closely, running her thumb across it and squinting before taking Daniela's hand in both of hers and closing her eyes tightly. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then opened her eyes and smiled at Daniela. "I can see where you're going to live," she said. "It's a tiny, tiny flat but in a big, beautiful city."
"London?" Daniela guessed.
Jennifer shook her head. "Paris," she said. She glanced down at Daniela's hand again and smiled. "And you don't live there alone. It's barely big enough for two people, but a man lives there too."
The other girls began to giggle.
"Is he handsome?" Daniela asked, her eyes wide.
"Dashing," Jennifer said. "And foreign." She examined Daniela's palm another second. "Not French—Italian. And...wow, he's a painter." She smiled at Daniela. "You're both painters. That's why your house is so small, you make almost no money. But you don't care, you're hopelessly in love, and every night you paint portraits of each other. They cover the walls."
"Wow," Daniela said. She slowly took her hand back, her eyes far away—in Paris, no doubt.
"See?" Jennifer said, turning to Hermione. "I can read palms."
"You just made that up," said Hermione. "You have no way to know if any of that will actually happen."
"Let me do you then," Jennifer said, holding her hand out again. "Go on, I'll tell your fortune, and you'll see that it will come true."
For a moment, Hermione thought of refusing, but then she remembered some advice from a book she'd read last year on making friends. Part of it was going along with what the other person wanted to do, even if you weren't interested yourself. Hermione bit her lip, forcing herself not to comment again on the ridiculousness of the whole notion, and let Jennifer take her hand.
Jennifer repeated the same inspection process she'd used with Daniela. When she opened her eyes, she announced to the group, "Hermione's house is nothing like Daniela's. It's giant. Out in the country, and her property stretches for miles."
Hermione felt her spirits lift in spite of herself. Though she knew there was no way Jennifer could know any of this, the idea intrigued her. She knew her intellect was bound to pay off in some way—maybe she went into medicine and did groundbreaking research that won her loads of prizes.
"Let's see," Jennifer continued, gazing at Hermione's hand again. "Well, I see ivy creeping up the walls. It really is an enormous house, but it looks like it's falling into disrepair because...oh." She looked at Hermione. "You live there alone," she said. Turning her gaze to the other girls, she went on, "There are dozens of rooms in the house—maybe hundreds—and Hermione wanders through the giant place all by herself because no one ever comes to visit her. She's isolated out in the country because no one wants to be her friend—"
Hermione snatched her hand back, feeling tears beginning to form in the back of her eyes. "I told you you were making it up!" she said. "You can't tell the future at all—no one can! You just said that to be mean!"
"Did I?" Jennifer said. "Who here thinks that will be Hermione Granger's future, in a big house with no friends all alone? Raise your hand." Jennifer stuck her hand straight up in the air, and one by one, the other hands followed.
Even as the fury built up in Hermione, she knew the anger was no match for the tears, and she got up and dashed away before any of the girls could see her crying. Stopping only to check the street for cars, she ran to her house without turning back, and straight to her room where she threw herself on the bed.
Hermione did not remember closing her door, let alone locking it, but she must have done because her mother was up knocking a moment later, and it did not give when she tried to open it. Even though Hermione hadn't meant to lock her mother out, it was a relief that she had. She didn't want her to see her tearstained face any more than she wanted the neighborhood girls to.
"Hermione," Mrs Granger said, knocking again. "Love, what happened?"
"'Won't do any harm,'" Hermione quoted, upset with how shrill her voice had become. "One afternoon playing with the others won't do any harm? I should have insisted on bringing my book! This never would have happened if I'd sat by myself reading!"
"What never would have happened?" Again, Mrs Granger tried to open the door. "Hermione, please let me in. Tell me what happened."
Had Hermione really locked the door? She'd been so distraught, she certainly hadn't thought of doing so—her intent had been to run straight inside the room and fall onto her bed in a heap.
"Please just go," Hermione said, trying to take deep breaths and make her voice sound stronger. "I just want to be alone."
She could feel her mother hesitate, but after a moment, she said, "I'm right downstairs if you change your mind. I love you, sweetheart. I hope you're ready to talk about it soon."
Hermione nodded even though she knew her mother couldn't see, then heard her footsteps go back down the hall and then the stairs.
Hermione heard her father come home an hour or so later, but her mother must have warned him Hermione was upset, because he did not come up to say hello. Hermione had calmed down by then—after the tears had cleared enough for her to see, she had followed her mother's advice and picked up one of the classic novels, not trusting herself to be able to concentrate on a more serious subject. She was just thinking of making an appearance downstairs when the doorbell rang.
Even through her closed door, Hermione could hear her mother say, "I wonder who that could be," to her father, which piqued her curiosity enough to put her book down and peek out the window, where she had a clear view of the front door.
A woman was standing there, a stranger, with a tight black bun and wearing a green cloak despite the warm sunshine. Even more curious now what this oddly dressed person was doing at their doorstep, Hermione stepped out of her bedroom and to a spot on the landing where she could look through the railing without being seen.
"Hello," Mr Granger said, opening the door partway. "Can I help you?"
"Good afternoon," said the woman. "My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. I'm here to speak to Miss Hermione Granger."
Hermione's father glanced automatically toward the stairs, and Hermione quickly ducked behind the wall so he couldn't see her eavesdropping.
"What do you want with Hermione?" he asked, a slight note of suspicion in his voice.
"I am a teacher," Professor McGonagall said. "I'm here to offer your daughter a place at my school."
"What school?" Mr Granger said. Hermione saw her mother enter the front hall to join him.
"I have a letter here explaining everything," Professor McGonagall said, producing one from her cloak. Mr Granger reached for it, but she pulled it back. "I would prefer to deliver it directly to Miss Granger. Do you mind if I come in?"
Hermione watched her father hesitate. He did not ordinarily invite strangers into his home, especially those that took an interest in his eleven-year-old. However, after a moment he must have decided that even if she were dangerous, he could probably take her in a fight. He opened the door the rest of the way.
"I'll put on a pot of tea," Mrs Granger said, leading Professor McGonagall through to the sitting room.
"Hermione's in her room," said Mr Granger. "I'll fetch—"
But Hermione had come down the stairs before he could finish his sentence. She followed her mother and Professor McGonagall into the sitting room, her father walking in just behind them.
While Mrs Granger went to the kitchen for the tea, Mr Granger gestured to an armchair, and Professor McGonagall sat gracefully down. Hermione sat on the sofa adjacent to the chair, watching her. Everything from her square spectacles to the smallest movement of her wrists as she sat gave off an air of such dignity and authority, it was understandable how she could expect to be invited at once into strangers' homes. And there was something Hermione could not explain—she was entirely certain that she had never seen this woman before, yet she felt some sort of kinship, as though they shared something in common. Perhaps it was the fact that this woman was clearly intelligent, and Hermione viewed intelligence as one of her own most distinct qualities. She'd said she was a teacher, and she seemed like one with little patience for immaturity in her classroom—the purpose of school, after all, was to learn. How much time had been wasted in Hermione's youth by teachers interrupting their lectures to discipline unruly children? Hermione could tell at once that Professor McGonagall would not be the sort to tolerate such behavior, and with this feeling came instant respect and trust.
For a minute, it was quiet but for the sounds of Mrs Granger making tea in the kitchen. Hermione was bursting with questions, but she knew her parents were just as perplexed by this stranger's arrival as she was, so she kept silent until her mother returned, pouring a cup for each of them and sitting down beside her husband.
"Now," Mr Granger said. "Would you mind explaining what this is about? Where do you work? How did you hear about our Hermione?"
"We've had Miss Granger's name down for several years now," Professor McGonagall said. "She possesses some specific talents we require for admission."
"You mean because she's gifted?" Mrs Granger asked.
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall, "though we define the term a bit differently than you do."
Hermione could tell that her father was about to ask precisely what that meant—he did not appreciate when people danced around a point rather than making it—but before he had the chance, Professor McGonagall had once again produced the letter. She held it out to Hermione, who put down her cup to take it.
The envelope was made not of ordinary paper, but a heavier stock—parchment, she supposed it was. Her name and address were on the front, written in ink exactly the same shade of emerald as Professor McGonagall's cloak. Hermione's father was sitting next to her and would be able to read over her shoulder, but her mother, on his other side, could not, so Hermione opened it and read aloud.
Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"I beg your pardon," Mr Granger interrupted, looking sharply at Professor McGonagall. "School of what?"
Hermione handed the letter to her parents, pointing to the heading on the top where "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" was written in fancy script and, just beneath it:
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
"What nonsense is this?" Mr Granger asked.
"I assure you, Mr Granger, I have very little tolerance for nonsense," Professor McGonagall said. "Your daughter is a witch. I am here to offer her the opportunity to study magic."
Hermione felt her excitement and hopes fade at once. She must have been wrong about Professor McGonagall—clearly, the woman was mad, just well practiced at disguising the fact. "But magic isn't real," she said. "Witches aren't real."
"That's what we have you believe," Professor McGonagall said, speaking directly to Hermione. "Because your parents do not possess magical talent. We call them Muggles. But occasionally, a child born to Muggle parents displays magic themselves, in which case we still extend admission to Hogwarts."
"This is getting out of hand," Mr Granger said. "I don't know what you're doing here, madam, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I can't quite yet, Mr Granger," Professor McGonagall said. "I have several more things I must explain first."
"Please," Mrs Granger said. "Hermione's been upset enough for one day. All this talk of witches and magic, do you take all of us for fools?"
"On the contrary," Professor McGonagall said. "Please permit me to demonstrate." She reached a hand once again inside her robes and produced a long, elegant wooden wand. She flicked it in the general direction of the empty fireplace, and the grate was suddenly filled with a roaring fire.
Both Hermione's parents shouted in alarm and jumped up from the sofa, and Hermione gasped, a hand over her mouth.
"How did you do that?" Mr Granger demanded, looking more angry and frightened than Hermione had ever seen him.
"I, like your daughter, am a witch," Professor McGonagall explained calmly. "Hermione has the ability to do magic too, and with the proper training—"
"Rubbish!" Hermione's father interrupted. "We've never seen her do anything...anything like that. You must have broken in here and set that up to trick us!"
Hermione wasn't entirely sure what to believe. She didn't think it very likely that this older woman had snuck into their house and rigged their fireplace, but she was also quite certain that witches existed only in fairy tales, and that even if magic was real, she herself had certainly never performed any.
"Professor," she said as her mother put a hand on her father's arm and sat him back down on the sofa, handing him his tea again. "I still don't understand what you mean when you say I can do magic too. I've never…" she gestured toward the fireplace.
"You've never done anything," Professor McGonagall began shrewdly, "anything you couldn't explain? Anything that seemed impossible, against nature? When you were upset, for example, or if you were in danger of getting hurt? Can you think of nothing?"
And suddenly it came to her. Hermione hadn't locked the door this afternoon—at least not by turning the lock with her hand. And other memories began to flood back, dating back since she was very small.
"Sometimes," Hermione whispered, speaking to her knees. "I'd be so certain I dreamed it." Afraid, suddenly, of her father's reaction, she looked up at him. "When I was eight, I spilled tea on a library book once. I panicked and grabbed a dish towel to wipe it off. I was old enough to know—I knew—that it was too late, it would have stained the pages, but the tea came right off, like the paper was made of leather. You'd never have known. And before that—I was six, I think—I forgot to bring a homework assignment to school. The teacher was collecting them, and I froze in my seat because I specifically remembered leaving it on my desk the night before. But I checked my folder anyway, even knowing it was hopeless, and there it was!"
Hermione shook her head. "I'd tell myself I was imagining things. I must have put it there and just not remembered." She turned to her mother now. "Just this afternoon. I came home from the park and ran straight to my bed. I didn't even close the door, let alone lock it. It must have been…"
"Magic," Professor McGonagall finished the sentence, very nearly smiling. "We have ways of detecting it, you see, and it's coming very strongly from you."
Mr Granger shook his head, though he seemed calmer than before. "I still believe it's a trick," he said. "You're putting stories in my girl's head. I don't know how you did that with the fireplace, but—"
His words were cut off by Professor McGonagall waving her wand once more. She had pointed it to the teapot Mrs Granger had left on the table, and suddenly there was a tiny pig in its place—a real, living, breathing teacup pig.
Once again, Hermione's parents shouted and jumped to their feet and Hermione gasped. She looked at Professor McGonagall, who actually did smile this time. "Transfiguration," she said. "My subject at Hogwarts. The spell will wear off shortly," she added to Mr and Mrs Granger, who were staring at the pig.
"What other sorts of subjects are there?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, a great range," said Professor McGonagall. "Charms, Potions, and History of Magic are a few other basics. When you have time to review your booklist, you'll see what else is covered."
"And…" Hermione hesitated, feeling almost foolish for asking. "I mean, if magic is real, is…fortune telling…is that real too? Can people really see the future?"
Hermione noticed her parents exchange glances at this question that seemed to rise out of nowhere, but they did not say anything. Professor McGonagall seemed to stiffen a bit. "Divination is taught at Hogwarts," she said in a rather clipped voice. "You may take it as an elective beginning in your third year. But it is a very…imprecise…branch of magic. I find that, unlike spells that you can cast with a clear consequence, it is very challenging to discern if a prediction comes true due to actual prophetic skill or luck and generalizations on the part of the predictor."
Hermione nodded. She glanced at her parents, who were still looking shaken.
"I understand this is a lot to take in," said Professor McGonagall. "Explaining this to Muggle families is one of the more difficult tasks I've taken on as Deputy Headmistress."
"Are there lots of us?" Hermione asked. "Witches and wizards with Muggle parents?"
"Not as many as there are children with magic on at least the mother or father's side," Professor McGonagall said. "But there are perhaps a half dozen or so each year. It varies. I've been to one home already last weekend, and I'm due at another tomorrow."
"Anyone around here?" Hermione asked. "In my town, I mean. Are other children around here witches? Anyone I would have gone to school with?"
"I'm afraid not," Professor McGonagall said. "This neighborhood seems to be entirely Muggles. There is a witch and wizard couple not too far from here—but they're older and their children are long grown. No, I don't believe you'll know any of the other students when you start. I know it can be difficult to hear, and we certainly cannot force you to attend if you'd rather continue your Muggle education with those you already know. It's your choice. But you are a witch, Miss Granger, and you will always have magic regardless of what you choose to do with it."
Rather than finding it difficult to hear, Hermione felt relieved. Jennifer had been making everything up after all—and if Hermione went to this school, this Hogwarts, she'd never have to be in class with any of those girls again.
"I know you're all still skeptical," Professor McGonagall went on. "But you needn't take my word for it. There is a street in London called Diagon Alley—this is where Hermione will need to purchase her supplies if she chooses to attend Hogwarts—and everyone there is a witch or wizard who can tell you anything you need to know about the magical community and our school. Nearly every wizard in Britain has been educated there, and Professor Dumbledore, our headmaster, is among the most talented wizards of all time. Anyone in Diagon Alley will tell you so."
"All right," Hermione's mother said—her father had seemed incapable of speech since a teapot had been transformed into a pig before his eyes. "This place, this Diagon Alley, where is it? I grew up in London, and I've never heard of such a place."
And Professor McGonagall began to explain about a pub called the Leaky Cauldron and how Hermione would need to go there with her parents because they wouldn't be able to find it without her. She explained how wizards used a different form of currency from Muggles and how they would need to first visit the bank, Gringotts, to exchange cash, but not to be alarmed by the goblins that worked there (Mr Granger had almost interrupted again at that point but seemed to have given up). She told them how if Hermione did decide to attend Hogwarts—she seemed to stress every time that it was Hermione's decision, not Mr and Mrs Grangers'—she would simply need to send a letter via the Diagon Alley post office ("No later than July 31, as the letter says."). She went over how to reach the hidden platform in King's Cross where Hermione could catch the train on the first day of term, which seemed almost ordinary compared with everything else that had been discussed so far. And before she finally left, she reassured all three Grangers that they were taking the news rather well. The pig on the table had finally turned back into Mrs Granger's favorite teapot, which seemed to have calmed Mr Granger down a great deal.
"You can contact me via owl if there is anything urgent before the start of term," Professor McGonagall told Hermione. "But I believe you'll be all right from here. I hope to see you on September the first." She then took a moment to thank Mrs Granger for the tea and left, quite as abruptly as she'd come.
The rest of the evening was quiet. Mr Granger watched the news while Mrs Granger began dinner. Hermione sat on the sofa beside her father, reading and rereading the letter from Professor McGonagall until she had it memorized. She then began on the school supply list and had just decided she was confident on that one too when her mother announced that dinner was ready.
Hermione attempted to eat the roasted chicken and beans her mother had made, but she found herself moving it around on the plate with little appetite. Her parents, most unusually, were not speaking but kept exchanging glances. She knew they were waiting for an opportunity to speak privately about everything that had happened this afternoon. Hermione weighed her options. She could bring it up now, while they were all together—assume they would be making the trip to London, at the very least to verify everything Professor McGonagall had said. But she doubted her parents would want to commit even to something as simple as that without discussing it further. All her life, they had always functioned as a team, and every decision they made, they made together. They ran a dental practice together. They shared parenting and household duties as equally as they were able. Anything Hermione had ever wanted or needed to ask permission for—it was never deferred, "ask your father" or "what does your mother think?"—it was discussed: "we'll talk about it when your father gets home" and "I'll speak to your mother about it tonight." Her parents were intelligent, analytical, logical. They did not make snap decisions but weighed pros and cons and predicted potential consequences. This decision, the biggest decision of their only daughter's life, would not be made with Hermione attempting to force it.
At last, she pushed her plate away. "I'm not very hungry," she said. "I think I'd like to be alone to think."
Mrs Granger nodded absently, and Hermione took her plate to the sink. She left her Hogwarts letter in plain view on the coffee table, the two pages side by side and the envelope next to it, and went up to her room.
Alone, but with the door wide open so she might hear when her parents started talking, she picked up and tried to read one book after another, hoping one might catch her attention. But the books she most longed for were out of her reach—The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1; One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi; A History of Magic. These were the pages she yearned to turn, the words she most wanted to absorb, the lessons most essential to learn.
After over an hour of trying and failing to distract herself, Hermione changed into pajamas and brushed her teeth, though she doubted sleeping would be any easier than reading. At one point, still as awake as she'd been all day, she heard her mother coming up to check on her. Hermione pretended to be asleep and waited until her mother's footsteps had made their way back downstairs, and then she crept back out of bed and to the stairs, holding her breath and keeping her footsteps light on the carpet. She stayed just high enough that she couldn't be seen from the sitting room but could clearly hear the conversation through the doorway.
"She's asleep," Mrs Granger was saying.
"All right," Mr Granger said with a sigh. "Let's get this over with, I suppose."
"I mean, it couldn't hurt just to go to this Diagon Alley place, could it? Assuming it is real, that is."
"We're assuming a lot of things are real now, aren't we?" Hermione's father said.
"Martin, we watched her do magic in front of our eyes. She turned a teapot into a pig, what more do you—"
"All right, assume it all is real then," Mr Granger agreed. "We go to London, we find this pub, and everyone on the other side is doing magic. They all have...wands and...strange clothing and odd currency, all of it. It's real, the world as we know it is a lie. We're just supposed to send Hermione off into it? Put her on a train to god-knows-where with people who can...set fires and such with a wave of a wand? We don't know this McGonagall woman or this Dumbledore fellow or anyone there. We can't exactly call up other parents who've sent their children to this Hogwarts and ask if they think it's a good school, if it's safe."
"Well we have to go to London then," Mrs Granger said. "McGonagall said there will be other families in Diagon Alley, parents with children in the same situation as we are. We can ask what they have to say about the place."
"And how can we trust them?" Mr Granger asked. "If this woman can turn things into animals, who's to say she can't turn a pub into a street full of people? We wouldn't be able to verify a thing anyone says—it could all be a trick, lure Hermione into a trap."
"But why though?" said Mrs Granger. "What's the point of it? What would they want with Hermione? She's just a little girl."
"She's our little girl," Mr Granger said. "And the whole matter seems very fishy to me. I don't like it one bit."
"I can see that," Mrs Granger said. "So what do you suggest then? Tell Hermione to forget the whole thing, there's no way she's going to this school?"
"You saw how quickly she got caught up in everything this woman said. Suddenly deciding that she's been doing magic herself since she was little."
"You think she was making it up?"
"She's a bright girl, she's got a very active imagination."
"That she's now old enough to differentiate from reality. Come on, Martin, the things she was saying made sense. All through dinner, I kept remembering a time when we were visiting my mother's house when she was very small. She was at a silly age, dancing around a lot, pretending to be a ballerina. She smacked right into a vase on a pedestal and knocked it to the floor. The thing should have been smashed to pieces, but it landed upright and sturdy as ever. At the time, I thought it impossible luck, but now I'm not so sure. If witches are real—and after what we've seen today, you'll have a hard time convincing me they're not—then who's to say our Hermione isn't one?"
"It comes back to the same thing though," Mr Granger argued. "Witch or not, we're expected to send our girl to a school full of strangers?"
"How would it be any different from ordinary secondary school?" Mrs Granger asked.
"We've been there," Mr Granger replied at once. "We've done a visit, met some of the staff, seen the classrooms. Hermione will already know some of her classmates."
"But that doesn't mean nothing can go wrong there. If your only concern is her safety—"
Hermione stood up at last. They were beginning to go round in circles, and they would likely do so for the rest of the night if something wasn't done. Still keeping quiet, she slipped down the stairs and across the entry hall into the sitting room. Her parents were both standing, on either side of the coffee table and looking at each other. It took a moment for them to notice Hermione. Mrs Granger started, putting a hand to her chest. "Hermione. Darling, you gave me a fright. How did you come down so quietly?"
"Magic?" Hermione suggested softly.
Hermione's mother smiled, though her father did not. "You should be in bed, Hermione, it's late."
"I'll go up, I've just got a few things I'd like to add first, if you don't mind." Both her parents were silent, and Hermione took a deep breath. "I want to go," she said. Then she shook her head. "No, that's not strong enough. I need to go." She made eye contact with each of her parents in turn. "I don't think you understand. All this time I've been different from the other children in school. I've thought it was just that they didn't like me because I was smarter, they were jealous. But now I see it's more than that. I am a witch. The more I think about it, the more examples I can think of of times I've done magic without realizing. And it's like Professor McGonagall said, even if I stay in this world—the Muggle world—I still won't belong.
"I knew there was something different about Professor McGonagall as soon as she got here. I couldn't tell you then, but now I know. It's because she's like me. And we have to go to Diagon Alley so we can meet more of my kind, and you'll see. I have to go to this school. Mum…Dad…you're always telling me not to be ashamed of who I am, not hide or try to be like anyone else just to fit in. You've told me that I'm gifted, and that I shouldn't be ashamed of it, but embrace it. That can't change now just because my gift is something more than you originally thought. You've always encouraged me to be myself—well this is who I am. And this world, this place, this school…this is where I'll finally belong."
For a long moment, Hermione's parents said nothing. Then, at long last, Mr Granger spoke. "We should have a train schedule somewhere in the kitchen. I'll see what time tomorrow we can get into London."