The twin towns of Hangleton, nestled in the heart of Somerset, were just two of the many places that London evacuees had fled to upon the news that their city might become a target of war. The once-quiet hamlets had transformed, brimming with new shops and facilities, bustling with the energy of those seeking refuge. Even Little Hangleton, which had steadily declined since the onset of the industrial revolution, had experienced an unprecedented surge in population.
Amidst the chaos, a woman and her young daughter stood out amongst the rabble of the countryward emigres. Edith Granger, a nurse by profession, and her ten-year-old daughter, Hermione, found themselves housed in the most coveted property in Little Hangleton. Perched atop a hill, the property overlooked the town like a small fort, a remnant of a bygone era.
Edith was a woman of quiet elegance, her unassuming appearance belying an intensity that lay just beneath the surface. Her slender form seemed to disappear in the presence of others, but those who took the time to truly look into her eyes would see a sharpness and depth that left an impression. To many in the town of Hangleton, it was a great mystery how Edith had managed to capture the attention of Thomas Henry Riddle, the son of the squire, Sir Thomas Smythe Riddle. Yet, when the two rode out on their ponies, it was clear to all who saw them that they were indeed quite companionable.
Whispers abounded about the origin of their bond. Some speculated that it had been forged in the crucible of misfortune, as both had experienced great hardship in their lives. It was said that Thomas Henry had absconded with a vagrant's daughter in his youth, only to return a year later, penniless and shattered. Meanwhile, Edith had lost her husband, a physician whom she had met in the course of her calling, when the SS Athenia was sunk by a German submarine. Despite the rumours, the bond between Edith and Thomas Henry seemed unbreakable. Though some in the town insinuated that the squire and his wife looked unfavourably upon their son's liaison with Edith, others argued that a nurse was a far more acceptable match than a vagrant's daughter. And besides, Thomas Henry was not without his faults; at 35 years old, with a ruined reputation, it was unlikely that he would find a woman of society of his own class. But Thomas Henry did not seem to mind this. Often, one could observe him lounging on the manor's lawn, gazing absently into the horizon, smoking his pipe and drinking brandy. In her turn, Edith seemed content with her lover's indolent gloom, deriving solace from their hushed fellowship.
Edith's daughter, Hermione, was a riddle more unfathomable than the love between Edith and Thomas. Few in the town ever spoke of her, as she was rarely seen beyond the walls of Riddle manor. There were murmurs that she had once tried to befriend the children of Great Hangleton, but a clash had erupted, leaving her even more reclusive. The war had wrought so many changes in her life, they said; the death of her father, the uprooting of her home, and the upheaval of the world around her all must have taken a dear toll on her, such a young girl.
But in the twin Hangleton hamlets, the individual most familiar with Hermione's reclusion was none other than the squire's son. Thomas Henry, who had developed an inexplicable fondness for the studious daughter of his lover, found himself spurned by her again and again. He would enter her room with the hope of engaging her in a conversation or persuading her to join her mother and him for a day out, but Hermione would invariably decline.
"Hermione," he would call out. "Pray do join your mother and me today. We shall drive to Taunton and sail down the River Tone."
"I would rather stay here," she would reply, never once giving any sign that she cared a whit for his good graces.
Thomas would sigh, feeling a pang of hurt at the rejection. He tried different tactics, bringing her gifts and attempting to impress her with his knowledge of history and literature—of which his privileged education had endowed him, and of which her voracious reading bespoke her profound fascination—but all his efforts proved fruitless
One day, after a particularly persistent effort to engage Hermione, Thomas finally asked her why she was so distant. "Dearest Hermione," he said gently, his voice tinged with concern, "I sense a distance between us, and I wonder if I might inquire as to its cause."
"You're not my real papa, Mr. Riddle. You don't need to try so hard," Hermione replied, her little voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and irritation.
Thomas felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he had overstepped his bounds. He apologised to the girl and promised to give her the space and time she needed to adjust to her new life. And, true to his word, he backed off, giving Hermione the privacy and solitude she craved.
As the months slipped by, Hermione Granger surprisingly found herself growing accustomed to Little Hangleton. It was different from the hustle and bustle of London, and Hermione discovered that there was a charm to the slower pace of life. Her mother, though still monstrously doting and protective, had granted her a degree of freedom that she had never known before. And while Mr. Riddle remained an enigmatic figure, he had stopped trying to play the part of a father, instead adopting a more distant but amiable role that suited them both.
Despite the slower pace of life, Hermione's inquisitive mind kept her constantly occupied. She spent countless hours wandering the nearby woods, marvelling at the diverse flora and fauna that she encountered. With her trusty sketchbook in hand, Hermione carefully documented her observations, studying each plant and animal with a keen eye for detail. Her sketches, of course, moved; but when she showed them to Mr. Riddle, they became still again. She was especially fascinated by the medicinal properties of different plants—she began powdering, infusing, and tincturing them—spending many afternoons mixing their liquid forms together, in order to create what she called 'potions'. She had devised a remedy to soothe her insomnia, another to pacify her coughs, and yet another to lift her spirits from the doldrums of sorrow that often consumed her, reminiscing about her father's passing. Her father, who had expertly concocted medicines for the local dispensary, back in London.
When she wasn't out in the woods, Hermione was often in her spacious bedroom, which had become her personal sanctuary. Though the room had seemed daunting at first, she had quickly made it her own, filling it with all manner of strange objects and curiosities. Her bookshelves were overflowing with volumes on subjects ranging from ancient Greek history to modern medicine, and her desk was adorned with many objects, including; a set of emptied fruit cans that served as a makeshift xylophone, an old pot pockmarked with dents and scratches, a collection of glass vials, a music box, and a set of colourful stones, each one polished smooth and shining in the light. The lattermost of these Hermione found in a riverbed during one of her explorations and had carefully selected the prettiest ones to keep as treasures. She would often hold them in her hand, feeling their weight and smoothness, and would imagine them as precious gems from fairyland.
Finally, tucked away in a drawer, was a little box filled with sweets that Hermione had received as gifts from her mother and Mr. Riddle. She rationed them carefully, savouring each one slowly and enjoying the burst of flavour in her mouth. She loved the feeling of having a secret stash of treats that no one else knew about.
But little did anyone else know that Hermione had other secrets too. She had strange powers, of which she was simultaneously proud and afraid; powers that even her mother had only a faint inkling of. She found that she could make her xylophone play itself with pencils, if she verbally commanded it too; that her pot, for creating her 'potions', stirred itself with the ladle she had purloined from the kitchen (sometimes even when nothing was in it) in her presence, and that she could even make her colourful stones float and glow in the dark without laying a finger on them.
One afternoon, Hermione's mother and Mr. Riddle had persuaded her to accompany them on a voyage down the River Tone in Mr. Riddle's painted dinghy. As the waves lashed against them, drenching their clothes, Hermione sought to dry her soaked blouse, and in doing so, she summoned a tiny flame that rapidly grew, burning a hole in her pristine white linen.
Mr. Riddle was taken aback. "What in the name of heaven did you just do?"
Hermione was speechless, unprepared for Mr. Riddle's vehement response. "I didn't mean to do that!"
"What then did you intend to do?"
"I just wanted to dry my blouse," Hermione stuttered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
"With what instruments? Reveal your matchbox."
"I don't have one."
"Then by what infernal means did you summon that flame?!"
"I just thought of a fire, and it appeared," Hermione explained, her face turning scarlet.
"Saints preserve us, what more can you do? Are you some manner of witch?" Mr. Riddle cried out, his eyes bulging with dread.
Hermione was appalled by her mother's lover sounding more a superstitious child given to bullying than an adult. Adults were generally too stubborn to even entertain the possibility of Hermione having powers. With a deep breath, Hermione replied, "I have powers, Mr. Riddle."
Mr. Riddle's eyes bulged as he erected on the boat and stepped closer to Hermione, his voice rising with every word. "Powers, you say? Do not keep me in suspense, girl! What kind of powers do you possess?"
Hermione hesitated, unsure of how to answer. She had never been spoken to in such a manner before. She wished she could run away.
"I can do things that other people can't," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make things happen just by thinking about them."
"Preposterous!" Mr. Riddle's face was turning red, although the expression was more one of indignation than disbelief. "You're inventing things!"
While Hermione looked incredulously at Mr. Riddle, Hermione's mother placed her sail lengthwise on the boat, and her hand on Mr. Riddle's arm. "Now, now, Tom," she crooned in a pacifying tone. "There is no need to become agitated. What Hermione did just now was, in the realm of the physical, quite unnatural. We must endeavour to remain level-headed."
Mr. Riddle shook off her hand, his unwavering gaze trained on Hermione. "Level-headed?" he repeated incredulously. "How can I remain composed when a witch—God only knows what other wicked tricks she has up her sleeve—lurks within my own family?!"
Hermione's mother sighed deeply. "Tom, please. Hermione is but a child, and knows no more about this matter than you do. We should all attempt to be patient and support her."
Mr. Riddle glared at her, but the fury in his eyes began to ebb. He drew a deep breath and spoke in a more even tone. "And what do you intend to do with your...talents, Hermione?" he asked. "Will you cause harm to others?"
Hermione shook her head vigorously. "No! No, I would never hurt anyone. I just want to understand it better. I want to learn how to control it better."
A pause followed, Mr. Riddle studying Hermione intently. Ultimately, he relented with a protracted sigh. "Very well, then. We shall...work it out. Find you some books, or the like. You must vow to me, however, Hermione, that you will never wield your magic in a way that would harm another. Do you understand?"
Hermione nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. She knew that much remained for her to fathom about her abilities, but to find another person in her life who did not recoil from their discovery was at least a start. Once, there were both her parents; then only her mother with the passing of her father; and now there were two, again.
It was a week after Hermione had received the most peculiar letter of her life that fate would introduce her to the strangest woman of her life. The month was August, and the day was one of those late-summer afternoons when the first whisperings of autumn chill crept into the air, yet the sun still beat down, making the air thick and oppressive.
Hermione had been idling away the hours, sitting cross-legged on the worn rug in her bedroom, plinking away at her makeshift tin-can xylophone. She was lost in the melody she was creating, the soft tinkling notes carrying her away to an imaginary world of giant waterfalls and handsome boys riding along cliffs on horseback. It was then that she heard the sound of Mr. Riddle's footsteps making their way up the stairs. He cleared his throat, rapped on the door, and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.
"Hermione," Mr. Riddle began with a pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity. "There is someone here to see you," he said finally, his voice lowering. "A guest who wishes to speak with you about your powers."
Hermione felt a cold shiver run down her spine as Mr. Riddle's words echoed in her ears. Her mind raced with a flurry of emotions—confusion, excitement, and most of all, fear. Who could this mysterious visitor be, and how did they know about her abilities? She knew that neither Mr. Riddle nor her mother had ever spoken about her gifts to anyone. Had someone been spying on her all this time?
Despite her apprehension, Hermione knew that she had to face this visitor. With a deep breath, she descended the stairs, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.
Mr. Riddle guided Hermione to the guest-room, where a woman sat upon the couch. The woman was ancient, perhaps in her eighties, clad in an ample navy blue robe that seemed to be a fusion of a dressing gown and an Oriental garment. Her white locks were tidily coiled into a bun, and despite her age, she bore an almost comically dignified air.
Hermione couldn't help but feel a sense of awe in this woman's presence. She looked like a queen waiting for her courtiers, and yet, there was a warmth to her smile as she looked up and saw Hermione approaching. The woman's face was deeply creased, but her blue eyes were as sharp as a fox's.
"Hermione," Edith Granger intoned. "This is Professor Galatea Merrythought."
Surprised but afraid all at once, Hermione spoke automatically and betrayed none of her emotions. "It's an honour to meet you, Professor."
The professor beamed warmly at Hermione. "The honour is mine, my dear," she replied, gesturing for Hermione to take a seat. "I have come to speak with you about your magical abilities."
From the corner of her vision, Hermione could perceive Mr. Riddle clenching his jaw firmly. "Magical abilities? What I can do is—magic? But how?"
Professor Merrythought chuckled, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, my dear child, do not be so surprised. Magic has been with you from the moment you came into this world. You just need to learn how to harness and control it."
Hermione felt a sudden dryness in her mouth as she struggled to process the revelation. She stared at the professor, her mind ablaze with thoughts and questions. She recalled all the strange occurrences she had experienced throughout her life—the in strange medicines she had concocted, the xylophone that played music on its own, and the stones that she had made float in mid-air and emit a glowing aura. Had these been tokens of something more than they were? Hermione had never considered herself a witch before. She had always assumed that her abilities were a frivolous endowment from a higher power, quirky but ultimately useless. But now, with the professor's words, she couldn't help but wonder—was there more to her abilities than mere happenstance? As Hermione pondered this, she felt a shiver run down her spine. Her world had shifted in an instant, and she knew that she would never be the same again.
The professor sensed Hermione's hesitation and leaned forward. "Believe me, my dear, what you possess is no mere accident of nature. You have a gift, a rare and powerful gift, and it is my duty to help you understand and develop it."
Hermione's heart throbbed with a blend of eagerness and trepidation. She had always felt that the whimsical manner in which she utilised her abilities was inadequate; that there was an abundance of untapped potential she had yet to explore.
As if reading her mind, Professor Merrythought spoke again. "However, we must first attend to the matter of your xylophone. It appears to be emitting vestiges of magic, and as a subject of the British Ministry of Magic, it is incumbent upon me to investigate such relics in muggle domains."
Hermione's eyes widened in alarm as the professor rose from her seat and made her way upstairs. She followed closely behind, her heart pounding with fear and anticipation. She could not make sense of all that the professor said, but she could infer that she was in trouble.
But her fears were soon allayed as the professor entered her bedroom and began to wave her wand in a graceful arc. Hermione watched in amazement as her xylophone was transformed into a tiny little piano, complete with ivory keys and a polished mahogany finish. The professor tapped her wand on the piano, and it began playing a much more complex piece than Hermione had ever invented for her xylophone.
The professor turned to Hermione. "You see, my dear, your gift is not something to be feared or hidden away. It is something to be nurtured and celebrated."
"Thank you, Professor," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She trailed her fingers over the lid of the piano. "I...I don't know what to say."
The professor's countenance softened into a gentle smile. "There is no need for words, my dear. Your gratitude shall be expressed through attending Hogwarts and learning to use your gift with propriety. In our halls, you shall encounter many other students who possess magical abilities, and together you will learn to master your powers within a safe and supporting environment."
Hermione felt a flutter of excitement mixed with apprehension as she imagined the possibilities that lay ahead. She longed to ask a million questions, but she held her tongue, not wanting to interrupt the wise and experienced professor.
For nearly an hour, Professor Merrythought regaled Hermione with tales of Hogwarts and the magical world beyond. She spoke of wandlore and spells, of potions and charms, of mythical creatures and ancient curses. Hermione's mind swirled with a heady mix of excitement and apprehension as she absorbed every word.
As the conversation drew to a close, the professor and Hermione made their way downstairs, where they reunited with Mr. Riddle and Edith Granger. With a kindly nod of her head, she turned to the former. "Mr. Riddle," she said in a low voice, "we must speak privately about a matter of great importance. Perhaps it will be best for you to partake in our conversation as well, Mrs. Granger," she continued, addressing Hermione's mother.
As Hermione watched the three adults depart, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled deep within her. The professor's subtle nod and glance had been enough to tell her that the conversation they were about to have was indeed of great importance. But what could it be? What secrets were they discussing that she wasn't privy to?