I feel like this chapter might be annoying. IDK. But hopefully you like it anyway.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Harry Potter series or anything you recognize, J.K Rowling does.

CHAPTER THREE

SOME PLACE CALLED DIAGON ALLEY

The bright sun gleamed in her face, almost like it was reflecting her mood. She used one hand to cover her eyes and the other to clutch a clump of parchment. The sound of the car engine vibrated in her ears, as well as her mother's constant tapping on the window. Her stomach gave a pleasurable squirm. She had spent all month, twisting and turning in her bed, thinking. Sometimes she felt like she was dreaming, even though she knew perfectly well that she was awake. But who wouldn't? It did feel like this was all just happening inside her head, but how would that explain her parents understood too? Hermione frowned. Now that she thought about it, she wasn't sure they understood at all. She wasn't sure she did, anyway.

They spent that morning driving and driving, Hermione reading off a piece of parchment to her father that Professor McGonagall had given her. It was like time had slowed down just to irritate her. Well, it certainly is testing my patients, sighed Hermione in her head. If only they were there now, in a witch's and wizard's world. Her world.

Because she, Hermione Granger, was magical.

A smile spreaded across her lips, and she had to use all her energy as to not squeal. It was still hard to believe she was a witch, but the more she thought of it the less crazy it got. All of her childhood was surrounded with unexplained events that occurred near her, and it was a relief to know why. Because she was magical.

Because she, Hermione Granger was a witch.

Twelve, thought Hermione. That was the twelfth time in only an hour that she said that she was a witch. At least, in her head. But she didn't care; she couldn't help but not think about her new life. She wondered if the people would all be wearing those cloaks too? And, would some look different, (hopefully with no warts and green skin)? What about this school? What is there to learn?

It felt weird going back to her well, now old, school where there was ordinary Ms. Smith, ordinary Lin Taylor, and ordinary tests that had nothing to do with spells or brooms. She spent the last month quiet and twitchy, not even raising her hand to math problems. Her teachers, as well as everyone else, were in disbelief. Miss Hermione Jean Granger stopped participating and, yes, showing off. How odd.

But of course, they didn't know what odd really was.

They couldn't possibly begin to comprehend that she, Hermione Granger, was magical.

That she was a witch.

"Thirteen," whispered Hermione, her breath warm against the window.

Her father tiredly looked around. "What was that?"

"Nothing, nevermind."

She turned her head to look out the window. Big and white clouds rolled lazily across the never ending sky. Brown and green, mushed together blearily crossed her vision as they zipped by quickly. Twisting around to look back, they seemed to slow down.

After that, everything seemed to go by in a haze.

Maybe the sun was getting to her.

"Is this it?" breathed Hermione as they quickened their pace toward the small, dingy pub. It had taken them quite a while to find it- it was almost like it was never there- it especially wasn't the first time they checked. In fact, Hermione had an inkling feeling that no one else but them could see it. All the people never once glanced toward it, they kept their eyes locked on the many shops and restaurants around it.

Her mother was looking so close to a piece of parchment that her nose rubbed against it. "Uh, yes, I think so..." she stared quizzically at her husband. "What do you think? I mean, this pub looks nothing like- like I thought it would be. Where's all the, er, magic?" She had whispered the last word.

"Maybe it's some type of disguise," suggested Hermione, shrugging.

Her father pressed his palms to his eyes. "You know, I don't understand why that woman couldn't have just shown us everything herself, or perhaps do it herself. As she mentioned several times, we're these muddles or something, so how could she possibly think that we would how-"

"Oh, David, not this again."

They all fell silent as Hermione lead the way up to the door. She wondered briefly if they should knock, but before she could decide, her father had already pushed it open and was walking through. Hermione and her mother followed more uncertainly.

Hermione's eyes had to take a moment to adjust. The brightness outside left as the doors closed behind her, leaving a dark and damp feeling inside the shabby place. There were two old men sitting in the corner, one wearing an old black hat while smoking from a long pipe. There was also a short woman with the weirdest outfit Hermione had ever seen, talking to a bald bartender while drinking a glass of some dark red substance.

"This is an interesting place," commented Hermione's mother lightly.

"Anythin' to drink?" asked the bartender, waving a glass.

The three of them shook their heads simultaneously.

"That won't be nessacary," said her mother. "We're looking for Diagon-"

"That way," pointed the short woman, nodding her head toward the small, walled courtyard that was through the pub.

"Oh! Thanks."

The woman caught Hermione's eye and smiled, before turning back to the bartender.

Her father led the way, and Hermione couldn't help but be confused. There was a small family up ahead, standing in front of a brick wall and seemed to be tapping something by a trashcan. Was this Diagon Alley? She glanced nervously around. Was her father perhaps correct about it not being real? Or was it supposed to be hidden?

She was just about to voice her questions when she saw something.

The brick wall had started to tremble and quiver as if something huge was stomping on the ground. And then, as she watched, a small hole appeared, and it grew and grew and grew until finally it turned into a rather big archway that lead into a twisted and curved street with bunch of people there wearing silly clothes.

"Oh my lord," whispered her father. "Holy moley."

In some dream-like state, they almost glided toward the brick wall as if they were ghosts. Hermione's brain had for once in her life gone slack.

She was in Diagon Alley.

The brick wall closed behind them, and Hermione was looking in all directions so fast that her neck was starting to hurt. They walked by a shop with these cauldrons outside it, gleaming like gold. The sign overhead said, Cauldrons- All Sizes- Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver- Self-Stirring- Collapsible.

"Should we go in, then?" asked her mother nervously. "I'm not sure what to do."

"I suppose," answered her father. "Why not?"

And so they did. It was like an army of cauldrons inside that place, Hermione felt like she was overwhelmed. She took out her list and scanned it, even though she had already memorized most of it. "We need pewter, standard size two."

"Got it right here," said a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache. "Here you go, that'll be fifteen galleons..."

It took a while for Hermione to understand what that meant, but they did it in the end.

After that, they went to shop after shop. One shop, called Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions, was where she got her new set of school robes, and she was so excited to wear them she accidentally tripped while getting it fitted and tore a small hole by her ankle. Madam Malkin was very disgruntled, and decided it best if she started over.

The next place they went was the Apothecary, which gave off a very bad odor of rotten eggs. However, she was wonderfully amazed at everything in there; there were bright powders lined on the walls, as well as feathers, jars of different herbs, and these weird claws hanging from the ceiling. On the way out with her things, she almost screamed as she almost stumbled into a big tub filled with beetle eyes.

"That was fascinating," said her mother, looking back longingly. "I kind of wish it was me going off to..." she trailed off.

"It was interesting," admitted her father. "But come on, what about that one over there: Flourish and Blotts? Sounds like some cleaning supply store."

It turned out that Flourish and Blotts was a book shop. It also turned out that it had to be Hermione's favorite place in the world. Books, stacked everywhere, some even brushing against the ceiling it was so high up. Books of all different sizes and colors came in and out of her view, some bound in leather and some covered in silk. There were also confusing symbol like words on some of them, while others had nothing on them at all. Hermione could live her life in there and still be content forever. It took a while for her parents to get her out, only after getting a few extra books like Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.

She didn't want to miss out on anything, and she wanted to find out more about this new world she belonged in. Everything seemed so much nicer. Well, except maybe for the Flourish and Blotts owner, he seemed a little rude Hermione thought. Or maybe just distracted.

"I need these books-" she had started, but before she could continue the man waved his hand impatiently and turned away.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I got them here-"

"Oh thanks-"

"Yeah, yeah I know, here..."

Then he stuffed all the books in her hands before turning to help someone else.

Now, she and her parents made their way down to a narrow shop with rusty golden letters on the door that said, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. In the foggy, old window there was a long wand laying on a faint, purple cushion. They stepped inside, and a small jingle of a bell echoed in the back of the tiny place.

Hermione looked around nervously, her eyes wandering toward piles of thousands of wands towering up toward the ceiling in rectangular boxes. She was vaguely aware of some tingle like sensation about the room.

There was a noise behind them, and Hermione nearly yelped. Turning around, there was an old man with pale eyes that shone like two orbs. He approached them slowly, his silvery eyes never leaving their faces.

"Ah, hello," greeted, who Hermione assumed to be, Ollivander.

"Hi there," said Hermione's mother timidly. "Mr. Ollivander, yes?"

"That is correct," said Mr. Ollivander softly. "It's safe to assume I've never met you before."

"No, sir, we just found out recently..." Hermione trailed off awkwardly.

"Hmm. Yes, of course. Muggle-born, I think? Your name is-?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Granger. Nice, indeed..."

Hermione wasn't sure what to think of Mr. Ollivander. She thought he was rather creepy- or, for better word, mysterious.

"If you'll come here, Miss Granger, I'd like to measure you. Which one is your wand arm?"

"My- excuse me?" Hermione stared at him, blinking several times. "Do you mean the one I write with?"

Mr. Ollivander nodded. "Yes, the one you use."

"My right, then?"

He gave a slight nod, before opening his mouth with an air of someone whose said it many times before.

"Every wand here at Ollivanders has a core of one powerful magical substance. We use unicorn hairs, heartstrings of dragons, and phoenix tail feathers, Miss Granger. No two dragon, phoenix or unicorn is indeed the same, that is why no two wands are ever the same. As well of course, it's the wand the chooses the witch or wizard, you would never get such a good result with another's."

Hermione, however barely listened. She was to surprised at seeing the tape measure her arm by itself.

"How-?" she started to ask, but Mr. Ollivander had already grabbed the measurer and laid it on a nearby table.

"Why don't we try seeing the wands?" murmured Mr. Ollivander, grabbing a few boxes. "Here, maple and unicorn tail, nine inches, nice and supple. Give it a little wave."

She took it gently between her fingers and held it, feeling the smooth wood in her palm.

"Give it a wave," repeated Mr. Ollivander, and she did.

"No, no," said Mr. Ollivander, and he grabbed it from her before shoving another in her hand. "Ebony and dragon heartstring, nice and flexible..."

It was once more taken out of her hand.

"Mr. Ollivander," said her mother suddenly. "How do you which wand is for her?"

"Mrs. Granger, as I've said before, it's the wand that chooses the witch or wizard. When it does, we will know."

And that's how it happened.

After several more times of foolish wand waving, Mr. Ollivander passed her another one.

"Ten and three-quarters, vine wood and dragon heartstring. Give it a try..."

Instant warmth passed through her fingers as she took it, and giving it a wave, a stream sparks flew out of the end like paint splattering. Hermione laughed, and suprisingly, so did Mr. Ollivander who clapped, and said, "Oh, very good, very good! That will be seven Galleons, oh very well indeed."

Hermione's father quickly paid and they got out of there.

They headed back up the cobbled street, and Hermione felt rather light headed. She looked around, her eyes wide; how come everything seemed so much more different than before she came here?

The sun was starting to set. The air was cooler than before, and it blasted against her face like a breath of freshness. She drank it in.

"Do you want to get something to eat, honey?" asked her father, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm not hungry," said Hermione honestly.

"Too excited?"

She shrugged. She was excited, very much so. But the nervousness clung to her like smoke. She had many questions, many of them that would most likely go unanswered for the rest of her life. Is this what she really wanted? To leave her parents for most of the year and go off to learn magic in a world she hardly knows?

But think of all that I would know, thought Hermione to herself. Of all that I could do.

They were back in the car now, and she closed her eyes, resting her head against the cold window.

In her head, she screamed.

She, Hermione Granger, was magical.

She, Hermione Granger, was a witch.

"Fourteen."

I hope you continue to read and enjoy!

For the house-elves!