One normal day, Hermione felt the monotony of the summer holiday as she strode into the kitchen, the smell of a good breakfast beckoning to her. Though it just turned seven in the morning on a Saturday, Hermione's parents already occupied the kitchen. Mr. Granger sat at the table, eyes glued to the morning post, while Mrs. Granger stood at the counter, scooping eggs and bacon onto three plainly decorated plates.
"Good morning sunshine," Mr. Granger said cheerily, seeing his daughter walk into the room, "sleep well?"
"Of course not. She looks exhausted! Hermione, dear, have some breakfast. Didn't I tell you not to stay up too late reading?"
Not waiting for a response, Mrs. Granger pulled out a chair for Hermione, motioning for her to sit, and placed a plate full of protein in front of her. Hermione watched her mother set two more plates on the table before sitting down in-between her and her father, gesturing once more for them to begin eating. The Granger family always ate breakfast together; Mr. Granger sifting through the pages of his newspaper as he read the news, and Mrs. Granger talking pleasantly with Hermione about a book they'd both enjoyed reading. They were chattering away on this precise topic when the doorbell rang, a shrill shock to the muted conversation around the circular breakfast table. Before Hermione could rise, she saw her father set down his freshly crumpled newspaper and stand up to open the door, looking puzzled. They weren't expecting visitors that morning.
"Just a sec—" grunted Mr. Granger. Hermione watched him stride out of the kitchen and open the front door to find a peculiarly dressed woman patiently standing on the other side. The woman had her grayish-white hair pinned up in a tight bun, and wore a terse frown. Though she looked old in age, she seemed wise but not frail, as she emitted an air of strength and confidence. She wore dark blue robes with a matching pointy hat as well as a sleek black cloak that stretched from her thin shoulders all the way down behind her to the concrete beneath her feet. In one hand, she carried a delicate wooden stick, in the other, a worn paper envelope addressed in emerald green ink. He could see no stamp on the letter. Evidently, she was not stepping in for the postman.
"Hello," Mr. Granger said politely, "how may I help you today? Miss…"
"McGonagall." The lady answered curtly, before striding boldly into the house, leaving Mr. Granger, looking perplexed, to close the door behind her.
"You must be Ms. Granger's parents," the stranger observed, now sitting around the kitchen table with the Granger family.
"I apologize for my rather impolite entry," she continued, "but, you see, secrecy is to the utmost importance, and I fear I was beginning to draw a bit of attention to myself. I've come, of course, to bring Hermione her acceptance letter to Hogwarts School, as well as to answer any questions you all might have concerning her potential education there. The school prides itself in training the world's most magically talented students, starting at age eleven, in the arts of Witchcraft and Wizardry, an area in which your daughter has shown great promise, but little expertise. As Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts, I feel I am well suited to tell you anything you'll want to know about the school before you agree to send her. I must stress, as well, that for children like young Hermione, education at Hogwarts is an invaluable learning experience, and your decision to send, or not send her should be well-thought-out."
Finishing her speech at last, Professor Deputy-Headmistress McGonagall smiled and held out the letter in her left hand to a wonderstruck Hermione. By now, the three Grangers had forgotten their full breakfast plates completely. Had the woman said something about Witchcraft? Hermione didn't dare guess; the lady had spoken so seriously. What was going on? She glanced quickly at her parents, and to her relief, saw they looked just as confused by McGonagall's news as she looked, if not even more so. Hermione took the letter in trembling hands, feeling the smooth, thick packaging before reading the bright green address:
Ms. H. Granger,
The Bedroom at the Top of the Stairs,
8 Heathgate,
Hampstead Garden Suburb,
LONDON.
Not stopping to wonder how the letter-writer knew where she slept, Hermione carefully opened the ancient envelope to reveal two pieces of crisp brown parchment tucked inside. She saw an acceptance letter to a school named Hogwarts and a supply list full of oddities she'd need to purchase for a school year there, which, curiously, included a wand. She immediately sought out the schoolbooks. They were the strangest books she'd ever heard of—A History of Magic, The Standard Book of Spells, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, and more. Well, if this was some kind of joke, and Hermione did not think it could be, the planners had really out-done themselves—spell books? Owls? She looked up baffled from her quick read, and silently handed the letter to her parents, gawking at Professor McGonagall. What on earth could this all mean?
Hermione watched as her parents read over the succinct writing on the two pages. When they could not pretend to read any longer, they looked up over the parchment at Professor McGonagall; she smiled back at them. They looked confused but ecstatic. Hermione read their expressions: if this was real, and Professor McGonagall seemed to think there was nothing odd about it, it was the most wonderful news that had ever graced their doorstep.
"Now," said McGonagall, breaking the stunned silence, "as your family is of non-magic origin, I daresay I have a lot of explaining to do. But, first, there is the issue about the Statute of Secrecy in the Wizarding World. As you all may have guessed, witches and wizards have been living in secret all over the world since the dawn of civilization. However, we magical folk prefer quiet lives void of the chaos of having to give magical solutions to non-magic problems. The secret of our existence has lasted for centuries; thus, it would be very gracious indeed if you could help keep our privacy for a few more years." She fixed the Grangers with a shrewd expression, then continued:
"Your daughter, Hermione, has shown great skill and fantastic magical abilities since the age of six, about the age in which young witches and wizards first show signs of magic. Though accidental magic performed before training is forgiven, I do advise you all to avoid public spectacles, as they are very messy for the Ministry to clean up. Ah yes—you don't know about the Ministry of Magic…"
Professor McGonagall continued speaking in this manner for a long time. It seemed she could not explain Hermione's acceptance to Hogwarts without then describing in detail each of the subjects taught there, a place called Diagon Alley (where the Grangers would visit soon to get her "school supplies"), Gringotts Bank (run by real goblins), the game of Quidditch (which the Grangers didn't even pretend to understand), Owl Post, and even the Daily Prophet (which carries news to the Wizarding World). By the time she finished speaking, and the Grangers exhausted their question-asking abilities, the four had finished eating dinner. The sun had already returned to its resting spot below the horizon, and darkness came creeping into the silent kitchen from opened windows like a cold draft. After a few thank you's, a last nod towards Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and a small smile at Hermione, McGonagall stood up and strode back out the door just as suddenly as she came in. The hush she left in her wake did not last for long, however; both the Granger parents exploded into a ruckus of praises, singing compliments at Hermione like a duet of mockingbirds.
"I always knew our little girl was special—said it all the time, didn't I?" Mr. Granger announced proudly, clapping his daughter on the back.
"That's only because you're required to—you know—as a dad and all," Hermione retorted, smartly; "According to my Sociology textbook, there's a sixty-five percent chance you don't actually mean it at all."
"False statistics," Mr. Granger said with a shake of his head, "besides, why would you believe a batty old textbook over your old man?" Mr. Granger made his best impression of an emotionally wounded father, but he ended up simply looking like he had a bad stomach virus. You'd think, thought Hermione, that since he saw so many pained patients at his dental office everyday, he'd at least form the position of the mouth right.
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