Iniquitous: characterized by injustice or wickedness; wicked; sinful

March 15, 1988

Hermione stood on a stool at the kitchen sink. A pile of soapy dishes had gathered in front of her, waiting to be rinsed and dried, but the dish rag hung limply at her side, her gaze on the quickly-fading dusk out the window. Her mind was plainly elsewhere; among the knights and monarchs of her history books, at the bottom of the ocean with the silver fish darting all around, wondering through the Greek myths immortalized in the constellations, whatever had taken hold of her insatiable curiosity lately.

Her mother straightened up from wiping the table and a fond smile played on her face when she noticed her daughter's progress (or lack thereof) with the dishes.

"What are you thinking about, love?" she asked, joining her at the sink and tossing the damp cloth into the dish water with a wet plop.

"Cloud formations," Hermione told her. "Those are cumulous," she added, pointing at the layer of clouds just visible against the dimming sunset. "Some people think they can tell the future in the clouds, but you can't. It's all random wind patterns and temperature fluctuation and things like that. Clouds are all science."

Mrs. Granger shook her head with an amused smile and smoothed her daughter's hair. "So I suppose I was right thinking your head was in the clouds?" she said, pointing down at the pile of dishes Hermione hadn't touched.

Hermione looked down at them and reached for the faucet with a slightly guilty expression. In the living room, a clock began to chime. Mrs. Granger caught her daughter's hand and spun her like a dancer off the stool.

"Sounds like it's time to get upstairs and pick out a book," she said, and the moment she hit the magic word, Hermione's eyes lit up.

"But…" Hermione said, face falling as she gestured back at the pile of dishes in the sink.

"Why don't we let Dad take care of those tonight?" her mother asked, putting her arm around Hermione's shoulders with an inclusive smile.

Hermione beamed. That was all it took for her to go racing up the stairs. By the time her mother had caught up with her, there were three books lying on Hermione's bed and she was weighing them in her hands, trying to decide between them.

"What do you think, Mum? Jungles of South America or the biography of Winston Churchill?"

Mrs. Granger dropped down on the bed next to the books and sent them jumping away from her. "They both sound intriguing, sweetheart," she said, examining her daughter's serious face. "But why don't we read a storybook tonight?"

"Winston Churchill's biography is a story," Hermione insisted, holding the book up pleadingly.

"I mean something fictional, Hermione," her mother said with a gentle laugh. "Don't you ever want to explore magic castles and go on adventures with dragons and mermaids?"

Hermione looked uncertainly at the bookshelf designated to those kinds of books – the ones filled with made-up things. Aside from the fact that she had never quite seen the point of reading things that weren't real, those books scared Hermione more than the snakes of South America or villains of medieval times. At least she knew for sure that as long as she stayed out of the joungle and away from the fifteenth century, she would never have to worry about those things. But the tiny, irrational possibility that the evils of shoes supposedly 'made-up' stories might jump off the pages was one she couldn't shake so easily.

But her mother was looking at those books with an excited gleam in her eye, so Hermione wen to stand before the fairytales and adventure books and run her fingers along the titles. Her father said it was best to face your fears head-on. So Hermione stood on her toes to pluck and plucked the most frightening of all the stories off its shelf, then, clutching the leather-bound tome to her chest, ran back to the bed and climbed up beside her mother.

Mrs. Granger looked at the book that had been dropped in her lap. "Ooo, this was one of my favorites," she said happily, pulling Hermione close to her side. "The Wizard of Oz…."

Hermione was sure there was no one more frightening than the Wicked Witch of the West. But she kept her eyes wide open, bravely leaned over to see the bright picture of the green-faced hag, and laughed loudly as she melted into a puddle at the end.

And as her mother tucked the covers around her and kissed her forehead, Hermione reminded her – if only to hear the words aloud – that of course, none of that was real. There was no Wicked Witch.

It was one of the things she took comfort in when all the other storybook creatures started walking off the shelves and into real life, throwing all her dreams and nightmares into reality with them. But the moment she saw Bellatrix Lestrange and felt the shiver run up her back, Hermione knew she'd been wrong about that, too.

A/N: Took me a while to get around to the prompt, didn't it? But the whole story stemmed from it… hope you liked it! Reviews are graciously accepted! :)