vi. the mind of the clever

Hermione Granger was a girl who, since her earliest days, had been told she was "too" much.

Naturally Hermione knew it was possible to have too much of something, and it could be just as detrimental as having too little—but the things of which Hermione was accused of being too much of never made much sense at all to the bushy-haired, bright-eyed girl. The other children in her primary told her she was too bossy, and the teachers often grumbled that she was too clever, too well-prepared, too attentive. "Hermione, why don't we give someone else a chance?" they'd say, and while Hermione fully believed in being fair, nobody else ever wanted to try.

Even her parents, through tight smiles and gentle touches, would say "Dear, you can be a bit too much sometimes."

Too, too, too.

Hermione never had any patience for that silly little adverb. Why on earth would people say "be the best you can be" and then tell her that her best was "too much"?

It was an absolutely ridiculous double-standard. Hermione was clever, though, clever enough to know that sometimes it was best not to be too much, no matter how it stung her pride and wounded something deep inside her. Jean and Robert Granger were always so pleased when their daughter pretended to be intrigued by the simple revisions offered by her teachers, when all Hermione wanted was to study something more challenging, read something more engaging, and move at a pace that wasn't so infuriatingly slow.

Sometimes, Hermione had to pretend to be an idiot and she resented the world when that happened.

So when a stern older woman dressed in a tartan suit and a pair of square spectacles arrived at the Granger household in July and told Hermione "You're a witch," Hermione didn't dismiss her out of hand. She sat, and she listened.

Professor Minerva McGonagall, as the woman addressed herself, was the Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration instructor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the most prestigious academy of magical learning in all of Great Britain. She explained—quite patiently—that yes, magic was real, no, she wasn't in fact a madwoman, and yes, she'd love to perform an example for the Grangers. As they sat in the lounge, Professor McGonagall Charmed the tea to pour itself, had the Hummel figurines on the mantel break out into dance, and changed a vase into a chicken all with a flick of the thin stick she called a wand.

Hermione couldn't believe her eyes.

The professor asked, "Miss Granger, has anything odd ever happened to you? Have you ever done something or seen something you couldn't explain?"

Hermione wanted to say, "Of course not, everything that occurs has a perfectly rational explanation—," but she didn't. Instead, she sat picking at the crumpet her mother had given her and thought on the question, returning to those curious incidents in her past her logical mind had assumed explanations for. Sometimes she would reach for a second book while reading and find it in her hands when it should have been across the room. She very desperately didn't want to get her homework wet while dashing from the car to the classroom once, and she alone out of all the students arrived dry.

"Yes," she told Professor McGonagall, eyes darting between her parents and the witch. "A few times, ma'am."

"Sometimes," McGonagall explained. "Witches and wizards are born to parents who aren't magical. It's never been explained why exactly this happens, but magic is not always wholly understood. That is why we study it. Some devote their entire lives to the pursuit of answers and only come out with more questions—but Hogwarts is there to help anyone who has need of it."

The professor handed Hermione a letter and she held it close, H. J. Granger gleaming in navy on the thick parchment envelope, a noble crest pressed securely into the purple wax on the back. Hermione tore open the letter. She began to read—and at the end of the list, she looked up at Professor McGonagall with something like wonder in her eyes. Magic. Real magic, and she had it.

There had to be a catch. There was always a catch to something that sounded so wondrous, and when Hermione said as much, Professor McGonagall's expression creased as she reached into her purse to retrieve a special form.

The Muggle-born Protection Act of 1982.

"It is a law implemented by our current Minister for Magic when he came into office," Professor McGonagall informed them, her lips thinning, her voice somber. "In essence, it is a law meant to protect magical children born to non-magical families who can often find themselves in undesirable situations. The gifts of the magical children can sometimes alarm the unprepared." Her nostrils flared. "The Ministry finds that the MPA protects these children against violence and misunderstandings."

The Grangers continued to ask questions and Hermione watched the little furrow between the woman's black brows dig itself deeper and deeper. What Hermione gathered was that Professor McGonagall did not approve of the MPA, which dictated that any Muggle-born who accepted their place at Hogwarts would have to be fostered by an approved Wizarding family, and would only be allowed to visit the non-magical world for the Yule holidays, which amounted to roughly two weeks in the year. If Hermione went to Hogwarts, she would have to leave home. If she went to Hogwarts, she would only see her parents for Christmas until she reached her magical majority at seventeen.

Ten weeks. For the next five years, she would only see her parents—her family—for a grand total of seventy days.

The Grangers didn't often feel out of their respective depths, but listening to Professor McGonagall proved more than they were capable of understanding. Jean and Robert knew their daughter was different—gifted—and that she struggled to fit in as she never struggled to do much else. She'd secured a place at a very fine public school for the upcoming year, but would she only experience more of the same? More misunderstandings? More bullying and grief?

Hermione only had to read the letter once to memorize the words, but she read it again, and again, fingers folding down the worn edges of the paper, lips pursed.

She thought about her mum and dad, about Dr. and Dr. Granger, and about the clean-cut lives they led. Being dentists was perfectly acceptable of course, yet remained…tame in the vaster vision of their youthful ambitions. Mum had wanted to be a barrister and perhaps a judge one day. Dad had wanted to go into neurosurgery and the study of the mind.

"Be the best you can be."

"Dear, you can be a bit too much sometimes."

Too, too, too.

She loved her parents dearly, just as dearly as they loved her, but their stale ambitions left Hermione discomfited.

"Professor McGonagall," she asked as her parents looked to her and waited for what she would say. "Is there such a thing as being too much of a witch?"

The older witch blinked, lips pursed. "No, I don't believe so, Miss Granger."

Hermione closed her eyes. She took a breath—and chose.

xXxXx

Two days later, she stared up at the great black gates and really, really hoped she hadn't chosen wrong.

A hedge of yew curved along the long gravel drive and the summer air smelled of jasmine, acres and acres of land spilling in every direction without a single indication of civilization. Hermione and the professor had walked along the gravel road—which bore no trace of tire marks, no scuffs, perfect as a ribbon of stone scarring the earth—for quite some time before turning right and coming upon the gates. Beyond the gates loomed the dark stone edifice of a manor illuminated in the afternoon sun.

"The Malfoys fashion themselves to be the pinnacle of Wizarding society," the professor said, her moue of displeasure making a return appearance. "You will be very well taken care of, Miss Granger, as I assured your parents. You will certainly learn quite a bit about what it means to be a witch in the hands of Lucius and Narcissa."

In the interim of the two days Hermione had been given to wrap her mind around everything that had happened and to read the basic information pamphlets, she had learned exactly two things about her new foster family; they were called the Malfoys, and they had been a Wizarding family for as long as history had been recorded.

Professor McGonagall turned to face Hermione and seemed to be thinking very hard on something, her spectacles flashing in the sunlight, which made Hermione feel a bit queasy with apprehension. "If you require anything, you are free to write to me at Hogwarts. And if…." She lowered her voice and paused as if contemplating her words. "And if you feel a situation is urgent enough, I will do my utmost to deliver any messages to your family."

Hermione's brow rose. That was against the law—their law, the Muggle-Protection Act. It prohibited contact with the "Muggle" world outside specified windows of time to mitigate possible exposure.

"Thank you, professor."

"Well, then." Professor McGonagall nodded once, then returned her attention to the gates. She withdrew her wand once again and gave it a flick over herself, reverting her tartan suit into a pair of dark emerald robes, the shoulders quite stiff—not unlike the witch herself. Hermione watched with rapt attention and found herself still unable to fully accept that this all was really happening to her. She had always been a rational girl, convinced of logic and science and medicine—until magic came in and readily tipped her world onto its head.

"On we go, Miss Granger."

Doubling her grip upon her small piece of luggage, Hermione followed Professor McGonagall as the older witch strode forward—and stepped right through the imposing gates as if they weren't there, or simply comprised of something vaporous like smoke or mist. A ticklish sensation overcame Hermione when she did the same and she gawked.

McGonagall hid her smile. "Come along."

The Malfoy Manor was a grand place indeed. Hermione had visited many of the historical houses in non-magical—Muggle, now—England and parts of France with her parents, and the Manor rivaled any of those sites in quality and sheer elegance. What magic was in evidence wasn't gaudy or, well, cliche; no rabbits came popping out of hats, no man was standing by to retrieve an ever-extending line of handkerchiefs from his sleeves. White peacocks strolled through the green lawn, their cries sharp and clear, and stone snakes wound around the cornices.

Hermione wiped nervous sweat from her palms as they walked inside and kept her bushy-head raised held high.

A short creature with green eyes the size of tennis balls, dressed in a ratty pillowcase, greeted them in the foyer, bowing so low its—his?—long nose brushed the marble floor. A chandelier dripping crystals burned with a load of yellow candles overhead, the walls braced with rather terrifying rocaille and moving portraits. Pale, white-haired men and women watched from their gaudy frames.

"Dobby will be taking Miss to his Master's family now," the creature—Dobby—squeaked as those odd eyes landed on McGonagall. He wrung his long-fingered hands. "The Master says to thank the Professor McGonnagolly!"

Professor McGonagall took the hint and gave Dobby a prim nod. Hermione, on the other hand, was still puzzling over the word 'Master.' Was Dobby some kind of—servant? Her stomach lurched.

"This is where I leave you, Miss Granger. Remember, if you have need of anything, please write to me at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said. She and Hermione shook hands and the latter swallowed her building nerves, telling herself there was no reason to be so nervous, she was a witch and she would learn magic and be the very best she could be at it. The front door opened again without assistance, and Professor McGonagall disappeared in the sunlight.

Dobby spoke and Hermione jumped. "This way, Miss!"

"Yes, I'm coming," she said with a breathless nod. Hermione quickened her pace and followed the bobbing form of Dobby out of the foyer and down an adjoining hall. She continued to try to guess what he was exactly—some kind of hobgoblin? A fairy? A gnome? Something else entirely? And why did he refer to Mr Malfoy as "Master?" It seemed terribly formal to her.

They stopped before a door painted black and framed in the thinnest gilding of gold. Dobby knocked, then proceeded inside.

"The Miss Herme-ninny is here, Master!"

Hermione winced at Dobby's horrible pronunciation of her name and stepped over the threshold. Four people sat in the well-appointed drawing room: a man with the same silvery-blond hair visible in the portraits, a woman of similar cold beauty, a boy Hermione's age identical to the man, and a boy older than her with mousy brown hair and a tired expression. The man, with his pointed profile and silver-tooled robes sitting in the scrolled wing chair by the hearth, looked up at the intrusion and snapped the book he'd been reading closed.

"Ah, yes," he said as he stood. "I thought I heard Minerva's voice. Take her luggage to her room, Dobby." His voice came out hard and sharp as a whip.

The strange creature bobbed in his bow and snatched hold of Hermione suitcase before scuttling out of the room. The door swung shut and Hermione had to lean away lest she be clipped by it.

"Miss Granger. A pleasure to meet you. I am Lucius Malfoy, this is my wife Narcissa Malfoy—." The woman nodded her head in acknowledgment but otherwise remained seated, flipping through what looked to be a moving furniture catalog with disinterest. "My son, Draco—." The pale haired boy sneered. A silent look from Mr Malfoy sent him strolling out of the room without a single word spoken. "And our other Muggle-born ward Jamie Ingham." The tired boy only stared before going back to his own reading.

"Hello. How do you do?" Hermione said, feeling the horrid urge to curtsy. Ridiculous.

"Very well. Please, have a seat."

He gestured to an empty chair with a lazy flourish; the Malfoys seemed to be quite practiced in expressing that kind of indolent, well-mannered grace, as if nothing at all mattered, their eyes remarkably distant when they looked at her. Hermione told herself she was being ridiculous again. The Malfoys had been nothing but cordial so far, and it was kind of them to open their home to her and other Muggle-borns like Jaime.

Hermione sat. The Malfoys watched her like fat, glistening spiders wondering if a fluttering moth would land in their web or not. Mr Malfoy smirked as he returned to his own chair and Hermione glanced at the cane leaning against its padded arm. The head was in the shape of a silver snake.

"You must have done exceptionally well at your at Muggle school for the Ministry to place you in our home." The word "Muggle" came out oddly among the other posh syllables, spat with his tongue lingering on the alveolar ending. Hermione shifted under his attention.

"Yes, I—I was the best in my class. I even won a scholarship to Cheltenham."

"And now you've discovered you're a witch. How exciting." His tone suggested it wasn't very exciting at all. Mr Malfoy rested his pale hand atop his cane, withdrawing a wand from the top of it when the hand lifted again. He flicked the dark wand toward one of the towering bookshelves flanking the enormous hearth and several volumes jerked themselves free. "You will come to find, Miss Granger, that while the House of Malfoy may not be the oldest pure-blood family in Britain, it is surely one of the most distinguished. You are very fortunate to have been placed with us. You will receive the best money can buy while you remain here—but I must insist your studies remain exemplary. Your marks and your manners reflect directly upon my family name and I will not see it sullied."

"Of—of course, Mr Malfoy," Hermione stuttered, surprised at the forcefulness of his statement. She had about a million questions buzzing inside her skull—but something of this dark and ancient place, of the man before her, forbid such flippancy. If she wished ask something, she had best make sure it was a very good question. "What would happen if my marks fell?"

His lip curled. "You would be placed with another family."

"I see." Hermione's eyes flickered toward Jamie and lingered on the fatigue written in his countenance. "I will do my very best, Mr Malfoy."

The books he'd summoned came soaring toward her. Hermione caught one on instinct and the others stacked themselves on top of it until she held several tomes on her lap, feeling more assured now under the weight of so much knowledge. Some of the titles read Wizarding Traditions of the Twentieth Century, Noble Houses of the Current Era, A Beginner's Compendium on the Magical Arts, A History of Magic, and Manners for the Modern Witch. A few didn't sound even remotely interesting to Hermione, yet she knew she would read them anyway.

"I am lending you these volumes from the Malfoy library. I expect them to be returned in the same condition."

"Of course," Hermione replied. It seemed to be the only thing the Malfoy patriarch wanted to hear and Hermione would oblige him if it meant having access to such a trove of written word. She tentatively touched the binding on one text, fingertips skirting along the well-worn paper as something like electricity sparked under her skin. If they continued to be so generous with their books, Hermione didn't much care that the Mafloys didn't appear to be a warm family. She had her own family at home and didn't need a second.

I'll make my parents proud, she thought. And I'll become the best witch there is.

Mr Malfoy inclined his blond head. His silver eyes gleamed. "Very good, Miss Granger. If you're ready, your education on the Wizarding world begins now."

A/N: In my head-canon, the Quill of Acceptance, which wrote all the magical children in the Book of Admissions at Hogwarts, also wrote out the acceptance letters. For children with magical parents (like Harriet and Elara) it wrote in green ink, while for Muggle-borns (like Hermione), it wrote in blue. This was how the professors knew who needed a home visit, and why neither Harriet nor Elara received one.

I also believe you wouldn't get your letter around your eleventh birthday; rather, you received it in the summer before you were meant to attend. Otherwise professors would have been doing home visits during the school year and students like Hermione, born in September but after the admission date, would have had an entire year to prepare over the other students.

The MPA and its implications get explored a lot more later on.

Anyway, hope you're enjoying the story!

Thanks to guest reviewer for correcting Hermione's school.