Archimedes flew into the window landing on their kitchen table with pride.

"Wow, birdbrain," Hermione groaned. "I'm so impressed you can do your job!"

Her father sighed, sorting through the mail. "I simply do not understand why you feel the need to antagonize the family owl."

Hermione picked apart her toast and stared at Archimedes's narrowed eyes. "How childish do I sound if I say 'he started it'?"

"Extremely," he said, setting aside a copy of the Prophet. "You were two, I doubt you even remember it."

He was right there. She didn't remember it. The talon shaped mark on her left shoulder was barely visible and she doubted the owl remembered it either. But she had more than enough memories of him screaming to alert him or Libby to her every move. That was much more recent.

"Anything for me?" Hermione joked.

"Actually," he smirked. "Yes."

"Wait, really?" Hermione's interest peaked. "Everyone I know is here."

"Hermione," he raised an eyebrow. "How old will you be in September?"

"Ele-Oh!" she resisted the urge to call herself a retard. "July 17th. Coming a little late, eh?"

"Professor McGonagall prioritized sending letters to the children who didn't know for a fact they were attending," he handed her the letter.

Hermione carefully peeled back the wax seal, delicately handling the yellow envelope feeling the weight of a heavy stone set in her chest. Years of watching everyone attend classes and control their own lives, she was finally among them! Unless...did the school send rejection letters? What if she wasn't...no, she had read everything she could get her hands on, she knew magic in and out...but when was the last time she had subconsciously cast? Something magical children were supposed to do often. Maybe she...

"I promise, it's not going to bite you," her father said.

"I have literally seen letters do that," she gingerly removed the letter and sighed in relief.

Miss Hermione Elizabeth Lilium Snape,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted...

Hermione combed through the letter several times to ensure it was real. It was McGonagall's handwriting, she knew each professor's handwriting intimately. The words didn't change as she re-read the letter. She was accepted. Long name and all.

"I don't think I've seen you read anything so slowly since you've learned how to read," he said suddenly leaning over her shoulder.

"Gah!" she jumped before sighing. "Why do you always do that?"

"To teach you the dangers of hyper-focusing," he shrugged.

"Lesson taught, Professor," she groaned, returning her focus to the letter.

"So it's 'Professor' now?" he sighed dramatically. "You wound me, daughter!"

"Oh, I wound you?" she smirked. "I'm such a petulant child!"

"Whatever will I do with you?"

"I'm sure Mr Filch might have some ideas."

"That he would," he rested his hand on the top of her head.

Hermione returned to the letter and began through the shopping list. "Are we expected to duel wield wands now?"

"Expected to what?"

Hermione slipped to beside him and showed him the list where "1 wand" was found twice in the list of required supplies. "Professor McGonagall might need to get an editor."

"You should not have shown me this, love," he smiled.

"Why?"

"I don't think I'll be able to stop myself from holding it over her."

"I will never understand your rivalry..." she sighed.

"Once you're sorted you might," he said combing through the letter. "I swear the reading list hasn't changed since I was in school. Is there a house you're hoping for?"

"Honestly," she mused. "I feel like separating us according to personality so young just breeds rivalries. I don't recall seeing many people socialising outside their houses."

"You're not wrong," he said. "It's going to take forever to get you sorted, though."

"Because I think house divisions are stupid?"

"Precisely," he smiled. "We'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and get what you need."

"Wait...'We'?" Hermione's heart skipped a beat. She was finally going to see something beyond the school grounds! She had a firm picture of her mind of so many places from books she read. But the idea of being there astounded her. In the thick of the bustling town surrounded by wonders at every turn.

"Yes, 'we'," he said. "I can't guarantee that you will get the right wand if you're not physically handling it."

"Oh my God," she gasped. "I-I've never been off the school grounds before...Dad, this is fantastic!"

"Such a rush to leave the nest?" he looked over the papers.

"I doubt one afternoon with you at my side counts as leaving the nest, Dad," she smirked over the copy of the Prophet.

"Sure, tomorrow it's a single afternoon with me, but next you will be off in the world only writing your poor old father twice a year!"

"I'm sure you're skipping some steps there," Hermione offered. "Before I start only writing you twice a year I'm going to marry a man twice my age that we both despise after a few terrible decisions that lead to an unplanned pregnancy."

"Don't even joke like that, Hermione Elizabeth," his tone turned from dry sarcasm to icy, slow and deliberate. "You've just successfully listed the worst fears of every parent with a daughter. Have you any idea just how many young women succumb to the very same fate you've just described?"

"No, sir," she said, putting down the paper. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"I suggest you start!"

"Yes, sir."

After breakfast Hermione left to work on the mural. She hated the project more than ever. It occurred to her that there was no way someone couldn't dispel the enchantment on the graffiti. They were keeping her busy to keep her from figuring out whatever the hell they were doing. Whatever they were plotting for or protecting, they had successfully ensured she was far from the action. The worst part was, they could have easily kept her busy with potions prep, magical creature care and greenhouse work. All this achieved was keeping her in one bloody place.

Hours passed and she now had two neat lines of trees converging on the horizon and a rocky underground cavern with a pool of silvery water. Now she could start on the damn tree roots. She fancied she could have them done before her eight o'clock curfew. If she ignored her desire to sit and read, she could finish the damn thing in the week. All she had to do was spend all of her time not working on chores on the mural.

Hermione began mixing a brown and planned it out. If she could finish it this week, she would have a month and a bit to read through her school books and practice. The plan was to practice until she could do anything asked of her flawlessly. She would settle for nothing less than having memorized her entire reading list before school. Hermione was the daughter of a famously unlikeable teacher, she had trouble talking to people, and she knew she wasn't exactly pretty. Correction, she knew she was hideous. However, she would be good at magic. She would settle for nothing less.

A loud hooting echoed from behind her and she looked up to see Archimedes circling before landing on her arm.

"Are you here to spy on me or do you have a letter for me?" she asked before noting the piece of parchment tied to his leg. "Why, thank you, Archimedes. I brought exactly zero peanuts with me."

The owl narrowed his yellow eyes at her, which prompted Hermione to stick her tongue out at him.

"Let's see what my sweet loving father has to say, eh?" Hermione unfurled the parchment.

Hermione,

My meeting with the headmaster has become a day-long affair, possibly going into the evening. I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that a curfew is the time to be back home, not leave for it! Be back in our living quarters before eight! I will know if you don't!

No need to reply,

Dad

"I have never seen such abuse of underlining and exclamation points! I assume he will know because you're such a brave owl doing your duties," Hermione chuckled. "Looks like we're stuck with each other, bird brain."

Archimedes rotated his head completely before leaning in, his beak touching her nose and eyes once again narrowed.

"You have your eye on me, I get it."

Hermione began with the roots, sitting on her knees. She sang in French under her breath or whistled bits of song here or there as she worked. All the while she mentally reviewed facts from Hogwarts a History or Laws of Magic Vol 1. She would be ready for any challenge that came her way...so long as it was magical or academic in nature. If she buried herself in her work it wouldn't matter if nobody liked her. If she needed to have someone to talk to, she supposed that's why she kept a journal. Failing that she had annoying, gluttonous owls.

"What do you think, Archimedes?" she gestured to the completed root system. "It's my testament to never painting a damn mural again! Especially when it's obvious that the mural is completely unnecessary and they just want to keep me in one place!"

Archimedes didn't respond but merely looked at her while she scratched the top of his head.

"I call it 'I honestly would rather be doing anything else, but shit, I promised'! It's a long name, I know," she shrugged. "I'll have to workshop it."

She took a step back and examined the painting. She hated it. It had somehow looked different in her mind, but here it just looked like hours that she would never get back. It wasn't even worth the hours she spent. Clumsy strokes could be spotted, the rocks seemed wrong, having the water ripple and reflect the stars but nothing else beneath a silver sheen looked lazy to put it nicely, and if she really thought about it, the sky was not a good enough replica of the northern night sky. "I don't know if I can fix this...I think I liked the graffiti better."

The owl tilted his head from the ladder and looked at her.

"I'm not a perfectionist! If I were a perfectionist I would paint over the whole bloody thing and start again! So, there!"

Archimedes leaned in close to her face again.

"It's good enough. If I close my eyes," she rolled her eyes. "You have got to be bored. What do you want to do?"

Archimedes, being an owl, said nothing.

"Strong silent type, eh?" she said leaning in. "You only have to put up with me doing this for a few more hours. Then I will give you a bucket of peanuts. Okay, not a bucket, you caught me!"

"Are you entirely well?"

Hermione turned to see Professor McGonagall standing behind her. The tall older woman looked concerned behind her square spectacles, but also amused. A shock of white in her black hair betrayed her age, and despite her severe bun and face, there was a kindness belied by her actions. Not that she would ever tell her father, but she expected McGonagall would be her favourite teacher.

"I'm sorry, Professor?"

"You've been talking to that owl for quite some time."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush as she called the owl to her. "I suppose I just get lonely-er-I mean-" Hermione's face flushed more and she wanted to sink into the ground and never emerge. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to tell you not to paint over what you have," she smiled at the awful painting. "And that you should definitely workshop the title."

Hermione was glad for the bushy, paint-covered locks covering most of her face. She was certain it would be as pink as Hagrid's umbrella.

"I've heard your father yell at you enough about watching your language," McGonagall shrugged. "I'm not about to lecture you about that. You don't have to stare at your feet in shame, girl. It's no way to go through life."

"Sorry about that, Professor," Hermione knelt and scrambled to pick up her brushes and pallet. If she were doing something, she might have an excuse not to make eye-contact. She had no idea how to respond to that, and the comment about being lonely still filled her with shame."I actually just remembered I forgot a pigment, I'll have to go get it."

"Are you looking forward to school?" she asked, helping her pick up the supplies. "I imagine other children will make better company than an owl."

"It would be nice if I had some practice speaking to other children," she admitted with a sigh. "But what doesn't kill you, right, Professor?"

"What about the Yamato boy?"

Hermione paused. That earned her undivided attention. "Yamato?"

McGonagall's eyes narrowed behind her lenses as she helped her off the ground. "Hiro Yamato? The Headmaster of Mahoukatorou's grandson started school last year. Professor Dumbledore arranged for you two to correspond?"

"Oh!" Hermione smiled. "Hiro-kun! Yes, of course we've been writing. But where it's a correspondence I didn't really think about it. You're right, of course, Professor! It will definitely help me learn how to relate to others my age. I'm sorry, Professor, I just remembered I have to go. If I don't, this little guy's going to report back to my father."

"Mage-bred owls are fiercely loyal creatures. I told your father that once you've started school, he won't know who to be loyal to."

"Oh, he'll know," Hermione joked. "I can only get him to listen to me with bribes. Oh, and Professor?"

"Yes?"

"If my father gives you a hard time about writing '1 wand' twice in the list, just ask him how he came to that observation." Hermione turned. "I really have to go, sorry, professor!"

Hermione rushed down to their living quarters. She frantically tore through the bookshelves, flipping through each book, not missing a single page before placing them back as they were. She wasn't sure how long she had spent combing through the books, but it was dark before she finished. Nothing in or behind the books on the bookshelves, she turned to the mantle. Archimedes stared at her while she combed through the items. Nothing was underneath or behind them.

"You're right!" she said, hitting the ground. "I'm looking in the wrong place!"

She sifted through the ashes in the fireplace searching for anything that could be construed as mail. Shards of glass from communications between fireplaces seemed to be the only thing sticking out of the glass. She very nearly gave up when she found it. Maybe, it was a charred corner of a piece of paper. She gently lifted it to examine it for writing, but it fell apart under her breath.

"Damn it," she sighed.

She washed her hands and returned to the table with a lit candle, quill and paper. She could send it to the school, it was still July, she could still get in touch with Hiro Yamato. She wondered how good his English was. Should she know Japanese? She was clueless. She dug out her notebook and her books on Spanish, Italian, Latin and Greek. Something she could hide behind.

Dear Yamato-san Hiro,

I know you've been writing for the better part of the year. I'm so sorry! Many of the letters were lost. I just received one today. I don't know how many I missed or how many you've written. If you would still like to write each other, I would be thrilled. The idea that there's someone else out there raised like me, it's a relief to know. I don't know what I should say, but I'd really like to get to know you.

Yours,

Hermio

The click of the door unlocking caused Hermione to jump and scribble into the paper. She quickly covered the letter with her work and set herself to look busy at work.

"Here before seven?" her father said entering the room with an armload of books. "I'm surprised."

"I believe you said that I was to be back before curfew," Hermione shrugged, returning to scrutinize Latin conjugations. "How was your day?"

"It was all quite boring, I assure you," he scrutinized her book on Greek letters.

Please don't look at the others...

"How many languages are you looking to learn?" he scoffed.

"Yes," she smirked.

"Latin languages will be easier for you given how young you started French, but Greek won't be easy. Useful though," he combed through the pages. "Ogham, Futhark, Egyptian and Old Chinese will have similar uses. But I promise you'll go mad if you try to learn them all. Your efforts are much better spent on reading your class books. Which I took the liberty of collecting."

He dropped the books on the table with an audible thud, which ruffled Archimedes's feathers.

"Thank you, sir," she said, smiling at him.

"Of course, love," he said, ruffling her hair. "Now, why don't you tell me what you think you're hiding from me?"

How the hell...? Hermione's eyes darted around the room. Where had she messed up? The books were all placed back, the fireplace was pristine, no traces of soot on her hands and feet...

"We both know this will be much easier if you just admit to it, Hermione," he said coolly.

Hermione gave up trying to figure out how he figured it out and sighed. "I found out about the headmaster arranging for me to correspond with Yamato Hiro from Mahoutakoro."

"And you're wondering why I hid such a wonderful opportunity from you, is that it?"

"Actually," Hermione inhaled sharply. "Yes."

Her father folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes. "Hermione, the boy is halfway around the world. His English won't be good enough to understand what you write, and unless there's something I don't know, you don't know Japanese. What good could possibly come of this?"

And what harm could come of it? Hermione thought but kept her peace.

"And if you're wondering what harm could come of it," he began and Hermione shrank in her chair. "It would do nothing but distract you from your duties. I can't have you failing your classes because you're preoccupied with some boy. A preoccupation you are far too young for, mind you."

"Understood, sir," she nodded.

"And yet there still seems to be something going on in that little head of yours," he mused.

"I don't understand why you think I'll be so distracted with a single quill-mate that I'd let everything I worked so hard for fall to the wayside," she admitted. "What do you expect to happen if by some miracle I make a friend or two in my class? Are you suggesting I isolate myself until I graduate?"

"The tone, little girl!" he snapped.

"Sorry!" she said reflexively.

"I don't see why you're angry with me."

"I'm not angry, Dad," she sighed, making eye contact with him. "Just disappointed."

"I crave your pardon?"

Hermione wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. To make like a cat and dart into the nearest bush or under a bed. She inhaled sharply and clasped her hands together, digging her nails in the gaps between her fingers. Somehow, she found her voice and the ability to stand erect. "I'm disappointed that you couldn't at least explain to me why you refused. I just want to know why you don't trust me to do what literally everyone else on the planet does. Am I not good enough?"

A long silence passed with the two of them staring at each other. Hermione waited with bated breath, hoping for the answer. Maybe she could find some way to prove herself to him.

"It's not you I don't trust, Hermione," he sighed, lifting her face. "But you've proven yourself over-eager to please. Something that I had sincerely hoped you would correct this year. This world will take everything from you if you continue to prostrate before anyone who gives you the time of day."

"Sorry, sir," she said, collecting her notes.

"I don't want an apology, love," he sighed.

Hermione looked into his black eyes feeling like a confused child. He seemed to be able to tell what she was thinking simply by looking at her, but no matter how she scrutinized his face, speech and movements, she could never understand what she was supposed to do. She tried so hard, and at least with the house-elves and other adults she could figure out the right thing to say or do. Why was she so clueless with her own father?

"And you're still working out the perfect thing to do or say," he said, more warmly than before. "It's late, little girl. Why don't we eat and you can head off to bed?"

"You are useless," Severus snapped at the sleeping owl on his perch. "You had one job."

Archimedes was supposed to alert him to Hermione leaving their living quarters. Yet the bird was silent, sleeping soundly while Hermione was off God knew where. Between the two of them how could she have evaded them? She probably bribed the gluttonous owl. And though Severus was a remarkably light sleeper, Hermione had seemed to figure out how to avoid waking him. How often had he woke up to see the girl padding barefoot through their own living quarters like an unwelcomed cat?

And how much of that is my own doing? he wondered, leaving for the kitchens.

"No, Professor," Libby said while beating a bowl of eggs. "Miss Hermione has not been here this morning. Libby hasn't seen Miss Hermione since yesterday morning, sir."

"Very well," he sighed. "Thank you, Libby."

The library wasn't open yet, so he could easily cross that haunt off his list. You idiot, you know exactly where she is!

"It's not even six o'clock yet!" he called up to her.

What is it with this child and ladders?

"Gah!" she jumped, dropping her palette and splattering brown paint on the wall and clinging to the ladder for dear life. "I hate heights," she groaned.

"And yet you climb like a damn squirrel," he commented, steadying the ladder as she descended.

"Don't let the buckteeth and bushy hair fool you, Dad," she sighed, reaching the ground. "I'm more like a cat, I'm fine so long as I don't realize where I am. Which makes this-" she gestured to the mural before picking up her pallet and brush. "Just so much fun."

"I'm certain there's a lesson here in making lofty promises..." he mused.

"Please, tell me this isn't some elaborate lesson," she groaned. "I didn't wake you did I?"

"No, but I wish you did," he sighed. "I was worried. I had no clue where you were."

"I left a note on the table telling you exactly where I was," she offered.

How the hell could I have missed that? "I see," he said, lifting her chin. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that upon seeing my child was missing I would miss something as small as a note?"

"Sorry, sir."

"I don't see why you have to be out this early."

"The sooner I finish it, the sooner I never have to look at it again."

"I hate to break it to you, love," he said, turning her head to face it. "But regardless of when you finish it, you will be looking at it for the next seven years. So will everyone else."

"Perfect!" she scoffed. "The headmaster couldn't think of anything else to keep me out of whatever you're doing?"

"Hmm," Severus mused. "Maybe this was an elaborate lesson in over-committing. But nonetheless, you did commit to it, so you'll have to finish it before summer ends. I raised you to keep your word."

"And I will," she assured him. "I'm sorry to have worried you, Dad."

"Just don't do it again," he huffed. "Come along now."

"I'll be right behind you. I just have to fix this and clean up first," she picked up her pallet and brush before staring up the ladder as if it were the Whomping Willow.

Severus disappeared the paint from the floor and errant wet paint from the wall. "Fix what?"

"Omigod," she sighed with relief. "You're a lifesaver."

"You haven't the half of it," he ushered her forward. "You'll have to start adhering to school hours before long. And for the love of God, you haven't any clue what you might be stepping in, wear shoes."

"Yes, sir," she said.

Severus wasn't getting back to sleep at this point. He was used to strange hours, but with his portion of the protections done, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't the least bit looking forward to another hour or two of sleep. He could dose himself with a sleeping draught, but he didn't like the idea of being unable to wake if something happened. Perhaps confessed Death Eaters breaking out of Azkaban and into the school weren't likely, but he couldn't shake the idea it might happen. More mundane matters also kept him from sedating himself. Sure, Hermione was well now, but the sick infant with a blue-grey cast to her skin was an image that still haunted him. He leaned over her crib most nights just to be satisfied she was still breathing. Accidents and illness occupied the more reasonable parts of his mind, and his paranoid mind imagined her a target. How the hell did other parents send their children away so young for ten months of the year? He was spoiled; he could keep an eye on her all throughout the year.

He moved it from his mind as Archimedes dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet. He read through the paper. Why strange snake behaviour in France was on the third page and a quidditch victory was on the front page was beyond him. Strange behaviour of an animal linked to the vanquished Dark Lord? Why would that matter more than quidditch? He turned to the obituaries with nothing remarkable. They would have to be vigilant.

"So there was a little girl under all of that paint," he teased as Hermione returned.

"Astounding, I know," she said. "Anything interesting?"

"Not unless you want the latest quidditch scores," he sighed. "I suppose there's also gossip."

"Rita Skeeter hard at work," Hermione scoffed. "Why would a journalist be concerned with current affairs?"

"From the mouths of babes..." he sighed, setting aside the paper. "I swear the only thing you've picked up from me is dry-wit."

"Maybe I'll grow into other qualities you want me to have," she offered.

"One can hope," he said. "Do you have everything you need for the afternoon?"

"I'll be ready to leave whenever you are."

"I'll hold you to it. We leave after lunch. Meaning I expect you to be ready before then. Don't go around making promises."

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

She was true to her word. By the time lunch came around she was paint-free, packed and ready to go. Unsurprising given the girl's reaction to leaving the school grounds. He felt like he could have asked her to be ready by four in the morning and she would've obliged. He wondered if Hermione could adjust to crowds or if she was ready to face potentially hundreds of people milling about. He was confident he could track his own child down in a sea of people. Sure, she was small, but he appreciated the bushy hair, she would stand out if they were separated. He also appreciated her more or less racially ambiguous features. This was the first time the two would be out in public, and he was more than a little nervous that someone might point out how little the two had in common.

Though that has happened before...

"There are a few rules I would like to review," he told her as they stood on the far end of Hogsmede.

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

"You are not to leave my side for any reason, got that, little girl?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded again.

"You are to speak to no one without my expressed permission."

"Understood, sir."

"Violation of any of these rules will result in spending the entirety of next summer in our living quarters."

"Yes, sir," she gave another nod.

"Alright then," he knelt down and folded her in his arms. "You're going to want to hang on."

With a snap they disapparated to the entrance of Diagon Alley.

"First time along-side apparating," she overheard her father explaining to yet another concerned by-stander.

"Oh, I see," the higher pitched voice said. "poor dear."

Hermione's first time out in the world and she found herself with her head in a rubbish bin with her father holding her hair back. Irony was cruel. What was worse was the feeling of eyes on her. Nausea from apparating initially triggered her to vomit, but the feeling of stranger's judging stares, the whispers of nosy passers-by made her cringe. This was all before the knowledge that this was the first impression she would be making with anyone in her year. Her stupid stomach had committed social suicide before she even got the chance to get along.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"I think-" No! She once again wretched into the bin.

"You are so lucky most parents of first-years wait till the last minute to go shopping."

Hermione coughed and wretched once or twice more before rising. "You have no idea how happy that sentence just made me."

"I imagine more relieved than happy," he said, handing her a kerchief.

"Thank you," she said, wiping her mouth and hands. "Any idea where the nearest toilet might be? I need to wash my hands-and probably everything else."

"About a minute or two that way," he pointed.

"A minute?" she sighed. "Sixty seconds was all I had to wait..."

"I've been over-seeing disapparation licensing for a decade, love. I've seen much worse from much older witches and wizards. Let's go, I'll get you some water and will be waiting just outside the door."

Hermione washed her hands, rubbing them fiercely under hot water. She quickly splashed her face with cold water and stared at the face before her. Olive skin flushed pink across her nose and cheeks, her brown eyes watering and red-rimmed, her lips cracked. She did what she could to make herself look like less of a mess.

"How are you feeling?" her father asked as she took a seat at the table he claimed.

She could barely hear him over the din of patrons chattering over tea and coffee. She nearly crept away to spy on what looked like a trio of fifteen-year-olds. If she could see how they behave, she could mimic it. Something she wished occurred to her back when she watched from the window. However, she knew how that would end if she were caught, and she imagined her father was worried.

"Like I swallowed a litre of lye," she muttered while taking her cup of water. "Thank you. You said this is normal?"

"Not uncommon," he said, feeling her forehead. "You are a touch warm though. Perhaps we should try again tomorrow."

"So I can relive this?" she scoffed. "We're already here, and to be frank, I would like the past century with my head in the bin to be worth something."

"Century?" he scoffed. "Do five minutes constitute a hundred years now? Children have no concept of time."

"So, I engaged in a little hyperbole," she shrugged.

"Even being hyperbolic, I don't see anyone much older than you saying that."

The first thing they did was head to Ollivander's. The store was surprisingly empty with a white-haired lean man humming to himself as he sorted long boxes on seemingly endless shelves. The place was dark, but whimsical, like the used bookshop in a novel she read once.

"Just a moment!" the man sang before skipping up to the counter. "Severus Snape? I barely recognized you! I suppose it's been a while. Yes, I remember you and your little friend coming in here all those years ago-"

"I'm not here to take a stroll down memory lane," he said coolly.

"Very sorry, fancies of an old man," he apologized. "What brings you around these parts?"

In that one cut-off sentence Hermione heard more about her father's childhood than she had in nearly eleven years. She wished she knew who his "little friend" was. Inseparable mates from before? Maybe neighbours? Two boys close as brothers? Or maybe it was a girl? Could she be her mother? The only person who's past she knew less about than her father's was her own. Not that it bothered her...not one bit!

She would give anything for the man to go on.

"My daughter will be starting at Hogwarts this year." he said, running a hand through Hermione's hair.

"Oh very good!" he said. "Come along, dear! I know exactly what to get for you..."

He didn't. Hermione tried three or four wands that had no effect or disastrous effects. She once thought she'd levitated a bottle of ink only to see the thing explode. She shrank under her father's gaze. She felt as though she was throwing away everything she had read about. She had hoped so much that she would be a good witch, but here she was screwing it up.

Worse was the cold reception the kind man got from her father when he had the nerve to ask about Hermione's mother. She began to wonder if he actually had found her in a box of free kittens. She was open to the idea of her being adopted, but the icy comments made anytime someone asked about her origins made her think there was something more personal to her story. She knew better than to ask.

Hermione left with a wand that spoke to her. Something she'd once scoffed at when reading about wandcraft in the library. She couldn't describe it. But she felt she had control with the olive wand and dragon heart-string cord. She felt that she knew what she was doing with that wand. Certainty and control.

The sunbathed cobbled alley-ways twisted between buildings of every shape and colour as people milled about in packs. For the first time Hermione noticed the myriad of scents wafting through the sky. Now that her stomach stopped churning she could appreciate the fairytale-esq district and the feats of magic performed on every corner. Her eyes scanned the area looking for other children, but she could barely focus her attention. She had never seen so many people in all her life, nor had she seen so much happening all at once.

The two weaved through the throng and Hermione found a young woman entertaining a group of younger children with flying glass canaries. The glint of the sun shone golden off their carefully detailed wings. She couldn't wait until she could do something so fantastic. She turned her head to see the tall lean figure of her father disappearing between the crowd.

"Is it normally so busy?" she asked, jogging to catch up with her father after her most recent distraction.

"Actually," he mused. "I believe it's normally much worse. Yes, I remember when I was your age I could barely walk a centimetre before running into someone else."

"Really?" she could hardly believe anything would be more packed.

"Must you doubt everything I say, child?" he said, taking her hand. "Do try to keep up."

"Yes, sir."

They came upon a shop called Madam Malkin's. They entered a near empty shop greeted by a plump matronly looking woman with wiry grey hair and dark eyes who was perhaps in her sixties. Though Hermione was a terrible judge of age, so she could be wrong. Her father talked to the old woman, money was exchanged and she turned to her.

"There's something I must do," he told her with a characteristic lack of detail. "I want you to stay here until I come back. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

"Alright, little girl," he said, resting a hand on her head. "I won't be too long, I promise."

"I'll see you then, Dad."

After he left Madam Malkin led Hermione back where she found another girl around her age standing in front of a mirror. She was about a head taller than Hermione, lean and stood with a self-importance that reminded her of certain girls she'd seen leading packs of similarly judgmental girls.. She turned to face Hermione and her stomach churned at the bemused smile across her face.

The girl wasn't stunning, but she was pretty. She had round dark eyes and a flat nose on a round pale face framed with glossy black hair gathered over her shoulder with a green scrunchie. Hermione had shared one physical trait with the girl, that was almost complete racial ambiguity. Though Hermione was simply ambiguous, it seemed to her that the girl with the unimpressed smile had features that fit on several beauty standards. She felt this girl would be considered kind of pretty anywhere she went. Hermione knew better, but she was jealous of that fact.

"Hullo," she said, her smile still unimpressed.

"Hi," Hermione nodded to her with a meek smile. First time you're meeting a girl your age. Don't screw this up!

The bell over the door rang and Madam Malkin left them alone to tend to whoever the other customer waiting was.

"By Merlin," the girl said. "I hope you brought a book. This is the third time that woman's walked out on me."

Must be because she's the only one here, Hermione thought but said: "Yeah, that has to be frustrating. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for that hag," the girl rolled her eyes. "Not your fault, now is it?"

"I suppose not," she sighed. "Are you here with anyone?"

"My mother is off doing something or other, couldn't be bothered telling me." she groaned dramatically.

"I just love how grown-ups think we can't handle a lick of information!"

"I know, right?" the girl exclaimed. "Bunch of bloody dolts, the lot of them!"

Hermione moved a lock of hair out of her face and covered her mouth as she faked a giggle. She hoped it looked natural. Hermione didn't think she liked this girl, and she didn't seem impressed with her. But perhaps if Hermione mimicked behaviour she'd seen other girls do than the girl with the unimpressed smile might like her enough to talk to her on a semi-regular basis.

"At least you have pretty eyes," the girl examined her critically. "A symmetrical face too, it's a shame about the hair and teeth. You could have been pretty."

You bitch! It's a shame about your personality, you could have been a decent human being! "Yeah," she laughed with tact. "Genetics, am I right? I'll have to fix it when I'm older." Where the hell is your backbone, you stupid little girl?

"That's probably a good idea," she smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Pansy Parkinson."

"Hermione," she took the hand with a forced smile.

"Do you have a last name, Hermione?" she laughed.

"It doesn't matter," she shrugged.

"Doesn't matter?" Pansy Parkinson scoffed. "Of course it matters! For instance I'm a Parkinson, so I'm part of the Great Eight wizarding families. I come from a long line of fabulously talented pureblood witches and wizards! Where you come from is like the single most important thing in our world! You must be a bloodtraitor or a mudblood."

"And what if I am?!" Hermione hissed. "Perhaps I don't have a name that reaches back to the middle-ages, with famous relatives, but at least I have integrity! Something you and the Parkinsons back to Wilhem Parkinson have lacked since then. Yes, didn't he sell his first wife and daughters out to the Catholic church so he and his at-the-time lover could flee Scotland with their son? If that's not betrayal at its worst in the wizarding world, I don't know what is. But do enlighten me, heir to fabulously talented witches and wizards!"

"How did you know all of that?" Pansy Parkinson barked.

Bark...now that I think of it, you do look rather pug-like. "Because I'm literate and happen to be inclined to take a book off the shelf once in a blue moon. Something you might benefit from." she said coolly. That might have been harsh, and now you sound like your damn father.

"You stupid, ugly bitch!"

"Oh, I am so hurt!" she rolled her eyes. "Maybe try an insult I haven't heard before. If you're capable. I can wait. I 'brought a book'!"

The two sat in silence waiting for the tailor to return. Hermione sat doing exactly what Pansy Parkinsons had suggested. How many times had she read through the abused copy of Son of Hermes? She started the thirtieth chapter where the three main characters meet in secret to escort a dragon egg to a magizoologist after having fought a trio of harpies. Normally, she would be absorbed but she kept covertly looking at the fuming and now pink Pansy Parkinson.

"Sorry, dears," Madam Malkin said entering the room.

"Finally!" Pansy Parkinson groaned.

Madam Malkin worked on Pansy Parkinson's robe first, listening with curt grunts as the girl insulted the tailor. Hermione waited patiently pretending to read her book as she tried to decipher any insecurities that she could use later if they were to run into each other in the corridors, or worse, end up in the same house. So far all she had was that she was too proud of her family history. She thought, as someone with an abundance of insecurities, that it was wrong to hunt for them in someone else, but she hated this girl.

"I am so, so sorry, Madam Malkin," Hermione told her after she left.

"Oh dear god," a voice from behind her said. "What did she do now?"

That man's timing is impeccable! she groaned internally.

"Oh," Madam Malkin said. "She was fine. It was her little friend that was a monster."

"Friend?" he asked.

"Friend is a generous word, we just met." Hermione explained. "And I don't think she liked me...or anyone aside from herself for that matter."