There was only a little over a week until she would need to go to the Goblin Underground, something Hermione still needed to bring up with her parents – how does one ask their parents for permission to go to an inaccessible, legendary, and highly restricted (possibly dangerous) location for an unspecified amount of time? – so she focused on campaigning for British Youth Representative as fully and as best she could.
First, she and Tracey scoped out the competition. From what Hermione could tell, 'campaigning' generally involved hanging around Diagon Alley a lot, talking to people, and buying them ice cream, if Cho Chang's model was anything to go off of. Lee Jordan seemed to hang out around Zonko's more and not buy people ice cream, but Hermione suspected he was giving them tricks and pranks either he had made or that he'd gotten from Zonko's – probably in some sort of group discount.
When she drifted near enough to eavesdrop, nothing they were doing actually sounded like campaigning, though – it sounded like people just hanging out with their friends.
"People want to vote for someone they feel thinks like them," Tracey said, shrugging. "Best way to do that is to make friends, right?"
While Hermione may have seen the merit in her point, she was trying to woo the hedgewitch community – which was a whole group of people who very much did not think like her. She expected it would be somewhat of a challenge.
It was with great hesitation that Hermione sent an owl to Derek, the hedgewitch boy she'd met at Carkitt Market, thanking him for his kindness that day and asking if he was willing to spend more time with her to help her learn more about the hedgewitch community. She'd gotten a response (of sorts) the next day:
Dear Witch-girl,
I would love to chat with you! Clover and Worm are keen for a chat too if you're willing?
We can meet at The Yard on Sunday after sunset, or at Arden on Monday round midday?
Can't wait!
-Derek
Both places were on the map she'd obtained from Theo. The Yard seemed to be a pub or restaurant of sorts, while Arden seemed to literally just be a place marked in the forest of Arden with no indication of what was there. Either was fine with Hermione, and she gratefully replied to Derek that she'd be happy to meet him at either one (or both).
The difficulty came in getting to the The Yard. It seemed it wasn't hooked up to the Floo Network, for all her efforts, and Hermione hadn't the slightest notion how to get there otherwise. She was far too young to Apparate, and Portkeys were heavily regulated and pricey. She wondered how the hedgewitches got there, given she doubted they could Apparate, especially without wands.
As it was, Daphne had to call in a favor with Marcus Flint, allowing Hermione to Floo to his manor a couple hours before sundown, the closest Floo point she could find. Hermione walked the rest of the way on foot, and it took her over an hour to get there. She was incredibly glad she had mastered her air elemental; she hadn't thought to put on a cooling charm before leaving the house, and keeping a magically-driven breeze around her helped ensure she wasn't too sweaty looking or disheveled when she finally arrived.
From the outside, The Yard looked like a large, converted barn, surrounded by stomped-down grass or dirt and a few scattered picnic tables. The outside of the building had been either painted or stained a darker color than the wood used for construction; Hermione could tell because it was patchy and wearing off in some places, leaving spots a distinctly lighter color than the rest. A large sign over the big double doors proclaimed "The Yard" in a fancy, vaguely medieval looking font.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione pushed open the doors and went in.
Hermione suddenly felt very silly for her assumption about what the inside of the building would look like. The outside looked like a barn; she'd presumed the inside would be like a barn as well, with scattered hay and picnic tables.
Instead, the inside resembled more of a grand Viking mead hall, with long tables that stretched the entire length of the room. Giant wooden candle chandeliers hung from the ceiling on rope and pulleys, unlit, and the walls were decorated with drinking horns, animal pelts, and old shields and weapons. A long, gleaming bar was off to the right side of the building, where a couple people were drying glasses, and there were stools set up all the length of the bar as well.
Eventually, Hermione was sure, she would stop forgetting what all magic could do.
It was still well before sundown, and the place was still mostly empty. There were a couple people at the far end of the building, drinking together from old beer steins at the farthest table, but besides herself and the bar tenders, they were the only people in the room. Shrugging to herself, Hermione took a seat at the bar, watching as the bar tenders dried glasses and hung them up.
One of the bar tenders shot her a smile and a wink, which made Hermione grin and smile back. He had shaggy brown hair and warm brown eyes, with a rather nasty-looking scar on his neck that looked like he'd been torn open with a fishing hook. He looked like he wasn't too much older than her, probably over seventeen but under twenty-two, she estimated. After he finished, he came over to her with a grin.
"Not often we get a pretty little lady in here like yourself," he said slyly, wagging his eyebrows. "What can I get for you?"
"Do you have butterbeer?" Hermione asked, and the man laughed.
"'Fraid not," he said, chuckling. "We have simpler things here, love."
"Oh," she said. "Err – what do you have?"
"We've got ale, and we've got wizard's ale," the man said, listing off on his fingers. "We have whiskey, we have mead, we have witch's mead, and if you're willing to spend a pretty penny, we've got some elven wine in the back."
The barn appeared to have only one room, as far as Hermione could tell, so she didn't know how there could be anything 'in the back' if it didn't exist.
"I'm in a bit of a pickle, then," Hermione admitted, wincing. "I'm not of age to have alcohol yet."
The man raised an eyebrow.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Thirteen," Hermione sighed. "Fourteen in two months."
The man laughed.
"That's plenty old enough to have alcohol!" he said. "Once your magic starts growing, there's no reason not to!"
"You start giving people alcohol at age eleven?" Hermione asked incredulously, and the man shrugged.
"I'm not proposin' you start getting drunk when you're still a wee little thing, but a bit of ale or mead never hurt anybody," he said.
Hermione bit her tongue, unwilling to discuss the dangers of alcohol with minors with a stranger she was trying to befriend.
"What's the most mild, then?" she asked. She gave him a tentative smile. "I'm meeting a friend, and I don't want to be too tipsy when he gets here."
The man looked her up and down, evaluating.
"I can cut some mead for you," he suggested. "Mix it with a bit of cider and apple and honey and spices for you so it's not as strong."
"That would be wonderful," she told the man, offering a grateful smile. "I'll have that, then. Thank you."
The man grinned. "Not a problem."
He set about making her the drink, beginning with a large bottle of mead from behind the bar and pouring it into a large opaque cup that looked more like a drinking horn than a glass, only with the bottom cut off and flattened so it could stand. Hermione could smell the alcohol from the mead as he poured, and she winced, glad he was diluting it with something else for her as well.
"So what brings you to The Yard?" the man asked, making conversation as he set aside the jug. "We don't often see your kind around here."
"'My kind'?" Hermione repeated, and the man smirked.
"Witches," he said. "Wizards. Ones with wands."
"Some hedgewitches have wands," Hermione protested. "I saw them, in Carkitt Market less than a week ago."
The man laughed.
"Just 'cause you have a bit of wood strapped into a bit of leather at your belt doesn't make it a wand," he told her, eyes sparkling. "But it does make it more likely wizards will leave you alone."
"Oh," Hermione faltered. "I didn't realize…"
The man shrugged. "Just a fact of life."
Hermione wondered how these people could be so resigned to their fate.
"I'm waiting for someone I met at the square, actually," she said. "Derek. He said he'd come around sundown?"
The man laughed.
"They all come around sundown," he said, his grin teasing. "Here."
He set the large cup in front of her. Hermione leaned down to smell it, and it smelled almost sickly sweet with the scent of honey and herbs. Steeling herself, Hermione lifted it to her lips, only to be surprised by the lightly sweet and slightly tart taste of the warm drink, only the slightest bite of alcohol coming with it.
"That's delicious!" she exclaimed, looking up to him. "Did you just make that up?"
"A bit," he said, grinning. "I usually only cut mead with honey water, but you looked like you needed a little more of something to you, so I added the apple in."
"This is brilliant," she told him. "Thank you! What do I owe you?"
The man hesitated.
"Mead is a bit more expensive than ale," he told her slowly, "and honey is as well."
Hermione bit her lip. She'd brought money with her, but the way the man was talking, she was afraid he was going to ask for ten galleons for the drink.
"How much is it?" she asked again, bracing herself.
The man winced. "17 knuts."
Hermione blinked.
"I'm sorry," she said conversationally. "I thought I just heard you say seventeen knuts."
"Mead's a lot more than ale," the man defended. "A glass of ale is only two knuts, but mead and honey are—"
"You misunderstand me," Hermione cut him off. "I would expect to pay five sickles for that in Diagon Alley, you realize?"
The man relaxed, then gave her a sheepish grin.
"Sorry," he said, running his hand through his hair. "We get some drunkards drinking the fancy things here and then not wanting to pay for them, especially after they've had a pint or two."
"How much are the fancy things?" Hermione asked curiously, setting a sickle onto the bar.
"Mead itself is seven knuts," the man said, "but witch's mead is eleven. When they're drunk and can't do math easily, things can get out of hand."
Hermione bit her lip. She felt very out of her element and shaken, being in a world where someone would throw a fit over what amounted to less than thirty pence.
"What else is there?" she asked. "How much do you ask for whiskey or wine?"
"Whiskey is ten," the man said, his eyes glittering, "but wine is more."
"How much more?" Hermione inquired, and he smirked.
"You have to realize," he told her, "that elf-made wine is very rare, and very hard to get."
"Is it?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I wouldn't have thought that. Surely it's just made from grapes?"
"Aye, it is," he said slyly. "But 'tis more than that. It's easy enough to make wine – it's much harder to get the Fair Folk to dance 'round your barrels while they're fermenting. Takes guts, for one, to try and get anything from the Good Neighbors, as well as careful timing and plentiful offerings. And then even if you do leave honey milk out for them on the nights they ride, there's never a certainty."
Hermione sat very still.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I think I've misunderstood something along the way." She swallowed. "When you said 'elf-made wine', I thought you meant wine made by House Elves."
The man laughed uproariously at that.
"Brownies can't be making wine," he laughed. "I would flinch to see them attempt."
"So when you said 'elf'," she said. "You meant—"
"The aos sí," he said. His words sounded like ees shee. He grinned a crooked grin at her. "The Sidhe don't often knowingly interact with our kind, but if they are going to, getting elf-made wine is far from the worst outcome possible."
"You're talking about the Fae," Hermione breathed. Her eyes were wide. "Like, old school faeries, not the little ones with insect wings."
The man gave her an odd look.
"Of course. Are you saying you didn't know this?" he asked. "Why did you think they were called 'House Elves' if there weren't other kinds of elves?"
Hermione felt a bit weak.
"I am beginning to think that wizard culture is dramatically different than this culture… hedgewitch culture? Whatever you call yourselves," she said. "I don't think wizards believe in the Fae at all."
The man rolled his eyes and shrugged.
"It would figure," he said dryly. "Living in manors and stone houses as they do, they're farther from the earth and her mysteries. They place wards of iron and protection on their dwellings and so never have to worry. The more common folk, we remember, we know, and we pass down the stories."
"What stories?" Hermione asked. She glanced at a clock hanging up on the wall. "I've got more time before sundown than I expected, and I must admit, I'm terribly curious."
The man grinned, his eyes glinting.
"Dangerous thing, curiosity," he teased, "but so long as you don't mind if I wipe while I talk, I think it'll be alright."
Hermione beamed.
Aurican (the bartender's name, after they had finally made introductions) was an excellent resource on local stories and legends.
According to hedgewitch culture, magical beings and creatures were the result of failed Fae breeding attempts with other beings on Earth millennia ago. While the resulting children were not Fae themselves, and thus considered a failure in the eyes of the Fae, they did possess magic of their own, and were new beings unto their own. Hermione had read tales of Fae and their breeding difficulties a long, long time ago as a girl, and it was fascinating to hear similar legends now on the origin of magic.
While she accepted the idea of the Fae trying to have Fae children with humans and it resulting in magical children as plausible, it was harder for her to accept that it meant the Fae would have also laid with horses, creating the unicorns and centaurs, or with fish, creating mermaids.
"You need to understand," Aurican told her, wiping a glass. "The Fae are not human. Their moral system is entirely different than ours. Never trust a Faerie, and don't presume to have any sort of reference point as to what they will or will not do."
The magic gifted to the children of the Fae was then passed down from parent to child, generation to generation, forming magical bloodlines. The higher up the attempting Fae had been in the Faerie Courts, Aurican told her, the more powerful the resulting magical bloodline. The weaker the Fae, the weaker the resulting children.
"That's why there are the Sacred 28 and the other powerful houses," Aurican told her. "They got a stronger strain of magic from the start."
"But the Sacred 28 don't even believe in the Fae," Hermione argued. "They believe that Magic itself reached out directly to bless certain families."
He shrugged.
"Who's to say it didn't?" he said, equivocating. "Doesn't mean Magic didn't reach out and bless them 'cause they weren't part Fae."
As Hermione pressed him, though, it became more apparent that despite the relative certainty with which he spoke, his tales were still just legends.
"Of course no one's seen them in ages," he said, snorting. "Why would you want to? They'll carry you off under their hill, or make you dance 'til you're dead."
"If no one's seen them, how do you know it's elf-made wine you get?" she argued.
Aurican grinned and shrugged.
"If it makes you giddy with stronger magic when you drink it," he said. "The Fair Folk leave flowers floating in the barrels after they pass by."
"What's preventing people from throwing flowers in themselves and claiming it's elf-made wine?" Hermione wanted to know. "How could a person tell the difference?"
The bartender shuddered.
"I wouldn't dare claim something was elf-made when it wasn't," he said. "It might offend them, which could quickly get very, very bad."
"But what if someone did?" Hermione pressed. "If it was the flowers that gave the wine the extra kick, not the magic of the Fae themselves, could it be imitated?"
"I guess," he said reluctantly. He shrugged. "So long as it works and it sells, though, I suppose it doesn't much make a difference to me."
Aurican's stories began to rapidly make some things very clear, though. The hedgewitches were resigned to their lot in life because they genuinely believed they lacked the magic to power a wand. They seemed just grateful to have any kind of magic, and they left offerings of honey and flowers for the Fae in their gardens to keep their favor and avoid their wrath. Hermione remembered all the requests for small animal statues she'd gotten in the market square – one girl had mentioned it was for the Fae.
"The purebloods are afraid that the hedgewitches steal magic," Hermione told her new teacher. "Do you know what all that's about?"
Aurican's face darkened.
"We can't steal their magic, not really, but the rumor that we can certainly gives them reason to hate and avoid us, doesn't it?" His tone was dry, resentful. "There are old, old rituals that might let a person do such a thing, but they are old, and they require a lot of power. More power than anyone has, I think."
"Do you know of these rituals?" Hermione asked, eyes wide. "Do you have them in books? Have they been passed down?"
"I know of rumor and legend," he admitted. "Anyone who had such knowledge would not share it easily, I'd wager." He sniffed. "More likely, some stupid pureblood offended the Fae and received a bloodline curse and was stripped of his magic, and he blamed the hedgewitches instead."
"The Fae can steal magic?" Hermione was fascinated.
"I wouldn't say steal it, not if it was theirs in the first place," Aurican said. "More like return it from whence it came – either back into themselves, or into the earth with all other magic."
Hermione made a mental note to look for wizarding books on the Fae as soon as she could get back to Diagon Alley for a shopping trip.
Over time, more and more people filtered in. Hermione stood out from the color and quality of her robes (and the fact that she wore robes at all, really), and she soon found herself surrounded by a cluster of people, all seemingly interested and amused by her curiosity with their culture, many of them willing to answer her questions in exchange for a drink that cost only a few knuts.
Magic, to them, was more about using plants and other magical bits to make things happen. Some of it Hermione recognized, like using Murtlap Essence to heal wounds, but some Hermione had never heard of, like tossing Feverfew into the air and reciting a little ditty to protect against fire and burns.
"Does it work?" Hermione asked. "Does it actually stop you from getting burned?"
One of the new hedgewitches grinned at her. They were very lithe, and Hermione couldn't quite tell if they were a boy or a girl.
"I mean, as far as spells go, it only lasts for an hour or so," they said. "But it's more for protection – I don't know anyone who's tried to get burned to see if it works, just people who want a bit of luck when using the oven to make dinner or jumping the bonfire."
By the time Derek arrived, The Yard had filled up considerably. It seemed to be the place to go to relax and hang out after a long day's work, and Hermione was alarmed to see most of the people around looked under 25. She supposed it made sense that more mature adults would want to relax away from a bunch of teenagers, but it felt very incongruous to see a bunch of teenagers drinking and carrying on as if they were full adults in their own right. Some of them looked like they were twelve.
"Hermione!" Derek cried, giving her a grin. He turned to Aurican. "Buy the lady an ale, on my tab!"
"I daresay I've got enough drinks at this point," Hermione laughed. She smiled up at Derek. "Good to see you."
Derek grinned at her.
"It's excellent to see you again," he said. "I'm surprised you came! I thought you'd give up on us hedges, eh?"
"Why would you think that?" Hermione was almost offended.
"'Cause everyone else does," a disillusioned girl who looked to be about Hermione's age said, her voice cynical. "They might pretend to like us, but you all go back to your manors at the end of the day while we go to our huts."
Hermione bit her lip.
"Well, I certainly don't have a manor, but I grasp your point," she said slowly. She met the girl's eyes. "I do want to learn more about you and your culture, though. How could I adequately represent you if I don't know what you want or need?"
That caused some confusion until Derek and some of the others explained that she was running for British Youth Representative. Several of the people present didn't seem to know what that was, but they didn't seem to care one way or the other.
"I want some fuckin' gloves," one boy said, scowling at his cut-up hands. "Pickin' through nettles without proper gloves hurts like the dickens."
"I think we should go back to bread allotments," another groused. "I hate baking bread."
This complaint brought a cry of protest from the others.
"Las' time we got bread allotments, we all fell ill," one girl spat. "Cannae trust the purebloods to keep us hearty and hale and alive."
"Easier to take care of it ourselves," a boy said with a sigh. "Even though it's rotten. I hate baking, too."
"They're supposed to keep us safe, though," one girl grumbled. She looked to be about sixteen. "Word is Greyback was prowling around Cumbria last month. I can bake my own bread; give me silver wards to keep me and mine safe."
There was a grumble of agreement at this, resentment and fear flashing across many faces, and Hermione bit her lip.
"Err..." she ventured. "What's Greyback?"
There was a visible stir of surprise at this.
"Fenrir Greyback is a well-known werewolf," Aurican told her, a dark look on his face. "He takes a fancy to turning children, raising them feral in the woods. He's been trying to build an army to take on the Ministry for years."
"A werewolf?" Hermione was somewhat horrified. "And he just savages children?"
"He bites them, and then he either carries them off in the night, or leaves them to terrorize their kinsmen," the original speaker said, her eyes hard. "He comes after our people more than yours – our villages and homes don't have silver wards like the manors do. But they should - there used to be silver wards around the lands, too."
"That's awful." Hermione felt sick inside. "I don't know much about werewolves, but I promise you, I'll look into it. And if I'm Youth Representative, I'll see just what I can do to help. It's not right, that you should be in such danger each month."
The girl looked satisfied by this answer, taking her ale and going off to drink with some friends in another area of the long hall.
Other concerns expressed by the hedgewitches were along the same lines – protection from wildlife and the elements, more food, and freedom to go where they pleased.
"To go where you please?" Hermione asked, blinking.
"The Ministry won't link you up on the Floo Network unless you've got a 'proper' house," Derek explained, scowling. "Just a hearth and a chimney isn't enough. No, you have to have a proper fireplace…"
"How do you get anywhere, then?" She had been wondering, ever since she'd taken the long trip from the Flint's down to the Yard.
"Brooms." Derek's answer was simple. "We take brooms. But even flyin', it can take a minute to get from one place to another."
"Brooms? You all just fly?" Hermione asked, shocked. "What if the muggles see you?"
"That's why we have brooms with anti-Muggle Disillusionment charms, innit?" he said, giving her a crooked smile. "Don't worry, Hermione – one thing we don't do is give away magic to the muggles. We're the ones they'll come after and burn first if they ever find out."
Hermione listened actively, taking mental notes of their concerns, but she had a hard time hiding her surprise as she listened. She'd expected they'd want education of their own, the chance to learn and master magic, maybe a secondhand wand program to help get everyone a wand. Instead, they wanted wards to protect their houses, bigger grain allotments, and for the purebloods who owned their land and homes to help out more.
"They're supposed ta help us with things needin' spellwork once a month," Derek grumbled. "Fixin' shoes and the like, things with a wand. But those days always end up 'cancelled', and by the time one finally sticks, your tunic's worn out into just threads."
As the night wore on, much of the crowd migrated outside, and Hermione went with them, curious. The night was warm and balmy, and she'd gotten another honeyed mead to nurse. Around the side of the building, several bonfires were burning, each of a different color, and people were leaping over them and laughing.
"What are they doing?" Hermione wanted to know, shocked and a little afraid.
"Practicin' leapin'," Derek told her. "Bonfire leapin' is part o' many of the festivals. Not so much for Lugnasa or the autumn equinox, but for Samhain for sure, an' it always is for Midsummer, which was a few weeks ago."
Hermione felt a thrill in her chest.
"The old festivals?" she asked conversationally. "You still celebrate them here?"
Derek gave her an odd look.
"What else would we be celebrating?" he asked.
"At Hogwarts," Hermione said, her mouth dry, "they celebrate Christmas and Easter and Valentine's Day."
Derek guffawed loudly at this, and a couple others nearby broke into uproarious laughter.
"Why?" he wanted to know. "Those aren't magic festivals – those are muggle holidays. Muggle ones! Of all places, I would expect Hogwarts to recognize magic!"
"The power of the old festivals frightens the Ministry, I think," Hermione said, gnawing at her lip. "Powerful rituals can be done on such days, and rituals are much harder to control than the use of a wand."
Derek sobered a bit.
"That's fair," he said slowly. "Ministry's stamped down on those, I know." He looked around at his peers, who were drinking, singing, and leaping over fires to mixed results. "None o' us do rituals like the witches of old, really. Just the typical holiday ones." He sighed. "Wish I could, though. It'd be nice."
"Why don't you?" Hermione asked.
"Too weak," Derek dismissed. "Don't have the magic."
"If you think you're too weak as one person—" which Hermione was convinced was a self-convinced delusion, not a truth "—why don't you join with some others and form a coven?"
Derek snorted.
"Coven rings were banned over a hundred years ago," he said.
"You can still form a coven without coven rings," Hermione argued, aware of how hypocritical it felt while she wore her own on her finger.
"Yeah, but you can only share magic during rituals, then," Derek dismissed. "If you're going to go to the trouble of forming a coven, you'd want it to be for always, not just when you're doing Ritual Magic."
Hermione gnawed on her lip.
"Technically, the Ministry only banned the sale of such things," she said. "If you could get someone who knew how to make them, someone who would give them to people, not sell them, and then you could thank that person with other things, not money…"
Derek caught her meaning, and he looked thoughtful.
"I know there's a silversmith up by Worm's domain," he said. "I dunno if he has the magic to enchant coven rings, though. Just the skill to make them, maybe."
"It's a first step?" Hermione offered, and Derek laughed.
"Why are you so insistent on this, little witch?" he teased her. "So worried about us poor hedges doing magic, wanting to give us wands or make covens."
"It's just…" Hermione bit her lip, struggled to find the right words. "When I found out I was magic, it was incredible, but when I really could use magic, that's when I really felt like I'd come into myself." It was hard to articulate what she meant, but her voice held her passion and sincerity. "I want all magical people to be able to feel like that – to feel like magic is a part of them, not just something they use from time to time."
"And is it?" Derek challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Part of you?"
Hermione's eyes were on the teens leaping over the fire. They took running jumps and tumbled on the other side to put out any flames that had caught their clothes alight, regardless of if they had caught fire or not. It was a far cry from the elegant, acrobatic flips and spins the House Elves had done on Wassail Eve, sparks of magic trailing in their wake.
Reaching for the earth elemental inside of her, Hermione filtered her magic through it and down into the earth. She could feel the earth elemental react to her intentions with almost amusement, but it reached out anyway, reaching to find silica and quartz in the earth around them all, thousands of thin, tiny tendrils of magic bringing particles to the surface of the ground.
Hermione approached the largest fire, watching, and Derek hurried to her side, putting a hand on her arm, alarmed.
"You shouldn't jump wearing that," he said seriously. "It flaps too much. Too much fabric. You could catch fire."
"The other girls are jumping," Hermione said mildly.
"They're wearing kirtles, not robes," he said. "Doesn't have the flouncy sleeves yours does."
"My sleeves won't catch fire if I jump over high enough over the fire," Hermione pointed out, and Derek scoffed.
"That's a dangerous risk to take, witch-girl," he said. "And not to be rude, but you're not the fastest or strongest here, and those that are still catch aflame from time to time."
Hermione smiled.
"Do you want to see Magic?" she asked. "Or not?"
His eyes grew wide, and Derek fell back, and the crowd around the fires slowly seemed to realize something was happening when they saw her near the largest fire, the teens falling into a hush as they watched.
Hermione approached, looking it over analytically. The bonfire was high, maybe between four and five feet tall. Her mind ran over jumps she'd seen in the past, from the simple flips of the House Elves to high jumps she'd seen in the Olympics to complicated gymnastic floor routines. The air elemental inside of her was quivering, alight and excited, as if anticipating her intentions before she had really decided what she was going to do. Eyes still on the fire, she took several long steps backwards to give herself space.
With a deep breath, focusing and centering her magic, Hermione reopened her eyes, ready.
Her air elemental was already in action as she ran towards the fire, working with the earth elemental to blow up small pieces of silica and quartz into her trail as she ran, leaving the illusion of sparkles in the air in her wake. As she approached the fire, she planted her feet into the ground firmly, blocking her body in at a 45 degree angle before leaping over the fire, the air elemental guiding her much, much higher than she'd ever have been able to jump on her own. She tucked her head into her chest and somersaulted in the air, once, twice, three times as she went over the fire, before landing some safe distance on the other side, her body bouncing slightly as she landed, impact reverberating through her legs.
As she landed, she could see the last sparkles in the air settle behind her, and she smiled, laughing in relief. That had been almost fun, once she'd gotten over her fear. There was a silence for a moment before the crowd broke out into whooping and cheering, laughing.
"Merlin's tits!" One of the teens came over to her, astonished. "How in the bloody fuck did you do that?"
Hermione laughed. "Magic?"
To her amusement, the teens demanded she do it again and again, moving to a smaller fire where they tried too. Though she stopped with the sparkles in the air, Hermione obliged them, running and flipping in the air over and over again, her air elemental giving her speed and height where her physical skill could not.
By the time she finally left that night (it was nearly eleven, far later than she'd anticipated she'd be out), Hermione had flipped over the fire, backflipped over it, and done an artistic sort of twisting thing as well as she jumped. A few of the teens had gotten the hang of flipping (once) over the fire as they ran and jumped, but she was the only one to flip three time through the air over the fire as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It had been exhilarating, more exciting and more fun than she'd thought, and her eyes were bright.
Flipping over fires certainly wasn't what she had expected she'd be doing that evening, but if magic acrobatics tricks were what it took to get the hedgewitches' votes, Hermione would learn to do magical gymnastics feats as best she could.
She'd never felt so alive.