Hermione Granger, 11, swooped down towards the football-sized object at blinding speed, clutching the broom she was riding firmly between her legs. Seeing an obstacle, she shifted suddenly, forcing her broom around it. Then another. Then she snagged the ball out of the air. Her hands were a bit small for, essentially, goalkeeping, but she managed. At the next opportunity, she swooped right, then stayed her course. Finally, she swooped left, then left again. As she passed near the hoops, she feinted to the left of the keeper, then threw right. It bounced its way through, and Hermione continued left until she could fly back up-field.

It was a heady feeling that made Hermione smile without worrying about her teeth as she slowly flew back. She had done it - scored a goal as a Chaser.

Of course, she hadn't been dodging two ten-stone black iron cannonballs going 60 miles an hour. Her broom hadn't had more than a yard's leeway on either side. She was wearing a crash helmet and knee and arm padding, instead of whatever it was Harry Potter would wear. Her obstacles were helium balloons tied to anchors on the ground, not other fliers. The opposing goalkeeper was a straw dummy. Her manoeuvres were limited to straight-ahead fast, or to the left or right at a couple of junctures that would curve you to a right angle only after several seconds of flight. The broom was only partially supporting her, the two harnesses hooked to the cables above did most of that, the broom and the two cables below her were for steering. The weather in September at this off-season ski line was much better than in central Scotland. But she was Hermione the bookworm, not some young champion athlete; as a heroine, at best she might be able to pass for Patty Lucas (reading Patty's World when it was revived in Girl was a bonding experience for her and her normally too-busy mother).

Hermione's uncle, who owned the ski resort and did ropes and zip-lift courses in the off-season there, had felt a little sorry for his niece. He also believed the girl to be unhealthily allergic to fresh air and exercise. He didn't have room for the sport she'd envisioned and rattled off to him, and even if he had, it would be an insurance nightmare, but he was willing to test the concept since he was an expert on ropes safety.

The worst part, the junctures where you could throw yourself to one side or the other and the wheel would latch on to one of the three cable sets that overlapped there, was ingenious. He'd tested it himself, and while it was a bit of a jerk, he never failed to stay on course, shift left, or shift right. That said, when he deliberately half slipped - which took two dozen tries - all that had happened was the cable shoes cinching, and him coming to a halt abruptly, but not with dangerous g-force or torque. He'd been worried it would be a whiplash factory, but it was very mild. Using your hips and shoulders and the four cables, shifting the lower ones with the broom, worked far better than he'd envisioned for moving almost a yard to the left or right. If she was entirely sane, she could be his ropes instructor in a few years.

Now, that was not to say the girl wasn't somewhat mad. He was delighted with her new sportiness - apparently, she needed a medical permission to play football with the girls at playtime; what was the world coming to? But that "sport" she'd dreamt up was obviously a non-sporty girl making it up as she went along. Ten points a goal - well, that was bad - why not one? Then the 15-point, sorry, the 150-point spectacle of a small ball being remotely controlled as it flew or swung across rapidly. If it was caught by a player whose only job was to cool his heels for perhaps an hour (she decided it would be slower than cricket), the game ended. If not, not. It would make anyone yearn for the longest cricket test of their life in comparison.

And of course the broom. She assured her uncle that boys would love to fly on a witches' broom, too. Of course they would. And adopt cats as familiars, wear pointy hats and long dresses, and brew love potions. All the things boys love. When she mentioned shooting iron cannonballs at the players, he stopped her and they went out to look over the site. Clearly, there wouldn't be enough room, nor enough cable, to have two goal areas on the downslope side that you struggled to shift the football to. Which was fine, since any sort of interaction on this crazy field would probably leave everyone involved at the A&E, if they were lucky. At first, Hermione looked crestfallen.

Then she seemed to determine to make the best of it, and she had. A week of rigorous practice after school, and she was quite the accomplished flier. He'd promised that if she stuck to it, he'd film her, using the silvery screen he used to project movies on the hillside as a backdrop. And so he had. He'd allowed her to put a black robe on, loose enough to fit over her arm padding, and the cables and her silvery crash helmet disappeared against the background.

The crew that developed the film he shot during ski season owed him a favour, and they merged the grey-screened footage with a background of a nearby meadow with a woods behind it. It truly was impressive. And of course, the whole thing was the best birthday present ever. Her uncle had no children of his own, he doted on Hermione and was overjoyed at her stated decision to take charge of her life.


When Hermione brought the VCR tape home, her parents were floored. There was their daughter, flying a broom and playing some obviously witchy sport. They knew the significance of the footage, to a degree; others would put it down to her uncle being mechanically brilliant, and Hermione being a genius girl with an overactive imagination. Her father told her if the whole magical world thing turned out to be drastically inferior to what she anticipated, she could teach rope line courses at her uncle's resort for a summer job, and perhaps become a stunt-woman one day.

The session that led to Hermione's big moment today was the last time her uncle could supervise her this year. She'd told him, cheerfully, that she was way behind on her reading anyway. When he groaned, she promised she'd persist in her daily football practice and exercise regimen. She'd been to her doctor, who'd cheerfully given her a medical permission slip. She usually kept the goal in the impromptu games over break time, but was willing to run around anywhere she was needed. The constant dribbling practice had left her as an above-average player, despite having below-average coordination and only middling wind. It was a testament to her newfound determination.

As more people saw her as normal and sociable, the other students in her year became friendlier. Fortunately, everyone could see how hard she worked at school and how busy she was, so no one asked her to do their homework. Anyone who wished to copy her notes she let do so, if she wasn't using them. Interestingly, a friend of the girl who'd called her "Loony" confessed to her one day that she, too, believed in ghosts and supernatural events. Hermione told her about her childhood poltergeist phenomena but spared her any further details

.


Hermione started going to sleep earlier, exhausted by her routine. She had one or two dolls read and take notes while she slept. It meant she wasn't as refreshed in the morning, but she felt doing things this way strengthened her magical power. Her list-making tapered off so she could be more attentive in classes. Coupled with her newfound sportiness, her school decided whatever puberty-related health issues had been troubling her were being taken care of.

She tried her program with the new dolls. She indeed brushed out Bushy's hair and collected it in a ponytail. She brushed Bucky's teeth and, after learning the Dens minui transfiguration spell, she subvocalized, visualised and willed it every night. After a few days, she believed it had progressed. But it was not by much, and in case it somehow took off and the teeth became too small, she learned the Dens augeo spell, just to be safe. As for Loony? At first, holding her made Hermione feel self-conscious. But she soon got over that, and had to admit she found it comforting.

Her dolls assured her that none of this was wasted effort. Plain suggested she ask about something magical for hair called Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment, which was apparently invented by Harry Potter's grandfather, even though his hair remained worse than hers. That didn't sound promising, but Hermione said she'd look for it the next time she went to Diagon Alley. Even saying those words made her shiver. The book world was infiltrating her world like a cloud of thin, white smoke.

When Hermione said once, "If only they could talk," Pain replied, asking her how she was so certain they couldn't. As her magic strengthened, as her stamina increased, Hermione's dolls became more and more true personalities. It was unnerving and comforting at the same time. She supposed they'd been absorbing her magic for a couple of years by now. That might explain why they were so unusual.

Hermione had told them to follow leads, and look for what was important. Now, a couple of weeks after her birthday, they had highlighted a path for her to follow; she should continue close reading of the books in order, but before that, she should do a quick read-through of the tenth, 34th and 35th chapters of the fifth book.

She needed to learn about Sirius Black. She didn't know why Genius saying that made her feel a chill, but it did, remembering she'd mused that if Black was ever going to show up, he was overdue by the fifth book. She needed to know about the Ministry Six, two of whom would be her and Harry Potter. She also needed to skim ahead to the word "thestral" in the final chapter. Reclaiming her life, helping Harry Potter, preparing to survive in the backward society of Wizarding Britain, all were important.

But first, she must save Luna Lovegood.