.

.:.

All of Hermione's frustration and bafflement with the mythos of the Boy-Who-Lived was abruptly blasted from her mind by the revelation that the press had whitewashed Harry Potter. They may not have made him lily-white, but the Peter-Pan-esque adventurer in the picture books was several shades paler than the boy sitting in front of her.

Also better groomed.

And better dressed.

And better fed.

She realized she'd been silently staring for an unclear length of time, and her mouth took over for her brain. Harry Potter's only reply to the ensuing ramble was to ask: "I'm in books?"

"Yes," she managed to choke out. "Would you like to see them?"

To which his reaction was not curiosity or enthusiasm, but something that looked oddly like apprehension.

Not for the first time, Hermione felt like an alien.

The breathtaking adventure of arriving at Hogwarts, her anxiety about the sorting, Professor McGonagall's omission of Ijeoma from her name (not that anyone else got their middle names read, but still!), and the implications of a mind-reading hat temporarily distracted her from the mystery of Harry Potter.

A few days later, all that introducing Just Harry to the Boy Who Lived revealed was that she really needed to research magical publishing law. Which, between classwork and her independent Bat Mitzvah studies, would unfortunately have to wait.

(No one else had really bothered to explain to Harry why everyone was looking at him Like That— much less taken the time to dig up books and articles so they could show him. Hagrid had tried, but the story he told was really more confusing than anything else.

Harry would gladly listen to all Hermione's rants and ramblings out of gratitude alone, even if he did occasionally wrote down some of the big words she used to look them up later.)

Pretending to not know things, Hermione quickly found, was much easier said than done. Especially when the teachers spent entire class sessions explaining those things to the other students. Casting the spells correctly on her second or third go did still put her ahead of all but a few, though, and the praise and points she got made it easier. Especially from Professor McGonagall— who was extremely knowledgeable, clearly a kindred spirit on the topics of knowledge and hard work, and had been Dumbledore's Second (!) when he fought Grindelwald(!).

(Harry looked very confused about her giggling over a transfiguration text, but how was she to explain the mental image of a dark-haired, wand-wielding Eowyn turning the Witch King's mace into a pool noodle without sounding cracked?)

She was not deceiving her teachers and peers, she told herself. No one had asked if she had prior practice— the idea that a muggleborn could have found some way around the Trace did not seem to have occurred to them at all.

Ted would probably say that was a good thing for her. It didn't feel very good.

.

"Are you a mozlem?"

Hermione paused, and looked up from her toast. "I beg your pardon?"

"A mozlem." Harry blinked innocently. "Never met any, but I've heard they don't eat pork, which you don't. And you pray in… whatever language that is before you eat. But you don't hide your hair or seem very dangerous, so I wasn't sure."

That last bit, it turned out, was one of the least horrid things his relatives had apparently told him about Islam.

Hermione was almost afraid to ask what he'd heard about Jews– or why someone raising a Desi boy would expose him to such opinions. Which led to her having attempting to explain what Desi meant, realizing she was under-prepared to do so, adding the prerequisite research to her List, and starting another list entitled HP Observations.

Late that afternoon, Prefect Weasley led her to a door engraved with concentric circles of Hebrew lettering around a silvery Magen David, gently gleaming in the torchlight. There was Hebrew carved into the lintel and doorpost as well, so small it must have been done with a scalpel, intertwined with symbols she didn't recognize.

The door clicked open before Prefect Weasley could knock. Entranced, Hermione pushed it the rest of the way, the wood warm to the touch.

She could barely see the walls of the room inside; medieval tapestries, mind-bending diagrams, and moving paintings hung just about everywhere, hiding the stone.

"Brukhim-haboim!" Called a portrait of what looked very much like a viking in a yarmulke, peering down at her curiously. "Ver ken ir zeyn, magishele? Eyner fun di maroka'im?"

It sounded different from the Yiddish she'd heard in shul, his accent rough where theirs were smooth and smooth where theirs were rough.

"Sorry," she replied, squinting at the brass label in search of a date. "I don't speak…"

"Shabbat Shalom!"

A thin, older olive-skinned witch smiled from the door beside the hearth, ink-stained hands clasped over embroidered skirts, hair hidden by a blue paisley tichel.

"You must be Hermione," she said— which was a bit startling, after a week of Miss Granger.

"S-shabbat Shalom, Professor. And yes, I am."

"And so early, too. I understand this will be your first foray into Judaism on this side of things?"

Hermione nodded. "I've done as much reading as I could between preparing for term to begin and familiarizing myself with wizarding history and culture in general, but I couldn't find any books that clearly laid out the differences or even said if the Halacha is different— so I would really appreciate any recommendations you might have. And thank you so much for this opportunity!"

"It's really no trouble," said Professor Babbling. "Though you really should say magical history and culture."

Hermione blinked as her brain caught up with her mouth. "Oh! I'm sorry— it does seem oddly sexist, doesn't it? I would've expected wands to be some sort of great equalizer, but so many texts say Wizarding this or Wizarding that, I suppose it just wormed its way into my thoughts…"

The door shut quietly behind her.

"Well," said the Professor, "I think I have some books to recommend to you. And you're not wrong about the sexist overtones, but the gendered use of witch and wizard is actually a very modern phenomenon, which I believe perpetuates some fundamental misunderstandings about magic."

Hermione suddenly wished she'd brought a notebook.

Professor Babbling smiled. "The Middle English wicche did not differentiate between feminine and masculine, but rather between practitioners of wandless, highly ritualistic indigenous traditions and roman-style wand-wielders."

"Who were so successful because wands are more expedient for military purposes!" Hermione blurted— then covered her mouth, flushing.

"Precisely. And who most often goes to war?"

"Men!"

A nod. "Between that and the fact that wandless traditions often favored priestesses, you can imagine— ah."

She looked past Hermione, and waved her wand; the door clunked open.

"Come in!" She called.

A blonde boy in blue and bronze peeked through. "Gut Shabbos! Nice to see you, Professor and…?"

Thus Hermione Granger met Anthony Gershowitz, a fellow first-year who already knew Professor Babbling from shul— and, a few minutes later, over a dozen older students from all four Houses.

Hermione was not used to so much attention from older students— let alone older students who were excited to meet her. It was somewhat intimidating.

There seemed to be more Sephardim among the purebloods than among the halfbloods or (worryingly few) muggleborns.

When everyone had arrived, Professor Babbling led them through her floo. On the other side of the fire and vertigo was… more or less what Hermione imagined a Gondorian sitting room might look like, give or take some Judaica. A golden Tree of Life stretched up across vaulted white stone, softly twinkling. Mage-lights glowed gently inside hanging lanterns. One wall was studded with burnished brass plaques, engraved with names in English and Hebrew.

"Ah, Bathsheda!" Several older men rose from the table they'd been sitting around, tallit draped over their robes. "And some new faces, I see."

These were the Rabbis Benattar, Kann, and Fawley, pillars of Temple V'hai Bahem— the oldest synagogue in Britain by several centuries.

As Hermione followed them further into the temple, that history grew more apparent. The geometric tilework and intricately decorated horseshoe arches reminded Hermione of a photo she'd seen of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. Suits of rune-engraved armor (sans weapons) hinted at the political climate at the time of construction. And everywhere were sturdy shelves filled with old leather-bound tomes, as if the temple library had outgrown its original room. Hermione saw as many titles in Spanish and Arabic as she did in Hebrew and English.

She wondered if this was what the children of non-dentists felt in sweet shops. She wondered if a mundane camera would work inside the wards— which were supposedly stronger than that of many pureblood manors. She wondered just how extensive the differences between magical and non-magical Judaism were; Professor Babbling said that obvious things like divination and necromancy and consorting with demons were still right out, and promised to lend her a book written specifically for muggle-raised magi on the Israelite categorizations of magic, and then the service was starting.

Afterward, Hermione couldn't remember much about the structure of the service or how the specific prayers might have differed from the ones she knew— and she couldn't bring herself to mind. Not after having felt over a hundred people put their magic into the songs of her childhood, filling the air with so much warm comfort that she had started crying without even realizing it. One of the upperclassmen had given her a handkerchief and an understanding smile.

She felt as if a weight had been lifted off of her. Like she could breathe just a little easier.

Her eyes were still watery when Rabbi Kann approached and asked about her Bat Mitzvah studies.

"I was going to do Ha'azinu," she said, "but then Professor McGonagall came to visit."

"Yes, that does tend to happen. Have you chosen a new parsha?"

Hermione ducked her head. "Not yet. I— suppose I got rather caught up."

"That's common as well. We are, of course, here to help. By owl post, at the very least. Professor Babbling said you were interested in magical Halacha?"

"Yes!" Said Hermione— and was trying to prioritize her questions when something new occurred to her. Something awful. "Magical Halacha?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean that all the other records of Halakhic law were modified to enforce the Secrecy?" Her eyes went wide. "Were all the muggle Kehillot obliviated? All the Rabbis?"

Rabbi Kann paused, blinked, and then smiled. "What are they teaching you kids about the Secrecy these days?"

What? "That it… was a massive, coordinated effort by the majority of European magi?"

"I see." He beckoned her to a nearby bench, and sat beside her. "The initial push for secrecy did involve obliviation, but it would have been impossible to modify the memory of every single muggle. Instead, the ICW created the first of several very powerful, very far-reaching enchantments, which essentially make people who aren't regularly exposed to magic much less likely to believe in it."

Hermione felt a little foolish in hindsight, for not second-guessing her mental image of an obliviation rampage across Europe. But the idea of an enchantment that could alter the thinking of millions of people…

"Obliviation is, of course, against Halachic law."

She blinked. Looked up at him. "Oh. Of course. Violation of autonomy."

"Exactly," he said. "Any non-consensual mind-magic is. There was some tension between us and the ICW because of it. There were too few of us to stop it, but in many cases we were able to skirt the Statute."

"What? How?"

"In a number of ways. Entire Kehillot pretending to have been obliviated, for instance. As for Halachic texts, many were simply replaced with edited copies and hidden away for later, when there was less scrutiny. I'm sure Bathsheda has some books on this you could borrow. Again, please do write us with any questions you might have. Oh— and mazl tov."

She returned to the castle in a daze that only cleared when Albus Dumbledore swept into Professor Babbling's quarters with a cheerful "Gut Shabbos!"

He was draped in a silver-trimmed blue velvet robe and surprisingly plain yarmulke.

"Terribly sorry to keep you all waiting. Lior sends his love— and his knishes!"

A casserole dish appeared in the Headmaster's hands with a soft pop.

Sixteen students and one Professor cheered, raising their mugs, cups, and glasses.

Hermione could only stare; she'd never seen him up close before. She'd expected to feel a pressure in the air, like how the texts had described Merlin's presence, but there was nothing. His clothes were odd, and the only way his beard could get more wizard-y would be if he braided it, but otherwise he just seemed…

"Like someone's flamboyant zeyde, right?" Said Anthony.

Hermione: "Surely he's not—?"

"Oh no, total goy. Not that any faux-pagan purebloods would let their pet publishers highlight it if he were Jewish. Word is he started coming to Shabbos in late 1945, so we think he'd made some Jewish friends on the continent and missed the kvetching."

"Miss Granger?" Called Professor Babbling.

Seventeen pairs of eyes turned towards Hermione. She struggled not to slouch. These were her people. There was no reason to hide.

"Y-yes, Professor?"

"I'm told you have a gift with candles."

She felt herself flushing. What had Professor McGonagall said about her? Had she told all the teachers?

"Would you care to help me do the honors?"

Right. No pressure.

She nodded.

With a swirl of her wand Professor Babbling dimmed the lamps, leaving the room in fading sunlight.

Hermione focused on the candle before her, and imagined the hearth at home. She imagined her parents beside her— Baba's hand on her back, warm and steady, Maman's perfume...

"Eish," she whispered.

Soft orange light glowed through her eyelids, brightening as the Professor lit the second candle.

Hermione took a deep breath, and began to sing:

"Baruch Atah Adonai

Eloheinu Melech haolam…"

The voices of the others wrapped around her like a warm blanket. The flames grew brighter.

"…asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'zivanu l'hadlik ner

L'hadlik ner

shel Shabbat."

There was silence for a long moment afterwards. Hermione could feel people looking at her, but oddly didn't mind. Dumbledore even complimented her on her wandless focus after the Motzi. Dumbledore!

Also, the knishes were really quite good.

Harry, who had stayed up late to wait for her in the common room, asked what she was smiling about. This led to an abridged, half-delirious crash course on Judaism, and Hermione waking up the next morning with more questions (and concerns) about what his guardians were teaching him.

On September 12th, Professor McGonagall made a baffling exception for Harry. Well, baffling to Hermione; the most coherent things she'd heard about Quidditch came from Mrs. Tonks, who had a rather low opinion of it– but that could have had more to do with Dora's clumsiness than anything else.

Hermione was reviewing her custom schedule for empty time-slots in which to research Quidditch safety precautions when Draco Malfoy sauntered over and challenged Harry to a duel. Ron seemed more excited about it than either of them.

"Do you think Malfoy's parents waited until he was eleven to get him a wand, or to let him practice with it?" she asked Harry. "Not to mention that his father is an alleged terrorist! He definitely knows more spells than you, and some of those spells might be dangerous."

Harry looked worried. "But he wouldn't cast anything too dangerous at school, would he?"

Maybe not with witnesses, Hermione thought.

"Maybe not," Hermione said, "but how can we be sure of that?"

Harry frowned.

"All the more reason he needs reinforcements!" said Ron.

"Right." Harry smiled nervously. "Especially reinforcements that are really good at magic."

But Hermione knew she needed to stay on the teachers' good sides, and was wary of making an enemy of someone from such an influential family (as much as that irritated her).

"Come on," said Ron. "Are you a Gryffindor or not?"

"Really?" she asked. "That's your best argument?"

He reddened slightly.

"Besides, I was almost a Ravenclaw."

"Shocker, that." Harry's smile was oddly nervous, then.

She refused to be party to blatant rule-breaking, but thoughts of what might happen to them out in the dark hallways kept her from sleep. Dumbledore's words echoed in her head.

A most painful death.

She ended up on one of the couches in the common room, watching the hearth as she waited... which was how the Weasley twins caught her whistling 'Three Little Birds' to herself at midnight— and saw how the flames were reacting.

"Well what have we here, Gred?"

"Methinks I've a suspicion, Forge."

"Might that be thanks to a certain lizard-loving relative of ours?"

"It just might be."

Hermione crossed her arms. "I'm not starting any fires for you."

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Their smiles grew in eerie unison.

"Warned you about us, did he?"

"Told tales of our exploits?"

"He certainly told me something," she replied.

"Oho! Ominous words from a potentially promising pyrokinetic."

They plopped down on the couch beside her. Thankfully she was leaning against its arm, so both were in front of her, in sight. Unthankfully, they were staring at her. One tilted his head to the side & stroked a nonexistent beard.

"Firebug, hm? I see it."

Oh, absolutely not.

"My name," she said, "is—"

"Her-maya-knee," said one—

"Idge-oh-mah," said the other— and, together: "Granger!"

"It's 'Ee-JO-mah."

Both boys reeled as if struck.

"Ah!"

"Failure!"

"Our first impression, bungled!"

"Professor Pinkhair will be so disappointed in us!"

Pink—? "You know Tonks?"

"Know her? We were practically her apprentices!"

"Lots of stories about She-Who-Dislikes-Her-Name, yes Ma'am."

Against her better judgment, Hermione perked up. "Really? Like what?"

"She's a wily one, Gred. Already knows all about us, and still digging for information without offering any herself."

"A snake in kitten's clothing, Forge."

This was starting to feel like an ambush. "What do you want to know?"

"Well—"

"Hermione!" Harry stumbled through the portrait, Ron and Neville in tow, wide-eyed and out of breath. "What are you doing awake?"

She resisted the urge to shrink away from the attention and sat up straight. "Being interrogated, apparently."

"Oi, leave her alone!" Ron panted.

"What happened to you?" She asked.

Hermione really didn't mean to downplay Harry's allegedly textbook execution of the unlocking charm, but she was a bit distracted by that apparently being all it took to get within biting range of the 600-pound-carnivore being kept in the school.

"Oh, that old mutt?" Said a twin. "We've been sneaking him steaks for weeks."

The lack of further information —and the impending potions exam— forestalled further conversation.

(She only briefly considered writing home about the cerberus. She was only a first year; there were surely any number of unseen security measures a wizard of Dumbledore's experience could cast.)

.

.:.

Nine hours later, they filed into the dungeons to find a sheet of parchment and a phial of clear liquid waiting on each desk. Professor Snape ignored them in favor of the text in his hands.

Hermione had her quill out and was reading through the test questions when Ron and Harry hurried in, not a minute before the bell chimed.

The Professor shut his book with a startling snap.

"Begin."

Potion-making safety precautions were really quite straightforward. Only Draco Malfoy and Parvati Patil finished before her, and Hermione suspected that had more to do with their familiarity with quills than anything else.

"Prepare yourselves to brew," said the Professor, once he had collected their exams with a fascinating variant of the levitation charm.

Hermione smiled to herself as the others hurried to tie back or tidy their hair. Baba would be chuffed to hear that his handiwork proved useful for mixing magic potions. The phial contained diluted alcohol, which she used to clean her hands.

"Step away from your desks."

One by one, he inspected them for cleanliness. Hermione hadn't expected either Ron or Harry to pass, but Professor Snape didn't have to be so… snide about it.

Hermione did expect him to reprimand the Slytherins for snickering, and was disappointed.

And baffled .

"Pass," he said to her. "Protective hairstyles such as Miss Granger's are an effective way to reduce the risk of contamination."

When he'd given everyone either terse praise or scathing critique, the Professor asked: "What is the incantation for the hair-restraining charm, also known as the hair-holding charm?"

Hermione raised her hand.

"Mister Malfoy."

"Cohibeo capillōs, Sir."

"Five points to Slytherin for a correct answer, and five for proper pronunciation. Who can demonstrate the wand movement?"

Hermione raised her hand.

The Professor called on Nott.

"Five points to Slytherin for diligent preparation. Wands out!"

Hermione added Send thank-you note to Mrs. Tonks for wand holster to her List.

"Potter," the Professor sneered. "You first. Let us see if your renowned prowess is enough to overcome… whatever has befallen you."

More snickers and smirks.

Harry clenched his jaw, pointed his wand at his hair, and cast. The wand movement was precise, the pronunciation was… adequate, and his hair…

Barely twitched.

Someone snorted.

The Professor smirked.

Harry's light brown skin flushed darker. Hermione was grateful for her complexion as her neck heated up.

"Parkinson, you next."

Parkinson's pronunciation was flawless, but her wand-movement was sloppy; the spell actually knocked several strands of hair loose somehow. Her blush was much more obvious than Harry's.

Malfoy, of course, executed the charm perfectly, instantly tidying the few hairs that had resisted whatever he'd slathered them with.

Snape continued around the room, seemingly at random. Malfoy was one of the few to cast it right.

"Granger."

She raised her wand—

"Not on yourself," said the Professor. "The difference would hardly be visible, would it?"

Hermione chose to interpret this as praise for her Baba's hairdressing skills.

"Cast the charm on… Mister Potter."

More snickers. She could practically feel the smug looks, the ill-gotten sense of superiority radiating off them… and barely even felt the urge to hunch smaller.

None of them knew how many times she had already cast the spell.

"Any time now, Miss Granger."

She set her jaw, stood tall, and pointed her wand at Harry's shaggy head. She recalled the feeling of Baba gathering her hair back, the tugs on her scalp as he braided it tight…

"Cohibeo capillōs."

Harry's yelp echoed through the room as the wild strands that'd already escaped his messy ponytail and those that had never submitted to it in the first place were pulled flat.

Then the room was silent.

He reached up and patted his head, eyes widening.

"Five points to Gryffindor for diligent preparation…"

Pride blossomed in her chest, warm and bracing, putting a smile on her face as she turned—

"And five points from Gryffindor for somehow managing to inflict pain on a classmate with a hygiene charm."

Parkinson barely made any effort to quiet her plastic giggles.

Hermione wondered, as her cheeks heated, what sound the bint would make if all that straight, boring hair was yanked back.

Hermione was no stranger to sneers or whispers or snide remarks. It was disappointing , but not disheartening. Insults about her skin and hair no longer phased her— her braids were a work of art, an artefact of her Baba's love, and there were thousands of people that voluntarily risked skin cancer in hopes of making their complexion more like hers.

The same was not true of her teeth, but comments about them were nothing new.

They're just words, she told herself, but did add Research magical orthodonture to her List.

Insinuations about her blood, however— that was different. They weren't just insulting her— they were insulting her parents.

And she didn't know what to do about it without making things worse.

At least it was only the Slytherins.

At first.

Her peers in primary school had not, of course, had wands.

.

.o.

"Read that again," said Lucius Malfoy.

Narcissa did not look up from Draco's latest letter; she simply arched a brow.

"The mudblood," he clarified. "Read her name again. Please."

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

Lucius paused to think, tapping a thumb-ring against the head of his cane. Narcissa Black might have grown uneasy at his apparent interest in a twelve-year-old muggleborn. Narcissa Malfoy did not. Narcissa Malfoy felt only idle curiosity.

"I have heard that name before," he said. "No— I've read it. Excuse me, darling."

Narcissa Malfoy did not watch him leave. She took a long drink of the Château Rosier 1863 Lupercalia Merlot, and re-read the chronicle of hauter and jealousy her son had sent.

The mudblood, he had written, as if she was the only one in his year. Perhaps she was simply the most visible of them, due to her friendship with Potter.

The Potter, because he was the last of a line extinguished not by its scion's choice of wife but by the beast whose brand her husband wore

Perhaps there were few of them around to be visible.

Narcissa Black might have felt nauseous. Narcissa Malfoy had far better self-control– and it would be a shame to waste good wine.

.

I would think, wrote Lucius Malfoy to his heir, that the proper response would be obvious to you.

Until mere days ago, she was living with muggles. How is she to know better unless she is taught better?

How is she to know her place unless she is shown it?

It started with a tug on her braids. In the middle of the hallway. With no one in arm's reach— but first-year Slytherins in sight.

A summoning charm? she wondered. Surely none of the upperclassmen cared enough to use invisibility spells to prank her.

Right?

The tugs continued, increasing in both strength and frequency, until—

.o.

Minerva blinked. "Why on earth would you need my written permission to enter the library?"

"Madam Pince banned me." Miss Granger's voice was clipped, her eyes bright with unshed tears, small hands balled into fists at her sides.

"For dropping a book," she grit out, glaring at the desk like it had insulted her mother.

"I assume," Minerva said gently, "that there was more to it than that?"

Hesitation.

"Miss Granger?"

"Nothing I can prove. Professor."

Ah.

She had thought the girl was settling in remarkably well, likely in part due to Ted and Andromeda's guidance. But if she did as well in her other classes as she did in Transfiguration, it was certainly plausible that her performance might have provoked some foolishness.

"Have you had any other accidents of late, Miss Granger?"

"No, Professor."

"I trust you will come to me if you do?"

"…Yes, Professor."

"Well then, let us go speak with Madam Pince."

The light of the lantern on Minerva's desk dimmed slightly.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Hermione was beginning to suspect that she might be friends with Harry Potter.

Exhibit A: He waited for her so they could walk to meals and classes together.

Exhibit B: The only times he didn't sit next to her at meals or in classes was when he was too late to choose his seat.

Exhibit B: He included her in conversation without mocking her, even changing the subject when Ron complained about her study habits.

Exhibit C: He stuck closer to her when people were whispering or laughing.

Exhibit D: He didn't seem to get bored or annoyed when her mouth got away from her. He did seem confused sometimes, but he listened. She'd even caught him taking notes once!

She did not, however, have the faintest idea of what was going on in his head. He seemed alternately oblivious, hyper-focused, baffled, borderline agoraphobic, and brave to the point of recklessness.

Maybe it was his lack of magical education? Admitting ignorance of anything to virtual strangers was intimidating enough, and purebloods seemed to make a point of acting aloof and superior. Hermione couldn't imagine what it would have been like for her without the Tonks' guidance. It was plausible that Harry saw her as a more approachable source of information about the wizarding world.

She hoped that wasn't all it was, but this was Harry Potter. Flagrantly embellished reputation or not, he was hardly lacking in aspiring friends— many of whom were more tactful, confident, and popular than her.

Which was fine. There was an entire library to familiarize herself with, teachers to impress, and prejudice to overcome. She didn't need friends when she had magic.

How did the saying go? Prepare for the worst and hope for the best?

.o.

A quiet huff drew Ted's eyes across the sitting room to his wife, and the letter in her hand. The fond smile on her lips. The maroon wax of the broken seal.

"Still calling you 'Mrs. Tonks', is she?"

Andromeda's smile grew. "For an aspiring rebel, she's quite formal."

"Pot, kettle."

"I know. But she calls you by your first name."

"I'm not her etiquette tutor, love. Be happy she doesn't insist on calling you Madame."

Andromeda's lip curled in disgust.

Ted hid a smile behind his mug. "All well in the lion's den?"

She hummed neutrally, re-reading something.

"Love?"

"It's Harry," she said. "She wants to know if we know anything about his living situation."

"…You told her about Lily."

"Scrapbook and all."

Ted set the paper down. "Did she say why she wants to know?"

"Just that she knew nothing about his reputation until she sat him down and shoved some Boy Who Lived books under his nose, and that she thinks he could benefit from our guidance."

Ted sat back, pensive. Work kept him from getting to know Andy's mentees as well as he might've liked, but he knew Hermione had been a bit of a third wheel to Dean and Patrick. He didn't have a sense of how she would write about a friend— what she would write about a friend.

"Are you going to tell her about the post problem?" He asked.

"I suppose I'll have to," said Andromeda. "If we want her to pass our letters to him."

Ted reached across the table and took her hand. She gripped back tightly.

"Start slow," he said. "All he needs to know right now is that we were friends of his mum and that he's welcome to visit. At least until we've got a better idea of the situation…"

"I know," she sighed. "I'm not going to risk making Hermione the middleman for any legal shite, I just…"

"I know."

Hermione,

I'm afraid your stubbornness has forced my hand. If you will not call me Andromeda, I shall have to call you Firebug.

So, Firebug:

Firstly, we know nothing of Harry's current living situation. Dumbledore assured us that he was being raised by family in the safest possible location, but has declined to provide any further details. I do not know his muggle address, and a mail ward of some kind has prevented me from reaching him via owl post.

Secondly, I suspect you omitted some observations about Harry from your most recent letter. While I commend you for respecting your friend's privacy, I swear to you that I would not share any information you chose to entrust to me unless I thought it necessary for his health and/or safety.

I am, after all, his godmother— albeit a godmother who has been prevented from fulfilling her duties. It is my dearest wish at the moment to remedy that. I have thus enclosed a letter for Harry; please pass it along, and answer any questions he may have about me. I look forward to your next letter.

Sincerely,

Andromeda Tonks

"Wait, Hagrid delivered your orientation packet?"

"Orientation?" Asked Harry. "I… no? Sorry, what does that have to do with the Tonkses?"

Hermione blinked. Took a deep breath. "Harry. What information did Hagrid give you, in spoken or written form, about the magical world and your entry into it?"

"He told me I'm a wizard, explained what happened to my parents, and took me to Diagon Alley. Oh, and he bought me a cake, and Hedwig!"

"He didn't give you any literature? He didn't tell you about blood prejudice, or the Wizengamot, or the acquitted Death Eaters, or how many of your parent's classmates are dead or living in other countries because of how hostile this one apparently is? How did Hagrid even blend in in a muggle neighborhood anyway?"

Harry stared at her for a moment, green eyes wide.

"I think," he said slowly, "that you should tell me how things went for you."

Something was rotten in… somewhere. Possibly multiple somewheres. And between classes, spell practice, and her other studies, Hermione didn't really have time to investigate further.

Yet.

.

.:.

On September 19th, Hermione descended into the common room to find Penny Haywood waiting for her. Penny who was a Hufflepuff. And sitting with the Weasley twins, Harry, Ron, and Neville.

None of whom ever woke up this early.

All of whom were holding colorfully-wrapped boxes.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, eyes suddenly warm. Before she could even start to scrape together words, she heard the scratch of a record player, followed by two warm, familiar voices.

"Joyeux anniversaire

Joyeux anniversaire

Joyeux anniversaire, Hermione

Joyeux anniversaire!"

Oh no. She could not cry in public first thing in the morning!

"Ezi ncheta ọmụmụ gị

Ezi ncheta ọmụmụ gị

Ịhụnanya anyị nọnyeere gị

Ezi ncheta ọmụmụ gị!"

Our love is with you. They'd changed the song for her.

"Happy birthday!" Her friends chorused.

Her friends.

She actually had friends now, real ones who cared enough to— to—

Apparently Hermione was quite capable of crying in public first thing in the morning.

Penny took her by the shoulder and steered her to the couch.

"How—" she choked out, "I didn't tell you…"

"Which we'll discuss later," said Penny.

"Mrs. Tonks told me in her letter," said Harry, all big green eyes and messy hair and nervous smile. "She helped your parents buy the record player, too."

Hermione's head snapped up from— someone's handkerchief—

One of the twins slid the record player into view. The other produced a trunk full of vinyls labeled Lion's Den Jams and absolutely covered in stickers, stamps, and signatures.

"Player's part of your gift," said Penny. "The records belong to Gryffindor, though— except for these."

'These' being Make it Big, Exodus, Chansons Parisiennes, and Fela's '69 Los Angeles Sessions— complete with the slightly worn covers she knew so well.

"Ah, merde," Hermione muttered, losing the battle against a fresh wave of tears.

Mrs. Tonks — Andromeda— and Ted had sent her a lovely card. Just Tonks had sent her a very annoying card that Hermione couldn't bring herself to frown at, and a pamphlet entitled Merlin's Unmentionables: an Uncensored Guide to Sorcerous Slang. Hermione got halfway down the first page before snapping it shut and sliding it under the records, to snickers from the older students.

Penny gave her a self-refilling fountain pen, and the advice that only arseholes would bother her for using it outside of class.

Harry gave her a book she already owned about Europe's most influential witches, but Hermione was touched all the same; maybe she could give it to her parents as an example of post-Hogwarts career options (Morgana, Cromwell, and the Baba Yaga excluded).

Ron's gave her a chocolate frog card featuring Castalia Lovegood, a very blond witch who was apparently one of the fiercest duelists in Western Europe at the moment, and famous for almost exclusively using 'Light' spells (whatever that meant). Hermione would have to look her up later.

The Twins' gave her a handwritten gift certificate for free wizarding dance lessons, which she promised to find time for.

Neville's gift was a book about… how proper young witches should comport themselves, apparently. Which he had acquired by asking his grandmother for an appropriate gift for a muggleborn girl. It looked like the sort of thing Andromeda might reduce to a single sheet of useful advice before burning.

He meant well.

"So?" Penny asked on the way down to breakfast. "How's things? Noticed your dormmates didn't join us."

Hermione very nearly rolled her eyes. Parvati and Lavender probably would have gifted her some cloying product meant for hair that had never been close to a curl. Or perfume.

"That bad, huh?"

"No," Hermione said a bit too quickly, then huffed. "They're just so… girly."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Of course not! It's just… we're at a school of magic! Who cares about fashion mags and boys when there's a library full of actual spellbooks to read? And it's so frustrating because one of them is the only other brown girl in my year and I want to be her friend but I don't know how."

"Let me guess. They're from magical families?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Think about it, Firebug. How excited are you about, say… mundane chemistry?"

Oh.

"You mean to say they're not excited about the power to bend reality because they're used to it?"

Penny shrugged. "It's not an adventure for them. Just school."

Well. Hermione wasn't interested in the company of anyone who saw opportunities to better themselves as 'just school.'

(Even if they were really pretty and seemed nice and might know what it was like to feel alone in a crowd.)

"I'll bet you they get more studious in third year," said Penny, "when you get to choose electives. What are they like otherwise?"

"Pretty," Hermione groused.

Penny's eyebrows went up. "Oh?"

"Obsessively so. With very sleek hair."

"Ah."

It was easy to feel proud of her features while surrounded by Baba's side of the family. Not so in the dreary heart of Scotland.

The first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins arrived at their third potions class to find the safety exams marked on their desks. There was a notable amount of grumpy, disappointed whispering. Hermione bit back her indignation at the harsh red E on her paper— she didn't want to make Harry and Ron feel even worse about their marks.

And really, potions was the subject she had the least advanced preparation for; it was hardly the end of the world to not do perfectly upon introduction to a new field of study.

"As the less oblivious amongst you may have noticed," Professor Snape began, "failure to pass the hygiene exam resulted in an automatic failure of the written portion. Academic knowledge is, after all, quite useless without practical expertise."

Something shimmered in the corner of Hermione's eye, and someone snickered— but she did not want to tempt the Professor's bizarre temper by turning to look.

"Those who failed will deliver twenty-four inches on the potential results of a contaminated brewing station by our next session— and will be re-examined for cleanliness and proficiency with the hair-holding charm. Repeated failure will result in banishment from this class until you can prove that allowing you anywhere near a cauldron will not result in grievous injury. Am. I. Understood?"

"Yes, Professor!"

He surveyed them disdainfully. "We shall see. Who can tell me what careers skilled potioneers can aspire to?"

Hermione— tried to raise her hand, and could not. It was stuck to her desk.

Professor Snape called on Nott.

So was her other hand.

"Five points to Slytherin. Who can tell me why an E or higher on the potions NEWT is required for entry into the Auror program?"

Hermione again, but it was as if her hands had been superglued to the desk.

The sticking charm, she realized as Bulstrode got another five points for having common sense. Either cast twice or by two different people.

"Miss Granger," Snape snapped, "do you believe yourself so knowledgeable as to not need to take notes in my class?"

Snickers. Whispers.

"No, Sir." Hermione's ears were burning. "I just—"

"Just what, Miss Granger? Have you forgotten how to write with a quill, perhaps?"

Malfoy's distinctive snort was unmistakable.

Hermione felt like she'd been doused with cold water. Surely he didn't mean to insinuate—

"Is something wrong with your tongue, girl?"

"No, Sir," she grit out. "Just my hands."

And half this class.

"I seem to have been jinxed."

His gaze snapped to her afflicted area, eyes narrowing. His wand twitched (she hadn't even seen him draw it), a faint static-like shock over touched her hands, and they were free.

"Write quickly," said the Professor, already turning away.

Hermione stared.

"What is the proper course of action if one suspects someone has been potioned?"

Was he… not even going to try to find the culprit?

"Malfoy."

How could he not—

"Well , Sir…"

Harry nudged her. Hermione twitched, picked up her quill, and started writing out the questions and answers to the best of her recollection, half-scribbling in her haste as Professor Snape went on.

She was almost caught up when her inkwell tipped over.

Her bottom-heavy inkwell.

Hermione froze, watching helplessly as her notes disappeared in a flood of black. As ink soaked into her sleeve, and dripped onto her legs.

As her classmates snickered at her.

"Miss Granger," said the Professor, "surely such a high-achieving student can cast a simple cleaning charm?"

Her face felt like she was sitting in front of a fire.

With shaking fingers, Hermione drew her wand from its holster, pointed it at the mess, and hissed: "Tergeo!"

The ink vanished.

All of it.

Leaving her parchment blank.

"Impressive," Snape sneered. "Nonetheless I advise you to be more careful in future. A potions classroom is no place for clumsiness."

Hermione eyes burned. She breathed deep, pressed her nails into her palms, and did not cry.

Snape did not search for the culprit. He did not reprimand the Slytherins for laughing.

Hermione did not notice the scorch-mark on her quill until late the next day.

.

.:.

That afternoon, while waiting for the others to arrive so they could floo to Shul, Hermione asked Professor Babbling if there were additional, secret commandments for witches and wizards.

"Oh, no," said the Professor. "Not a one."

What? "Why?"

"Have your extracurricular studies extended to ancient history yet?"

Hermione shook her head.

"The Pharaohs were almost all mages, Miss Granger. So was the entire Egyptian aristocracy— and the kings of Mesopotamia, and beyond. It was common in those days for powerful mages to style themselves as demigods or chosen ones, going to great and terrible lengths to gain and demonstrate whatever they thought were properly 'godlike' abilities, with very few checks on their power. By making no distinction between mage and muggle, the Commandments decree that we are bound by the same ethics as everyone else— which was quite revolutionary at the time."

"B'tzelem Elohim," Hermione murmured. "In the image of God."

"B'tzelem Elohim." Professor Babbling smiled. "Mage and muggle alike."

Her inkwell next tipped over again in Charms. Which they shared with Ravenclaw.

I shouldn't be surprised, she told herself. Augustus Rookwood was a Ravenclaw.

Which reminded her that Sirius Black was a Gryffindor.

The next time Charms rolled around, she used her fountain pen to take notes.

"Miss Granger," Professor Flitwick chirped, "tedious as it may be to adjust to quill-usage, I must insist on persistence!"

As if she hadn't practiced with quills until her fingers cramped. As if he hadn't seen the calligraphic signature Andromeda had insisted she develop. As if he hadn't even considered that someone else might have knocked over her inkwell.

Somehow, his cheerfulness made it worse.

In hindsight, Lavender Brown may not have meant her offer of handwriting help as a slight. Which meant that Hermione had been snippy with her for no reason.

Wonderful.

Lys-des-cendres wouldn't have been any different, she told herself. I just would have been the ignorant foreigner instead of the uppity muggleborn.

.:.

She was halfway through brewing her first potion when something plunked into her cauldron— and barely had time to realize what had happened before it began to bubble violently, a blotch of puce blooming across the surface. Harry grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away, chairs scraping across the floor—

And then there was sludge all over her legs and feet, burning hot through her leggings and seeping through her shoes.

"Granger," Snape growled (Professor, Professor Snape, how could a Professor be such a—) "Did I not explicitly—"

"No!" The word tore itself up out of her throat. "It wasn't me! Someone threw—"

And then her voice stopped working.

Snape's wand disappeared back into his sleeve. Someone smothered a laugh.

"Potter!" he snapped. "Get her to the hospital wing. The rest of you, back to work!"

Titters and whispers followed her into the corridor. Her shins stung. Her eyes watered. Harry wrapped an arm around her, steadying her.

(Harry, who always seemed uncomfortable when people touched him—)

By the time they reached the hospital wing she could feel him trembling with exertion— but he didn't let go until Madame Pomfrey demanded it.

He was quiet, on the way back to the tower, a different sort of quiet than usual. A pensive, angry quiet. Hermione didn't think he was angry at her— but what if he was? What if she'd done something to annoy him and didn't even know enough to apologize for it? What if—

"D'you know about shield charms?" He asked.

"…Yes? They're taught in fifth year, why?"

"Oh. Nevermind."

"No, what were you thinking?"

He hesitated. Shrugged. "A shield would have blocked… whatever that was they tossed in your cauldron, wouldn't it?"

Oh. "I suppose so— but only if you could time it right."

He blinked. "What?"

"Well, they supposedly take quite a bit of effort to maintain for very long, especially if you're doing something else at the same time."

"So… you'd want to spot the thing coming and then cast the charm, instead of casting it beforehand?"

Thus began the first of many conversations on defensive tactics.

Lucius,

I would have appreciated some warning that you were raising a Gryffindor. Kindly impress upon your cub the folly of committing assault in front of dozens of witnesses before he starts attending classes where sabotage can actually be lethal. I am a potioneer, not a barrister.

—SS

Hermione did not write to Ted.

What she was putting up with was nothing compared to the brutal harassment he had talked around. Plus she'd followed his advice, and was still being bullied.

She already knew what he'd say, anyway— don't walk anywhere alone, pretend to be less smart and capable than you are, turn the other cheek to Malfoys and Parkinsons until they get bored and move on…

Instead she stuck her inkwells to her desk with sticking charms, put Harry's quick reflexes to work watching for potions sabotage, and labeled all her notebooks with the most calligraphic rendition of her name she could manage while keeping it legible.

It wasn't enough.

A sharp knock on the open door pulled Minerva from her marking.

"Miss Granger, Mister Potter. How might I help you?"

The girl was like a coiled spring. The boy looked… well. She couldn't actually tell what he was feeling.

(Which was uncomfortably reminiscent of that Nott boy, or a younger Severus…)

"Hermione was hit by a…" he trailed off, glanced at Miss Granger—

"A tripping jinx," she rushed, as if the words had been burning a hole in her tongue. "There was nothing for me to trip over, and it was a tug all around my foot, and there was a group of Slytherins nearby!"

Then she lifted her skirt to reveal a nasty bruise blooming across one knee.

Minerva pursed her lips. Even without the Tonks' help, she would have had no doubt as to the girl's ability to distinguish accident from magic.

Minerva waved a tea set over. "Please cover yourself, Miss Granger."

The two stared at the pot and cups as if they'd never seen such things before.

"Sit, both of you."

Her voice might have been a tad sharper than necessary, but it was hard to keep it mild when Albus' obligations put more parchment on her desk.

When the two were seated and holding tea cups— though not drinking.

"Did you see or hear someone cast the spell?"

"…no, Professor."

"And who was in this group of Slytherins?"

Miss Granger set down her cup and placed her hands in her lap, out of sight.

"I didn't recognize them," she said quietly. "I think they were second-years."

Minerva suppressed a sigh. "Was there anyone else with you?"

"Ron and Neville, but they went ahead to tell Professor Sprout what happened."

"Well, if they witnessed anything more conclusive, they are welcome to tell me. For the time being, I advise you to stay in larger groups. If this happens again, or if you feel the need to, you may ask a Prefect to escort you. Now drink your tea and hurry along to the hospital wing; Madam Pomfrey will have a cream for that."

The last thing Miss Granger needed was her peers speculating about a bruise on the knee of a muggleborn witch.

Miss Granger did not drink her tea.

"They tripped me," she said. "And laughed. Surely there's some way to tell who cast the spell!"

"There is a method of checking what spells a wand has cast recently," Minerva said as soothingly as she could manage. "But it is not an easy spell to cast, and there are over two hundred wands in Slytherin. Unless you can identify a smaller number of potential culprits, I'm afraid our best recourse is caution; stay with your housemates at all times, and do try to avoid arguments."

Miss Granger looked her in the eye for the first time since entering the room. Stared, really. Her gaze was searching. Pensive.

"Of course, Professor," said Harry, perfectly polite, face devoid of emotion. "Thank you for your time. We should get to class."

Then he stood, took Miss Granger's hand, and led her from the room.

Minerva watched them go, occluding away her anger for after she'd gotten through all three stacks of Albus bloody Dumbledore's delegated parchmentwork. Then she would pencil in some time to have a word or two with Severus.