Table of Contents
Sorcerer's Stone: Chapter 1-23
Chamber Of Secrets: Chapter 24-
Prisoner Of Azkaban:
Goblet Of Fire:
Order Of The Phoenix:
Half Blood Prince:
Deathly Hallows:
Welcome to Tales of The Brightest Witch!
Okay so yall already know I'm writing The King's Chronicles, which is the series through Ron's POV. Well now I'm thinking why not Hermione's? This is mainly to give me something else to work on as I tweak TKC and knock out this ministry chapter, but it's gonna follow the same formula as TKC, only in Hermione's POV. Meaning it's 100% canon and in 1st person narrative.
I will say that since it is in Hermione's POV, things won't be as vulgar as it is with Ron, and thoughts won't be as impulsive and to the point as they can be with Harry. So I'm thinking that chapters could even be longer in this than in TKC. Hermione is definitely more thorough and precise than the boys at times, so her thoughts are going to be very drawn out. And probably a lot of overthinking on her part as well.
I will do just like I did in TKC and provide a table of contents once we get through Sorcerer's Stone.
Every word that is from the book is Rowling's (though we know how we feel about her by now smh) work alone. I am just adding another perspective. But seeing as some of her direct storytelling will be a part of this, I am inclined to mention that.
Michael and Ava Granger are the names I gave her parents. Any names that seem foreign to you, especially in the muggle world, I have made up to give Hermione some people in her muggle life.
Hope you enjoy it. On with the fic!
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Letter
Tuesday, July 16th, 1991
I've always wanted a cat.
A Persian, to be exact. I imagine myself sitting in Papa's big armchair—the kind that swallows you whole—with a book balanced in one hand and a beautiful white kitty curled up in my lap. She would purr softly as I turned the pages, her fur warm against my palm. I'd name her Calliope, after the muse of eloquence in Greek mythology. It seemed fitting, don't you think?
At least she'd be good company on days like this—rainy, dreary, and dreadfully lonely.
Well, maybe not entirely lonely. I was at the Cornwalls' house next door, where I stayed when my parents were working at their dental practice. I didn't mind it too much. Mr. Cornwall was hardly ever home, and Mrs. Cornwall often let me help bake cookies. She said I had a gift for precision—measuring ingredients perfectly without making a mess. "Not like my children," she'd mutter, laughing about their disasters in the kitchen.
But today, there was no baking. Mrs. Cornwall had decided to work on a quilt for her youngest daughter, Cecily, who was heading back to university.
I sighed as I stared out the rain-speckled window, watching the drops race each other down the glass. My book on fables lay abandoned on the armrest beside me. Normally, I could lose myself in a good story, but today even that wasn't enough to keep my attention. It's funny—people always assume I'm all books and nothing else, but that's not true.
I like plenty of things. Dolls, for instance. I have a collection of them on a shelf in my room. And crocheting—I'm not very good yet, but Mama's teaching me. Gardening with Papa is another favorite, though he says I spend more time talking to the plants than tending them. But none of that seems to matter. To everyone else, I'm just "the bookish one."
The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made your thoughts seem louder. Even the grandfather clock in the hall seemed to tick more insistently than usual. I shifted in my seat, watching the rain trickle down the window. My reflection blurred behind the droplets, and I caught a glimpse of myself: small, with a dark ponytail that seemed determined to unravel itself no matter how tightly I tied it.
For all my cleverness with books, I often felt like I didn't quite fit into the world around me. My hair was too wild, my voice too eager, and my thoughts far too large for anyone my age to understand. I tugged at my cardigan sleeve, trying to shake the uneasiness that had crept in with the rain.
And then, something caught my eye.
At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. But no—there it was. A great horned owl, gliding through the rain as if it wasn't there at all. Its wide wings cut through the misty air, and its talons clutched something. A letter?
I pressed my face closer to the glass, my breath fogging up the pane. What on earth was an owl doing out in the middle of the day—and with an envelope, no less?
My heart fluttered, excitement bubbling in my chest. I leapt from the chair and dashed toward the back of the house, my socks slipping on the hardwood floor. Through the sunroom's wide windows, I spotted the bird again, perched neatly on my bedroom windowsill next door. Its sharp talons gripped the edge of my flower box, careful not to crush the pansies Papa and I had planted together.
Was the letter for me? No, it couldn't be. But... what if it was?
I hesitated, my curiosity warring with reason. Mrs. Cornwall wouldn't let me outside in this weather, and I wasn't sure I wanted to explain why I needed to in the first place. Groaning in frustration, I trudged back to the sitting room, but my thoughts refused to settle.
I grabbed my book, pretending to read, but my gaze kept drifting toward the back of the house. Every few minutes, I crept back to check, half-expecting the owl to have disappeared. But it didn't. It stayed there, stoic and unbothered by the drizzle.
The more I stared at it, the more certain I became. The bird wasn't just a messenger; it had a purpose, a mission. And somehow, that mission involved me.
Time seemed to crawl by, stretching each minute into an hour. My pulse quickened every time I glanced at the clock. Then, suddenly, a warm hand touched my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Jeanie?" Mama's voice was soft, her hazel eyes full of concern. "You've been staring into space, darling."
"Mama, look!" I pointed toward the window. "There's an owl at my window—with a letter! I think it's for me!"
Her brow furrowed, and she followed my gaze. When her eyes found the bird, her expression shifted, confusion giving way to something I couldn't quite place.
"An owl? With a letter?" she said slowly, almost as if to herself.
"Yes! Please, we have to go home and see!"
Mama hesitated, but the determination in my voice must have convinced her. She let me tug her toward the door, where Papa was unloading groceries from the car.
"What's the rush, Mimi?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as we approached.
"There's an owl at my window!" I blurted out, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.
"An owl?" he repeated, his tone skeptical. He exchanged a glance with Mama, but before they could discuss it further, I was already running ahead.
As soon as the door unlocked, I bolted upstairs, my heart pounding with anticipation. I threw open my bedroom door, and there it was—the owl, waiting patiently on the windowsill. Its amber eyes met mine, unblinking, as if sizing me up.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, instinctively, I held out my arm.
The owl stepped onto it gracefully, its talons surprisingly light. Behind me, I heard Mama gasp and Papa mutter something under his breath, but I couldn't focus on them. The bird bent its head, offering me the letter it carried.
Hands trembling, I took the envelope. The wax seal—a bold letter "H"—gleamed faintly in the light.
"Hermione Jean Granger," I whispered, tracing the elegant script.
The owl hooted softly before hopping back onto the flower box and taking flight. I watched it disappear into the gray sky, my heart thudding in my chest.
"Mama," I whispered, barely able to speak. My fingers traced the elegant script on the envelope again. "It's for me."
Mama stepped closer, her eyes darting between the letter in my hand and my face. "Let me see," she said, her voice firm but not unkind.
I hesitated, clutching the envelope against my chest. "It has my name on it," I said softly, almost in awe. "Look. Right there. Hermione Jean Granger." My voice lingered on each syllable, as if saying it aloud would make it feel more real.
Mama's brow furrowed, and I caught a flicker of worry in her eyes.
"Hermione," Papa said from behind her, his voice cautious. "We don't know what this is—or why this is." He stepped closer, his hand resting on my shoulder, grounding me.
But I couldn't wait. The curiosity burning inside me felt like a pot boiling over. My fingers found the wax seal, tracing the bold "H" for just a moment before breaking it open. The seal cracked with a satisfying sound, and I carefully pulled out the parchment inside.
It was heavier than I expected—thick and textured, unlike any paper I'd ever held. It felt important, as though the words it carried weren't just ink on a page but something much bigger.
I unfolded it slowly, my breath catching as I smoothed the parchment out. The letters were written in the same elegant hand, neat and purposeful, as if each stroke of the quill carried meaning.
I began to read aloud, my voice trembling slightly:
Dear Miss Granger,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits.
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
As Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I will be visiting your residence tomorrow, Wednesday, 17th July, at precisely twelve o'clock noon. During this meeting, I will discuss an opportunity of significant importance to your future.
I understand that the contents of this letter may come as a surprise to you and your family, but I assure you that all will be explained in due course. Please prepare any questions you may have, as I will endeavor to address them fully during our meeting.
I look forward to meeting you and your family and am confident this will mark the beginning of an extraordinary journey.
Yours sincerely,
Professor Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The words seemed to hang in the air even after I stopped reading. I lowered the parchment, my hands still trembling. My heart pounded in my ears. "Hogwarts?" I whispered, the word feeling strange and foreign on my tongue. "Witchcraft?"
I glanced up at Mama and Papa. They exchanged a look—a deep, unspoken conversation passing between them that I couldn't understand.
"Mama? Papa?" I said, my voice small but urgent. "What's going on? What's Hogwarts? And... what do they mean by witchcraft?"
My initial thoughts drifted off to the fairy tales in my bookcase. Tales of wizards wearing big pointy hats casting spells on unsuspecting people, and witches with twisted noses, flying around on broomsticks and mixing up potions to harm people. Nothing good was ever said about a witch in my books. Except for Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. But that was The Wizard of Oz.
Wait. Did that mean that Oz was real?
Mama's hand found my shoulder, her grip firm but reassuring. "We'll speak with this McGonagall tomorrow," she said carefully. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed something else—something deeper, a flicker of fear or worry she wasn't ready to share.
Papa said nothing, but his hand squeezed my other shoulder, his silence speaking volumes.
I looked down at the letter again, reading over the words as if they might change or explain themselves further. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I murmured. The words felt impossible and thrilling at the same time.
I caught my reflection in the window, the rain still drizzling against the glass. My wide eyes and parted lips mirrored the swirl of emotions inside me—confusion, excitement, disbelief.
Magic is real, I thought. And somehow, it involves me.
Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.