Chapter 13: The Girl Who Knew Too Much
18th of August, Sunday, Greater London
Mr and Mrs Granger of Number Six, Linden Walk, were quietly proud to be thought of as good neighbours - friendly, reliable, and altogether sensible people, with only the mildly exasperating habit of offering unsolicited advice about oral hygiene (usually in relation to diet, as a preventative measure of course!) Their dental practice had been a trusted pillar of the local community for the past decade, attracting patients from both Richdale town and beyond their leafy corner of London.
William Granger, Will to those who knew him (which seemed to be just about everyone), was a soft-spoken, thoughtful man with an easygoing nature that put even the most anxious of patients at ease. Jane, his wife and the clinic's dental hygienist, balanced his quiet charm with a sharp efficiency and a warm, preceptive wit, known for seeing through even the most elaborate fibs about flossing.
Their home, a red-brick Edwardian semi-detached house on the gently curving street, was partially tucked behind the neighbourhood's namesake linden trees; their thick heart-shaped leaves the last lingering trace of the earlier summer's bloom. A low white picket fence marked the boundary, just enough to stake out the property without making it look uninviting to any would be guests.
Rows of herbs and colourful flowerbeds lined the flagstone path leading to a mint green door with a lion's head knocker. The bronze gleamed under the cloudless day's sun, a recent addition insisted on by the household's youngest member after the previous one had rusted out over the winter. A small shadow crossed over the lion knocker as a tawny owl swept down from the rooftops. A folded newspaper clutched by its claws as it flew towards the 1st floor and the closed window's sill.
Inside, the largest bedroom in the house did its best to fend off the morning light with a pair of thick red curtains. A small table lamp cast most of the room's illumination, revealing a sprawl of old-fashioned books marked with colourful sticky tabs. Sheets of parchment lay scattered on the floor, broken up by the occasional A5 notebook, each filled with neat, precise handwriting, penned in a mix of quill and biro. The chaos seemed out of place in the otherwise neatly organized room.
A pre-teen girl with bushy brown hair sat cross-legged on the carpet at the centre of it all, wand in hand, eyes locked on a small feather. Hermione was halfway through her seventh attempt at the levitation charm since she'd first managed to cast it. While she could already produce it well enough in terms of its magical effect, she was determined to master every aspect of the incantation; from its Latin pronunciation to the precise wand motions illustrated in the open book resting on her knees.
"Wingardium Levi…"
Tap tap tap
Hermione flinched as a sharp sound cracked against the window's glass, her wand slipping just enough at the sudden interruption to send the feather flying horizontally rather than vertically. She muttered to herself in exasperation, then glanced toward the window, only now noticing the sharper angle of sunlight cutting past the edges of the curtain in a warm golden aura.
"Of course! The paper!"
She rose quickly to her feet, pausing only to gently set the book down on the carpet, leaving her wand tucked inside as a makeshift bookmark, then crossed the room to pull back the curtain in under three steps. Bright light flooded in, momentarily blinding her as she unlatched the window with one hand while shielding her eyes with the other. The owl waited patiently on the sill, it's feathers slightly ruffled from the flight. A folded copy of the Daily Prophet remained secured to its leg with twine as its claws settled on the surface, the seemingly excessive weight not appearing to bother it.
"Sorry for being late," she murmured, squinting against the sun's glare. "I didn't forget, I just… well, I got caught up with my studies." Hermione blinked, only now realising that she was apologising to an owl. She wondered if there were books about just how much the magical variety understood her.
The owl gave only a soft shuffle of its feathers in reply and then extended its right leg to bring the paper closer to her hands. Hermione carefully untied the twine, smoothing out the magical daily, before placing it on her desk. She then reached out for the Big Ben tin beside the table lamp, retrieving five Knuts for the owl's small leather pouch. The owl gave the pouch a quick rattle, as if to confirm that the correct amount had been deposited, before taking off again without ceremony.
Hermione stood by the window watching the owl vanish over the rooftops, before turning her eyes to the paper, and then back to her unattended feather. It wouldn't take long, she thought, just one more go, possibly two, before she perfected her form. All the kids who had grown up in the magical world would have no doubt done the same years in advance, and she didn't want to start behind.
But her eyes drifted back to the paper; she'd promised to read every issue from cover to cover, even the cultural and sport parts she found mind-numbingly dull, and in return, her parents agreed to give her an allowance that would become a subscription if she persevered until the start of term. It had seemed like a fair compromise at the time, but one she now doubted was worth the sacrifice.
"If you're going to live in this magical society, you ought to know more than just the spell work. How do they live? What do they think? People are people; no matter if they drive Vauxhall or ride a broom." said her mum when Hermione protested their conditions after the fact.
Hermione shook her head and unfolded the paper with a sigh, almost skipping the headlines.
DUMBLEDORE RESIGNS AS CHIEF WARLOCK!
DMLE pins Boy Who Lived muggle guardianship scandal on headmaster.
Hermione stared at the headline, her mind blank for a moment. She had followed the story about Harry Potter all week, it would have been hard not to; the media frenzy around his upbringing, the leaked Ministry reports, and a lot of groundless speculation about Muggle families. There had been whispers, of course, about Dumbledore's involvement from day one, but she hadn't believed them. She'd refused to believe them. It had all sounded like the sort of baseless celebrity muckraking her parents often complained about in the Muggle tabloids. Professor Dumbledore was a hero!
Or, at least, that was what she'd been led to believe based on everything she'd read. Her eyes dropped back to the rest of the article, scanning the lines with a growing tightness in her chest the more she realised that this was no piece of mere idle speculation, but one backed up by facts.
In a sweeping decision that has sent ripples throughout Wizarding Britain, Albus Dumbledore has tendered his resignation from his long-held position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, following the release of an internal investigation into the upbringing of the Boy Who Lived. The inquiry confirmed that Harry Potter was raised without knowledge of his magical identity and subjected to acts intended to suppress his magical ability by his Muggle relatives.
"Suppressing magic in a child could have had catastrophic consequences, not just for him, but for everyone around him." said Healer Helbert Spleen of St. Mungo's Hospital Spell Damage Ward. "It's nothing short of a miracle the poor boy didn't develop an Obscurus!"
The official report, released earlier this morning, found that Dumbledore "acted unilaterally and without proper consultation," bypassing both the Ministry and the Wizengamot in his decision to place Mr. Potter with his Muggle relatives. It described the move as "a dangerous breach of magical law and customs," especially in light of their adverse views on magic.
No formal record of the decision was filed with Ministry officials, and Dumbledore declined to offer any defence during questioning. In a brief statement issued to the press, he said only: "I can offer no excuses for my actions. I am deeply sorry for the pain my decisions have caused, and for proving unworthy of the trust so many had in me." While he narrowly retained his position as Headmaster following a contentious vote by the Hogwarts Board of Governors, many in the magical community now view his wider authority as severely compromised.
The Wizengamot moved swiftly to appoint a successor. Hector Dagworth-Granger (112), a celebrated potioneer and recipient of the Order of Merlin, was voted in by an overwhelming majority. Though he has long avoided public engagement, his scholarly reputation made him a unifying candidate. "It is not a role I sought," Dagworth-Granger told reporters, "but one I will endeavour to fulfil with the same care I've always given my craft: with steady hands, a clear mind, and a great deal of caution when dealing with anything volatile."
"He is a man of unimpeachable integrity," said Lucius Malfoy, who supported the motion. "And a welcome stabilising force after years of Dumbledore's unchecked meddling."
Hermione felt the paper rattle in her hands as she finished reading the page. Dumbledore had known all along, even worse, he'd made the decision to place Harry Potter, thee Harry Potter, with an abusive family! She didn't know what hurt more, the realisation that the sort of scandals she had come to expect of her old Muggle world were just as common in her new magical one, or her growing doubts about the authority figures she'd started to look up to and the things she'd read.
Her eyes drifted back to the name Hector Dagsworth-Granger. She'd read it before, of course, in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and in several other reference books about potions she'd picked up since her first visit to Diagon Alley. And yet, she couldn't help but feel the faint glimmer of wonder if they might be related, and beneath it, a cautious sense of hope.
She shook her head, that was a foolish hope, and there were better things she could do with her time than daydream. She picked up her wand, aimed it at the feather, and read through the instructions twice - when she realised that her mind had wandered back to the article. The book and its careful diagrams suddenly seemed distant, almost irrelevant, compared to Dagsworth-Granger. She stood up with a sigh, closing the book and tucking away her wand into her pocket. She might as well ask about him. It was probably nothing, just a coincidence, but she didn't like not knowing.
Hermione descendant the stairs two at a time, one hand trailing along the banister more out of habit than need. The journey down might as well have been a journey through memory lane. Picture after picture greeted her with every step; always the three of them, and occasionally a few other relatives. A picnic at Kew Gardens with her grandparents. A windswept day on the cliffs of Dover. Their visit to Paris four summers ago, squinting at the camera at the top of the Eiffel Tower. The only constant from photo to photo was that the closer she got to ground level, the younger she was in the pictures.
But Hermione didn't even stop to glance at the photographs as she rushed downstairs, paper in hand. She paused at the landing as her nose started to twitch. There was something unfamiliar in the air, warm, sweet, and more than a little bit decadent. Cinnamon, maybe. Chocolate, definitely!
She stepped into the kitchen, glaring at the bright angle of the sun as it ambushed her once again from the dining area's bay window. But her face soon adopted a puzzled expression at the sight of her mother standing over a tray of freshly backed tarts. The remnants of melted chocolate still warm in a nearby bowl, while a layer of icing sugar-coated the counter like the early morning frost.
"Mum," she said slowly, trying to rationalise the incriminating evidence. "Are you using sugar?"
Jane looked up and smiled, her dark green eyes looked tired, but clearly happy with the result. She seemed to be curiously well-dressed for baking, with only a white apron covering one of her nicer blouses, while her dark hair, normally kept down at neck's length, was gathered into a hair bobble.
"Good morning Hermione, did you sleep well? Or did I just imagine the light coming from beneath your door fifteen minutes past midnight?" she asked with a mix of fondness and accusation.
"And chocolate?" Hermione continued, ignoring the question; her parents knew her well enough by now to realise that without school to rein her in, she simply read until she dropped. "Since when do we even have chocolate at home?" she pressed on, folding her arms. "That's against the rules!"
Jane merely grinned at her with her brilliant, unblemished white teeth. "There's an exception to every rule sweetheart, or sweet tooth in this case!" she added with a chuckle and got back to work.
Hermione almost rolled her eyes at the pun but felt her lips creep into an involuntary smile instead. She then turned her attention to the dining table and her father. A tall wall of the Sunday Observer's columns obscured his features until a small cough from Hermione brought it down a few inches.
William Granger looked up, pausing to bring up his reading glasses to look at her. Graying strands in his otherwise light brown hair had also started to catch up with him, but his bronze-flecked eyes remained as sharp as ever, now raising an eyebrow at the sight of his daughter.
"You're up early," he said dryly.
"Ha," deadpanned Hermione.
Her father chuckled and brought up his long neglected cup of tea to his lips, frowning as they made contact with the by now cool liquid, before turning his gaze to the paper in her hands.
"What's the news from your neck of the woods? Any dragon liver shortages or misplaced toads?"
Hermione opened the Prophet and pointed at the large headline in bold front.
"Actually, Professor Dumbledore has been sacked!"
William frowned. "Well, that is interesting. He was supposed to be your headmaster, right?"
"He still is," Hermione corrected herself, "he was sacked, well, technically resigned as Chief Warlock. That's the equivalent of the Speaker of Parliament, or maybe it's closer to the Lord Chancellor; wizarding governance isn't exactly a direct analogue to the Muggle political system."
Her father shook his head, "Headmaster and Speaker of Parliament? That's quite the resume. Forgive me, but it does all sound rather like one of those local Scottish papers we ran into, doesn't it, dear?" he asked, looking towards his wife, who turned around to face them and chuckled.
"It definitely has that small village mentality where the head teacher is also the vicar, the taxi driver runs the pub, and the local paper's editor runs a football club with the other two." she added.
"With all three as its entire roster," concluded William, turning a page in his newspaper. "Some sort of political shuffling going on in Moscow on our end. Hardliners aren't happy with Gorbachev's reforms, lots of hedging from the Kremlinologists. Nothing concrete, but the tone is shifting."
Hermione made a small polite hum of interest as she sat down opposite to him.
He peered over the top of his paper. "No interest in the fate of the world, love?"
"The Daily Prophet doesn't cover that sort of thing. It's all rather… insular."
Her father nodded, "Strange, isn't it? Two whole worlds, living side by side, and yet one barely knows the other exists, while the other doesn't know at all. Even the Iron Curtain had its limits."
Hermione didn't answer right away. She was already reading through the article again, as if rereading the same lines might soften their meaning, but they only made it look worse.
William leaned forward to catch a glimpse of one of the articles on the other side of the page, before turning back to his with a glint in his eye, "Sometimes, that paper reads too much like the Sun."
Hermione's eyes narrowed as she brought down the paper, "you take that back!"
Her father chuckled, "alright, it does lack certain… assets, to be as bad as the Sun."
"Doesn't stop you from ordering it to the clinic," said Jane with a sing-along voice.
William put down his paper, "that isn't fair, we order most of the dailies for the waiting room."
"And I am sure your eyes never strayed anywhere near page 3 when you bring it in."
"Scout's honour," pledged William, turning back towards Hermione, "Let's just agree that the Daily Prophet is closer to what we would understand as a tabloid rather than a quality broadsheet."
Hermione hesitated, then glanced at her paper again.
"Dad, have you ever heard the name Dagworth-Granger?"
Will looked at her with a puzzled expression, "Dagworth-Granger?" He repeated the name slowly, then shook his head. "Can't say I have. There's the Prewett-Grangers, a second cousin of mine who runs an accounting firm with her husband, but that's about it. Haven't talked to them in years."
"I just wondered if we might have family in Magical Britain."
William stood up and peered at the relevant page from behind her. "Granger's not exactly an uncommon name. There are probably a few thousand of us between here and Leeds, though I think I'd know if we had wizards in the family. The pointy hats and robes are a bit of a giveaway."
Hermione nodded, though something in her shoulders didn't quite relax.
"We don't really know much about the Granger side of the family," her father added. "There was a big row back in my great-grandfather's day; something to do with marriage or inheritance. Left our branch a bit cut off, but that was more than a century ago now, I doubt anyone even remembers it."
"Right," said Hermione. "It's probably nothing."
But that didn't stop the small, traitorous part of her from wishing it were otherwise, that somewhere, in some forgotten branch of the family tree, there was someone who might truly understand.
"Chin up, love, didn't Professor McGonagall say kids new to magic are always welcome?"
"She did say that, yes." Hermione confirmed but remained glum.
Ever since that first trip to Diagon Alley with the Hogwarts professor and her parents, Hermione had been left to figure things out largely on her own devices. She'd done the best she could, but a distant magical relative, someone she could write to and ask questions, would have helped a lot.
"I was wondering," Hermione continued, trying to speak with an even tone that wouldn't betray her sense of urgency, "if we could go to Diagon Alley later this afternoon. If you aren't busy, of course."
Her father shook his head with fond exasperation. "Run out of reading material already, eh?"
Hermione nodded. "I've reread Hogwarts: A History and half my spell books. There were a few books I didn't get in our last visit. I thought I'd start reading ahead with next year's material."
Jane retrieved the final tray of tarts and turned off the oven, "We were thinking we'd go out in a few minutes, actually. Remember the flyer for the Richdale Festival we got in the mail last week?"
"The annual one in Hartfield Park?"
Jane nodded excitedly, "That's the one! It's on today, and funnily enough, they've decided to theme it around magic this year! Wizard duels, druidic ceremonies, staff making stalls and other crafts. We thought it might be a bit of fun, figured you could use a bit of a break from… serious magic."
Hermione frowned, "But it's all Muggle make believe, none of it's real!"
"That's sort of the point," Jane said gently. "It's a little a bit of fun we can also take part in."
Hermione folded her arms. "I'd rather go back upstairs and study real magic."
Her parents exchanged a look, but this time, it was her father who spoke. "You've spent the whole summer reading in your room. Just one afternoon out with your old classmates won't kill you."
"They're not my classmates any more." said Hermione, her tone a little bit harsher than she'd intended. "We're all going to different schools, and I haven't talked to them since the end of term."
"That's exactly why it might be nice," replied Jane. "A last afternoon together as a class. A bit of a send-off. You'll still run into some of them in the neighbourhood during summer breaks, you know."
Hermione looked away. "We never really talked much anyway."
Her father's smile faded, "Then come for us. It's been a while since we did something together as a family. We can go to Diagon Alley next Sunday; it's only been two weeks since our last visit."
There was a pause, broken only when Hermione sighed in defeat and nodded. "Alright."
If nothing else, it would give her a chance to observe how Muggles imagined magic worked, and privately pick apart all the things they got wrong for her own amusement.
"Splendid!" exclaimed Jane, and then took off her apron.
William meanwhile put the tarts into a colourful festive cardboard box. It was only now that Hermione noticed the tarts all had a magical themed symbol on top: a broomstick in slices of pear, a pointed hat in dark berries, a shooting star in strips of candied citrus, even a lightning bolt picked out in slivers of strawberry. Before Hermione could cross out of the house's threshold, she felt something shift in her pocket, and turned around to see her mother holding up her wand.
"Mum!" she gaped, and tried to take it back.
"You'll survive a few hours without it," she said with a wink, raising her hand to take it out of her reach before putting it inside one of the kitchen draws. "Call it a short break from schoolwork."
The sun had fully risen by the time the Grangers stepped out of their home. The houses along the street weren't identical, some hankered back to the Victorian era, some like theirs were Edwardian, while others had been replaced by modern housing styles after the Blitz, but all of them were very well-kept. Hanging baskets full of flowers seemed to accompany every second window. Each house had a colourful sign on its gate, noting the family name and an upbeat welcoming message to any passerby. The neighbourhood's community board stood proudly by the Old Oak, full to the brim with missives drawing attention to everything from today's festival, charity drives, and piano lessons.
They hadn't gone past more than two blocks when someone called out from across the road.
"Will! Jane!"
It was the Khans. Dr. Yusuf Kahn and his wife, Sameera, wheeling a small pushchair while two older children trailed behind them. The toddler in the chair was already halfway into an escape manoeuvre out of the straps worthy of Houdini, while the middle child zigzagged along the pavement holding out a toy wand in his hand. The eldest, a girl Hermione's age, walked quietly between them, one eye peeking into a paperback she still had half open, while the other followed her brother.
"Perfect timing!" called out her father, as he led the Grangers to the Khan side of the road. "Looks like we're headed the same way."
"We were hoping we'd find some friendly faces," replied Mr Khan, matching his stride.
"Everyone's going this year," said Jane, smiling towards the boys. "I see you've brought the full cohort."
Mrs Khan gave a tired but good-natured laugh. "Oh, you know how it goes. We barely got out of the house with the right shoes on our feet." She wore a simple navy blouse and practical flats, a laminated ID still clipped on.
"Are they keeping you busy in the hospital?" asked Jane. She had decided against putting on a full costume, but she still put on a pointed hat before going out. William had dressed up in a set of robes he'd purchased in Diagon Alley as a bit of a laugh while Hermione had ransacked the bookshop.
Mrs Khan nodded with a tired sigh but shrugged her shoulders, as if to say she couldn't complain. The two families fell into step as the adults flowed easily into conversation. William and Yusuf grumbled about the lack of investment in the NHS under the Tory government, while Jane and Sameera compared the deserts they had prepared for the festival and how they'd baked them.
Hermione found herself slowly drifting away from the adults to walk beside Yasmin. "Hi," she offered quietly, not entirely sure where she stood with her these days.
"Hi," she echoed, slipping a bookmark into her novel to turn her attention towards her.
"What are you reading?" asked Hermione, figuring that was always the safest starter.
Yasmin held up the book, revealing a colourful paperback with a sparkly title and a cartoon girl.
Hermione squinted, struggling to make out the title from the twisting front. "That looks… fun."
"It's alright," said Yasmin. "It's called the Worst Witch. It's about a girl who goes to magic school."
"Oh," said Hermione lamely, feeling more than a little bit self-aware about the story premise.
Yasmin seemed to wait for a beat before sighing and putting the book away in her bag. "What have you been reading over the summer, then?"
"A History of Magic… it's a book about ancient myths and legends," added Hermione hurriedly, remembering she wasn't supposed to talk about the magical world with Muggles. "And… um… the Herbology Compendium. It uses Latin terms for the most part. It's a bit like botany in that sense."
Yasmin blinked. "Oh… cool." she said carefully, before turning her gaze to her brother.
That was the end of that, realised Hermione with a quiet sigh.
Up ahead, the adults were deep into their own conversation. "Yasmin hasn't been reading nearly enough since the end of term," said Mrs Khan, looking back towards her daughter. "But we managed to get her back into the habit with some adventure books Mrs O'Donnel recommended."
"Keeping up with Hermione's reading schedule isn't easy, especially during summer without school to rein her in," said Jane with a proud grin. "Even I don't understand some of her books now!"
Mrs Khan then turned her attention towards Hermione, "So, where are you off to this September? Did you try getting into Wycombe Abbey? Mashallah, you have the smarts and the drive for it."
Hermione blushed at the compliment, "I'm going to a private school. In Scotland." She answered, automatically falling back on the carefully rehearsed half-truth Professor McGonagall had suggested.
"Boarding?"
"Yes."
"Sounds posh," added Mr Khan. "Will you be wearing a tartan uniform?"
"Only if she breaks the rules," said her father.
The adults laughed, while Hermione gave a weak smile. She had considered a number of top schools prior to receiving her Hogwarts letter. Her parents had vowed that cost would not be a consideration when it came to her education, and her grades were more than enough to be admitted anywhere she wanted. That made it all the harder to explain why she hadn't done so to others.
Yasmin's brother let out a loud shriek from behind them, bringing the conversation to a close. When they turned around to look at the source of the commotion, they saw he'd run too fast without looking, tipping over a loose stone and falling onto the pavement before Yasmin could stop him.
"Yasmin, keep an eye on Hamza for me while I go check up on Ahmed."
"Alright, Mum," said Yasmin with a slight moan, dragging herself to the pushchair.
Hermione watched her go with a strange mix of relief she didn't have to deal with a pair of noisy brothers, but also a small hint of envy. She'd always sought friendship from kids closer to her age, but she hadn't really found it at her Muggle school. Perhaps Hogwarts would be different?
It had to be different.
A small crowd had gathered at the end of the neighbourhood, just before the park entrance. At the centre of it stood Mary Watson, one of Hermione's teachers until the start of the summer holidays. She looked slightly flustered but smiling as a group of girls buzzed around her.
"We wanted you to have something to remember us by!" said Sara Whitman, far too loudly, as usual, even though she was less than a foot away. "It's got all our favourite bits and pieces from year six and before; pictures, drawings, letters, everything! Even some of the boys chipped in!"
"You have to read Claire poem," added Sophie. "It's… well, it's something," she sniggered.
Claire O'Donnel's huffed with annoyance, which she immediately made clear as she manoeuvred around the other girls to elbow Sophie outside of Mrs Watson's line of sight.
Hermione slowed her steps. She hadn't heard anything about a gift for Mrs Watson. No one had mentioned it to her. She glanced at the clustered faces, and it was clear that everyone else had known about it and contributed at least something. Even Yasmin beamed as she reached them.
Mrs Watson opened the cover carefully, letting the glitter fly into the wind. "Oh, girls, this is just lovely," she said as she turned a page. "You really didn't have to, but thank you, I will treasure it."
"Oi! Hermione!" Sara called out as she drew near. Her smile was bright, a little too wide.
Hermione gave her a polite but uncertain nod, not liking where this was going. "Hello."
Claire leaned in beside her, oblivious to the invasion of personal space. "We were just giving Mrs Watson our thank-you gift. It's got messages and photos from everyone… well, almost everyone."
"That's lovely," said Hermione, trying to keep her tone neutral as her fingers dug into her sleeve.
"We tried to get everyone from our class to chip in, but you were… well, you were so busy." said Sara with the sweetness of cyanide.
"We thought you'd already moved on," added Claire with a small laugh. "We weren't even sure what school you are going to, only that it sounds very far away."
"Miss O'Donnel, let's keep things kind, shall we?" Mrs Watson interjected.
Claire blinked, her smirk faltering, "Of course, Mrs Watson."
"We should go into the park anyway, our dads are about to start their performance," Sara added quickly, grabbing Claire roughly by the hand, dragging her away as the other girls followed.
Hermione lingered behind, "I didn't mean to miss the scrapbook," she said quietly. "No one told me. I would have added something or got another present if I'd known."
"Miss Granger… Hermione," started Mrs Watson, closing the book. "Having you as a student for the past six years was gift enough. Never let anyone put you down for doing your best."
Hermione's lips twitched, the tightness in her chest loosing just a little. "Thank you."
The rest of the adults caught up with them before Mary could say more. Mr Watson emerged from their large Victorian house in a thoughtful stroll, a notepad in hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. He soon plucked the pen free and made a beeline for the Grangers when he saw them.
"Will, just the man! Quick question. Purely hypothetically, of course, is it possible to hide a coded message inside a false tooth? Say, for a German spy smuggling secrets across the channel?"
Will raised an eyebrow, "Depends on the material of the tooth and the patience of your dentist."
Mr Watson grinned. "Let's assume both are unusually accommodating."
"Then yes, though you'd better hope the poor sod doesn't grind his molars in his sleep."
Jane laughed softly, "if he does, your message will either end up in his porridge or in his stool!"
"That's not a bad twist, actually!" exclaimed Mr Watson, scribbling into his notepad.
Hermione, standing nearby, tried to suppress a laugh. There was something oddly comforting about her parents discussing dentistry as a plot device rather than just professionally.
The Watson's large front door opened once again as Joseph, their youngest at eight or nine, came tumbling out. His arms were full of mismatched old-fashioned brooms, prompting him to immediately trip over the longest one. He wobbled on his remaining stable leg for a second before falling down, hitting the garden's grass with his head with a dramatic squeak.
"Joseph!" called Mrs Watson, but Elias, the elder brother, was already there by his side.
"Are you alright?" he asked, inspecting his head before getting to his feet to test them.
But Joseph initial hint of tears soon turned into a burst of giggles, "stop tickling me!"
Elias exhaled in relief and pulled him up. "We'll make a Beater out of you yet."
"You bet!" Joseph beamed. "I'll be the Beater, and you'll be the Forward! Wait, no, you said we couldn't make that work with magicball. Mum said it would be too dangerous to even try it."
"Chaser," Elias corrected mildly, balancing a scuffed leather football under one arm while taking away some of the brooms from Joseph to carry them instead. "But yeah, we've got some of the rules down… we just can't copy everything." He trailed off as he noticed Hermione looking at them.
"Hi, Granger right? From 6b?"
Hermione nodded. She hadn't spoken to him before, but everyone knew Mrs Watson's children were always kept in other teachers' classes. It wouldn't have looked very fair otherwise.
"Mum mentions you a lot, says you always finished first in everything."
Hermione smiled at the recognition, "You weren't far behind, from what I've heard."
"Only in maths and science," he corrected.
Joseph tugged on Elias's sleeve. "Can I knock people off their brooms?"
"No! This is supposed to be Magicball not Chaosball!"
"Magic ball?" Hermione repeated.
Elias shrugged his shoulders, "Yes, our version of football with a magical twist for the festival. Made it up with my brother. It's loosely inspired by… well, fantasy stories, legends and… other things."
There was a pause, something about the phrasing, or maybe Elias's hesitation to explain further, that ticked a nerve in Hermione's brain. Beater. Chaser. She'd heard those terms before, in Daily Prophet's sports section she skimmed over, more out of obligation to honour her deal with her parents than any interest. She brushed it aside, the association between witches and riding broomsticks was strong enough in muggle culture as it was. It was probably just a coincidence.
Joseph suddenly pointed towards the entrance of Hartfield Park, visible just beyond the curve in the road. "Race you to the gate!" he shouted, before climbing on top one of his brooms and running off.
"Joseph!" Elias groaned, and picked up the brooms his brother had left behind and jogged after him.
The entrance to Hartfield park was already busy by the time the Grangers arrived. Colourful pennants strung between the trees fluttered in the breeze, and the smell of freshly popped corn drifted from a stand beside a utility building disguised as a cardboard castle keep. Laughter and chatter mingled the clatter of the last few tent poles being hurriedly hammered into place, while the small town band broke into its rendition of Julius Fucik's Entry of the Gladiators.
A chalkboard sign near the entrance proudly declared the event and its itinerary,
Welcome to the Richdale Magical Festival!
Opening Duel - 11:00 AM
A Thrilling Contest of Skill and Enchantment!
Crafts Alley - Open All Day
Handmade Charms, Wizard Hats, Potions and Many More!
Magicball - From 11:30 AM
Test Your Football Skills… While Riding a Broom!
Magical Bake-Off — 12:00 PM
Prizes For The Most Charming Sweets!
Haunted Shack Experience — From 12:30 PM
Do You Dare Enter Where Ghosts Reside?
Hermione stopped reading the sign half-way, the crowd was already gathering behind her as it was. Jane wandered off to find the bake-off table, box in hand, while William found a spot with the Khans near the stage. A voice boomed out of a crackling loudspeaker disguised as a large mouth.
"Ladies and gentlemen, warlocks and witches! Prepare yourselves for the grand opening duel!"
Two figures strode onto the stage from opposite sides with exaggerated flair. Mr. Whitman wore a velvet smoking jacket and a cape that looked suspiciously like a child's star themed bedsheet. Meanwhile, his wand looked like a repurposed shortened curtain rod. Across from him, Mr. O'Donnel had somehow squeezed himself into a purple graduation gown, now covered in glittery unicorn stickers, and held a staff made of a linden wood branch he'd carved into a twisting shape.
"I see you have finally come to challenge me, Whitman the Witless!" cried Mr O'Donnel, twirling his staff around as if it were a sword.
"Your reign of evil ends today, O'Doom-el!" shouted Mr Whitman, tripping on the hem of his cape before recovering and throwing it to one side as if he had intended to do it all along.
Mr O'Donnel struck a pose in return, "you dare stand against the most powerful Sorcerer in all of South Richdale? Then face my ultimate spell! Snakysocksy!"
A burst of smoke shot up from the stage. Once it receded, it revealed a striped pair of socks tied together and stuffed with pipe cleaners into the vague approximation of a snake at Whitman's feet.
The crowd burst into laughter, though some jumped in their seats at the sound of snake hissing from the amplifiers, laughing all the more when they realised where the sound was coming from.
Hermione folded her arms and felt her eyes narrow, "That's not how transfiguration works," she muttered to her father. "He didn't even use a Latin incantation, he just shouted nonsense."
Her father raised an eyebrow, "I think that's the point, love."
"Look, now they're just shouting about food," she whispered sharply as Mr. Whitman bellowed, "BLAMMOUS BANANARAMA!" And a dozen of the fruit fell on the snake from a crate suspended over the stage, accompanied by glitter and a bouncing sound from the amplifiers.
"The wand movements don't make sense," Hermione continued, "Real duelling requires precision."
Jane leaned in, gently putting a hand over her shoulder with a soft smile. "It's just a bit of fun, sweetheart. Of course, they are playing pretend! They don't know all the things you do."
Hermione didn't answer. A flurry of pink dyed tissue paper flew past as Mr. O'Donnel "deflected" the imaginary spell with a magical shield effect made up of a bright yellow umbrella. Children squealed in delight as the fog machine kicked in again to conceal the growing number of props.
"None of this is even remotely plausible, this is silly!" repeated Hermione, this time a bit too loudly.
"Excuse me?" said a sharp voice to her rear. Hermione turned around and found herself face-to-face with Sara Whitman, who didn't seem happy with her in the slightest.
Hermione froze, only now realising what her words must have sounded like, "all I meant was…"
Claire stood up at Sara's side, "We spent weeks helping our dads make those costumes!"
"And planning the spell effects," Sara added. "Everyone in the neighbourhood pitched in, but I guess you are too busy reading and criticising everything to notice what other people are doing."
"I didn't mean it like that!" said Hermione, now growing flustered.
"It's always the same with you," said Sara, not even smirking this time. "You don't say you're better than us, but you make sure we know you think you are."
The cheer from the crowd rose again as the duel ended with Mr. O'Donnel's defeat, as he seemed to dramatically melt into the stage (or rather a trapdoor cut into it) beneath the weight of Whitman's fan driven paper flames. Only his purple gown stayed behind, as if a puddle of his melted remains.
Jane stepped between the girls before matters could escalate, "Hermione, I think what you said might have come out harsher than what you meant. Maybe an apology is in order?"
Sara and Claire quieted down, arms folded, as they waited for her reaction.
Hermione hesitated, technically speaking, she hadn't said or done anything wrong, she'd just been misunderstood. But as she felt her parents eyes on her, the weight of their expectation pressed heavier than any rationalized argument she could make.
"I'm sorry," she said finally, "I didn't mean to insult your dads or your work on all the props you used. It was all… technically well done, and the crowd clearly enjoyed it."
There was a pause. Sara didn't reply, but Claire gave a small shrug, accepting it with the childhood grace of someone who knew she'd won the point and got the other kid in trouble with her parents. Hermione turned away before either one of them could push their luck, and didn't argue when she felt her mother's hand gently steer her towards the crafts' area. It was as good an escape as any.
The Grangers continued past the duelling ring and into the heart of the festival, following a gently winding path lined with makeshift stalls and buntings that fluttered lazily in the breeze. The booths had been set up beneath canvas awnings, each more colourful than the last. Tables overflowed with star-shaped soaps wrapped in golden cellophane, hand bound books with 'spells' written in crayon, and rows of tiny bottle filled with glitter and labelled with silly names such as Dream Dust, Flying Elixir, Homework Paste, and Good Luck Sap, each with a bright red disclaimer do not drink!
Hermione trudged ahead with her arms crossed tightly, stubbornly staring at the ground, the sounds of the festival muffled beneath her simmering embarrassment.
"You know, Hermione," Jane began, "I do understand why you were frustrated back there... but the way you said it, well, it didn't leave much room for those girls not to feel like you insulted them."
"It's just…" Hermione started, her voice tightening. "Its hard, Mum. It's as if I'm already living in a different world I can't talk to anyone else about, while they're still playing pretend."
Jane gave a quiet sigh. "That's fair enough. I know I feel that way about it as well sometimes."
She paused, letting them walk a few more steps past a booth selling knitted "invisibility cloaks" (they were not invisible) before adding, "But magic or no... kids will be kids. People still have feelings. And sometimes the way you say something matters just as much as what you're saying."
"I'm not trying to push anyone away," said Hermione, a bit too defensively.
Her father's voice pitched in, firmer this time. "We know you aren't, Hermione. It's just that if you carry yourself like this when you get to Hogwarts… you will. You can be a bit bossy sometimes."
Hermione frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. "Even at Hogwarts?" she asked, having assumed this wouldn't be a problem in the magical school. She had been looking forward to it as a place that would be different, where she'd meet kids who were more like her and less… well, normal.
"Especially at Hogwarts," Jane replied gently. "Not everyone there is going to understand you, either. But if you want them to listen to you, to really listen and understand where you are coming from, you will have to meet them halfway."
They stopped by a booth where a greying woman in a plain black dress was selling old-fashioned writing supplies, ranging from as scratch pens and ink jars to 1940s Winstanley notebooks and diaries. But nestled among the novelty pens in a small wooden tray was a set of proper quills made out of real feather, well trimmed, and fitted with brass nibs. Unlike everything else in the crafts area, these looked like they had been fashioned for purpose rather than as a joke item.
Will picked one of them up, and turned it over in his hands. "Looks like it could actually survive a few essays. Are these antiques or newly made replicas?" he asked the vendor.
"It's an original, like everything else here, though we have done some restoration work on them," confirmed the vendor with an edge to her voice, as if insulted by the very notion she'd sell a replica.
"Splendid!" said Will, and then passed the Quill to Jane, who smiled, and mouthed Very Hogwarts.
They both looked at Hermione, but it was her mother who spoke, "It might not come from the Alley, but I dare say it is something you could take there with you and find useful."
Hermione hesitated, then reached out and took the quill from her mother's hand.
"Thank you," she said, and found that she really meant it; the Quill was surprisingly high quality for a muggle one, as far as she could tell. It seemed even sturdier than the ones she'd practiced with.
Her father handed the vendor what looked like quite a number of banknotes, who smiled for the first time since they arrived. "Take good care of it, young lady, and it might surprise you." She then put the quill in a small black box before wrapping it up in the festival's signature purple colours.
They reached the other side of the park as they moved on, past the last line of stalls and picnic blankets to an open patch of grass. Here, the neighbourhood boys had gathered for a match of Elias's Magicball, and were trying their best to run around with a broom between their legs, clearly growing frustrated with how hard it was to kick the ball properly with the added impediment.
The pitch was marked with cones and crooked flags, and at the centre stood Mr Watson, donning a Battle of Britain flying helmet and wielding a whistle, usually to call "boom down" incidents when one of the kids got fed up with it and started to play without one.
"Play on!" he called as a disgruntled boy got back on his broom after a quick word with him.
Elias Watson didn't seem to have as much of a problem with it as the rest, if the smile on his face was anything to go by, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying the added challenge. He moved with more control than the other boys, keeping one hand on his broomstick and the other to his side for balance as he passed the ball down field. Joseph had meanwhile stopped playing entirely and was now running in figure eights, more concerned with running as fast as he could with the broom.
Hermione watched from the edge of the crowd with her arms crossed. Her parents had wandered a little way off to examine a booth selling vampire teeth and other accessories, but she had stayed behind. The match drew plenty of cheers and laughter from the sidelines, mostly from parents trying not to spill their lemonade as they clapped whenever their son got possession of the ball.
Then, near the centre of the pitch, Elias skidded to a stop even though the ball was a fair distance away from him. "There it is!" he shouted, throwing his hand into the grass to grab at something.
"I've caught the Golden Needle!" he declared triumphantly.
Mr Watson gave three triumphant toots of the whistle. "Game over! Lions win by 17 to 3!"
Immediate uproar followed.
"What? That' not fair!"
"We were winning up until now!"
"We didn't even know the needle was out yet!"
"Your dad totally planted it on your side!"
Elias shrugged, adjusting his glasses as his team piled on him in celebration.
"Should've been paying more attention to the ground," was all he said.
Sara, Claire, and Yasmin were also watching the game from a nearby picnic blanket.
"He would find it," muttered Claire but with a measure of admiration. "It's always him."
"Well, he isn't the best player in our year for nothing, you know," said Yasmin.
Sara sighed as she lay on the blanket watching the boys disperse, "It's a pity he'll be heading off to a different school than us this year. Think of how popular he'd be, and we'd have an advantage."
Hermione, just close enough to hear, let out a scoff. She didn't mean to, but it slipped all the same.
Sara's head turned sharply in her direction, "what are you laughing about?" she challenged.
Hermione froze, "nothing."
Claire got up from the blanket, "Really? Know-It-All-Granger with nothing to say?"
Hermione hesitated, truthfully she mostly found the other girls' obsession with popularity more than a little vain, but she wasn't about to tell them that. "It's just, Watson finding a needle in the grass wins them the match? It makes the whole concept of teamwork utterly redundant. It's just all a bit silly."
A moment of silence passed as Claire exchanged a look with Sara, who rolled her eyes. Yasmin meanwhile looked down at the ground, clearly uncomfortable but not willing to say anything.
"Right…" started Sara with a thin smile. "Silly. Fun. Not your thing, I suppose. Is it?"
Claire leaned over to whisper something into Sara's ear, who stifled a giggle as she listened.
"I guess someone as… level-headed as you would have no problem going through the Haunted Shack? It's opening soon, I heard Yasmin's dad got some real skeletons for it."
"No, they're…" Yasmin started to say, but was cut off by Sara's glare.
Hermione rolled her eyes, "It's just more make believe nonsense."
A flash of hurt passed over Yasmin's face as Sara and Claire grinned.
"Then you'll have no problem hopping right through it bunny teeth," said Claire.
"Unless, of course…" continued Sara, "... you are scared or something."
Hermione frowned, what were the girls up to?
"I'm not scared, I just don't see the point of going to see plastic skeletons in the utility building."
Claire sniggered, "So that's it? Boo! You're all talk!"
"If you're so smart, prove it, we'll be waiting," said Sara, before gesturing for Claire to follow her towards one of the crafts tents. Yasmin lingered for a moment longer but turned to follow them.
Hermione spent the next half hour walking around the park, occasionally wandering back to her parents only to find them busy talking with the other adults, clearly enjoying themselves in the Magical Bake-off. Whenever they tried to get her to participate, she turned them down, having long since lost her patience with the festival's theme. She felt herself gradually get closer and closer to the Haunted Shack, or rather, the larger park utility building converted into the role for the festival.
If Yasmin's dad had really overseen its preparation, Hermione had to grant he'd done an admirable job with it. The old structure was now complete with black curtains and a cobweb like material, strung between spiked plastic skulls. A crooked sign above the door declared in dripping red paint:
Beware all who enter, ghosts and bones!
Face your fears or turn back home!
Brave the dark and prove your might
Or run away and fear the night!
A long line of kids had already formed in front of it, with Claire, Sara, and Yasmin standing just ahead of her, each carrying a large purple festival bag. Hermione felt their eyes and their snickering upon her immediately, and after a moment of thought, she stepped in line, finally shutting them up.
The girls went in first, vacating their place at the entrance for Hermione. There, she waited, five minutes, ten, but the three girls didn't get out. Hermione rolled her eyes, were they that childish?
"Are you going in or not?!" demanded a boy she soon recognized was Joseph. Elias stood at his side and sent an apologetic look her way, but it was clear the line was growing restless at the wait.
Hermione went inside with a pained sigh. The shack was darker than she'd expected and had even been turned cool and musty. Strings of fairy lights hidden in jars created an eerie glow that provided the only illumination. Rag doll ghosts dangled from the ceiling, and silly ominous sound effects played from a portable speaker near the entrance. "Boo!" It shouted, too late to surprise her.
Hermione exhaled, "Honestly," she muttered and looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of the girls, but finding none. "You might as well come out, I know you're trying to prank me."
She edged around a corner, passing a washing machine turned bubbling cauldron and rubber snakes and rats that were scattered about. Then came a soft rustle behind the curtain in the next room.
She didn't hear anything at first, just a faint giggle. And then…
"RAAHHHR!"
Three figures leapt from behind a tattered black sheet, arms raised, faces pale with streaks of paint and glittering dust. Their clothes were tattered, while their faces seemed twisted and deformed.
Hermione gasped, stumbling backward instinctively. Her hand shot out, and in the sudden jolt of fear, she felt a familiar warmth pass through her fingers before her rational thoughts could catch up.
A pulse of unseen magic rippled across the room.
And then, from the far corner where a plastic skeleton had been placed, something moved.
Its skull twisted sideways with a sharp creak.
And then its jaw dropped open into a scream.
"DEFILERSSS!" the skeleton bellowed in a hollow, theatrical voice, which seemed to emanate from the bones themselves, while the amplifiers fell to an erratic static. "INTRUDERSSS! BEGONEEE!"
It then lurched forwards with surprising speed running at the three figures, ribs clattering, its limbs no longer stiff but full of jerky, uncanny momentum. The lights struggling to stay on near its presence.
Sara, Claire, and Yasmin shrieked in terror and bolted for the exit, throwing away their masks and costumes as they fled. One of them tripped and dragged a curtain half-down with her, tearing the velcro strips free with a loud rip as the skeleton tried to grab her. Outside, the line of children saw them burst out into the sunlight, screaming and wild-eyed as they ran past them for their parents.
Hermione stood frozen, eyes wide, her hand still half-raised. The skeleton turned to her, tilted its head, and then bowed and fell to the floor with a clatter, once again safely inanimate.
"Great," she whispered with horrified humour. "Now I've gone and haunted the haunted shack."
It had been a while since she'd last used magic accidentally. She had thought that such incidents would end with the purchase of her wand, but clearly that wasn't the case without it.
The ruckus drew a crowd almost immediately. By the time Hermione emerged from the shack, half the festival seemed to have gathered outside. Sara, Claire, and Yasmin were at the centre of it all, red-faced and out of breath, gesturing wildly as they retold their version of events.
"It moved… I swear! It chased us!"
"It said something! Like a real voice! It wasn't one of the recordings!"
Parents exchanged amused glances. A few laughed.
"Oh, come now, Claire. Don't tell me you still believe in ghosts." said Mr O'Donnel.
"They're just clever props, girls. I'll take this as a complement!" beamed Mr Khan.
Mr Whitman however was already inside the shack with a torch, finding the plastic skeleton a fair distance from where it was supposed to be mounted. "Probably a loose wire. Someone must've moved the skeleton and rigged it to fall down on them. Did you do it, Miss Granger?"
"How could she?" asked Elias. "She went in after they did."
Mrs Watson shook her head with a huff, "Let's not blow this out of proportion, It's all in good fun." she said, ushering the children back in line. "Now, who wants to go inside the Haunted Shack?"
"MEEE!" came the eager roar.
The line outside the utility building quickly tripled in length as the adults laughed off the affair. Hermione spotted her parents on the edge of the crowd. They weren't laughing.
"We're heading home," Jane announced quietly.
"But the festival has only sta…" Hermione began.
Her father gave her a look.
She shut her mouth and followed them.
They passed under the linden trees lining their street before Jane finally spoke.
"Those girls were telling the truth, weren't they?"
Hermione nodded glumly.
Her father exhaled slowly through his nose. "Hermione…"
"They jumped at me!" she shouted before quickly getting her voice down. "They were dressed up and moaning like zombies do in stories, and I didn't mean to… I just… it just happened."
Her mother stepped closer, her voice soft but clearly concerned. "You used magic again."
"It wasn't on purpose!"
Her father ran a hand through his hair. "We know. But things like this… people notice, Hermione. You're not supposed to use magic where normal people can see it. Even your professor said so."
"I know that," she snapped, then caught herself, "I didn't even have my wand. It was accidental."
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Jane placed a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder. "We'll figure this out, alright? You're not in trouble, sweetheart. We just… we need to be careful about this. All of us."
By the time they reached their house, the festival's sounds had faded into memory, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves and a few cars driving past. William unlocked the door, and Jane stepped into the kitchen, setting the empty dessert box and its first place ribbon down on the counter with a sigh. Hermione lingered in the hallway, her eyes drifting over the family photos along the staircase. Her spellbooks waited for her upstairs, but she wasn't sure she felt like reading more of them today.
"A letter? Who would deliver one on a Sunday?" said her father as he picked one up from the door mat. He turned it over and frowned, holding up a cream-coloured envelope with a bright pink seal.
Jane glanced over from the kitchen. "Who's it from?"
He handed it to her.
Hermione stepped closer to get a look, but her mother quickly passed her the letter.
To the Parents of Miss Hermione Jane Granger
Adjusting to the discovery that your child is a witch or wizard can be a bewildering and sometimes isolating experience. As parents and guardians of Muggle-raised magical children, you may be grappling with questions that no ordinary handbook could ever answer.
Likewise, for young witches and wizards like your daughter Hermione, the excitement of a magical education is often accompanied by uncertainty, particularly in the absence of adult magical guidance to answer all the many questions your child is no doubt asking.
To support families such as yours, the newly established Muggle-Raised Children's Welfare Commission (MCWC) is proud to announce its inaugural Welcome and Orientation Event.
This gathering will provide opportunities to meet other Muggle families, speak with Ministry representatives, and receive resources to better understand and navigate the magical world.
We warmly invite you to attend this event at Diagon Alley, on Sunday, the 25th of August, at 12:00 p.m.
We look forward to welcoming you into our growing magical community.
With sincere regards,
Dolores Jane Umbridge
Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic,
Head of the Muggle-Raised Children's Welfare Commission.
Notes:
It's been a while since I last updated this story, but here's the first in Hermione's three chapter pre-Hogwarts story arc, one week later than promised. Sorry about that. It took a while to get back into the rhythm of creative writing after a dozen academic papers, and I also had the joy of a rather nasty bout of flu to mark the end of my degree. Fortunately, it's all in the past now. I do have a short story writing competition to work on over the rest of this month, but it shouldn't take too long to write up my entry. I aim to get the next chapter of this story done by the 10th of May at the latest.
This chapter is a bit slow, and I was quite frustrated with it for being that way for a while until my Beta reader, Lilitari, assured me she thought it accomplished what it was supposed to do. The main challenge here was how to show Hermione's life in the muggle world while she's away from school? Initial drafts sent her to a theme park with her old class, but that restricted the role of her parents in the chapter and also developed a location I won't be returning to, whereas I have every intention of coming back to Linden Walk in the future (it does, in a sense, replace Privet Drive in the story.)
Richdale is a made up area of London I created much in the same vain as JK did with Little Whinging. It is largely inspired by Richmond town, though I don't recall visiting it personally, leaving accuracy a bit lacking. I know that the Movies introduced Heathgate in Hampstead Garden as the Granger address, and while I do think that choice is pretty good overall, I didn't want to anchor myself to real geography that might limit what I can do. The next chapters will deal more with Hermione's entry into the magical world and the conflict between it and her old muggle life.
I do feel like I've cleared a major stumbling block with this chapter finished. I can't say I am entirely happy with it, but after at least three distinctly different drafts trying to set it up in different places, I was almost ready to give up on it and skip straight to what I had in mind for Hermione's 2nd chapter. That one is shaping up to be quite ambitious, as I finally get to play around with various developments in the story and how they affect Hermione's life and the magical world at large. But it wouldn't work without the groundwork I've built here to flesh out where Hermione is coming from.
Thanks for reading, I promise to try and get back to at least a monthly update rate from now on. I do expect to fly abroad for a few weeks in June, but I'll finish Hermione's chapters before then.
Umbradius.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling and any organisation empowered by her to that effect own the Harry Potter title and its related products.
