Toil and Trouble Chapter 4 : The brightest (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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(Toil and Trouble is a rewrite of the Harry Potter saga)

October 12, 1997. Granger Residence, Crawley.

The Grangers’ study was quiet except for the soft tick of the clock and the faint rustle of pages. A small figure sat curled in a leather armchair, feet dangling well above the carpet. Eight-year-old Hermione Jean Granger had her nose buried in an advanced theoretical physics textbook, brows furrowed in concentration as she worked her way through equations with which many university students struggled.

Beside her, the nanny, Mrs Pritchard shifted uncomfortably. She had been with the family only a few weeks and still couldn’t make sense of this peculiar child. Little Hermione hardly had any friends. She didn't really get along with children her own age. She preferred the company of books, and seemed content spending hours at her lessons, as opposed to playing like a regular child. The child didn't lack social confidence. In fact, she could be described as assertive. She simply had no interest in making friends.

At eight years of age, she was already studying for her GCSE prep under private tutors. Mrs Pritchard had been taken aback when Hermione's mother, Dr Rose Granger first told her about this. Secretly, she felt it might be a bit excessive. Yes, the girl was highly intelligent. Rather gifted. But she wondered if the Doctors Granger were pushing their daughter too hard.

The nanny could hardly understand half of the things Hermione spoke of. She could only smile kindly and nod as the girl went on and on about string theory, or some particle she found fascinating.

In Mrs Pritchard's opinion, such acumen sat ill on so young a child.

The sight of Hermione endorsed in reading material meant for students at least a decade older than her was, quite frankly, unsettling.

Peering at the dense block of text and diagrams, Mrs Pritchard forced a smile. “Wouldn’t you like to read a story book, dear? Something with fairies, perhaps?”, she asked.

Hermione lowered the book just enough to give her a polite but faintly exasperated look.

“No, thank you, Mrs Pritchard", she said crisply, before diving back into the chapter on Newtonian mechanics.

The nanny sighed, tapping her fingers on her lap. The girl's parents were brilliant and highly accomplished in their own right. Everyone in Crawley knew of their success, their thriving practice, their spotless reputation. And of course, the invention that had set them apart. A self-adjusting dental mold that took impressions in minutes without the mess of plaster or wax. Simple, ingenious, and now used in clinics across the country.

So perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised that they expected extraordinary things of their only child. If they could bring such a change to dentistry with a clever spark, why shouldn’t their daughter change the world with her extraordinary mind?

At last, Hermione snapped her book shut with a satisfied little smile.
She hopped down from the chair and went straight to the shelves, eyes landing on the thicker volume just out of her reach. But before she could stretch up, the nanny cleared her throat.
“Hermione, it’s time for dinner, love. You can read later.”

Hermione’s shoulders stiffened.

"But Mrs Pritchard, I need to read the next volume now."

"Now now, dear", said the nanny, "your parents made it clear that we must follow a schedule. Come, let's have dinner first. Your books aren't going anywhere."

Hermione frowned, annoyed. She glanced back at the book, and something inside her surged. An unspoken demand. The volume began to vibrate, then appeared to hop in it's place on the shelf.

"What on Earth...?", Mrs Pritchard uttered, not quite understanding what she saw.

The book then lifted smoothly from the shelf, floating across the room and landing neatly in Hermione's waiting hands.

The nanny gave a strangled gasp, scrambling back from her chair.
“Good Lord!” she whispered, eyes wide with terror as she staggered away. “There’s… there’s something in this house!”

Hermione clutched the book to her chest, blinking in surprise at what she had just done. But the nanny was already fumbling for her bag, muttering about ghosts, and within moments had fled down the hall.

The study door slammed shut, leaving Hermione alone in the silence. Alone with her book, and with a strange, thrilling awareness humming just beneath her skin.

Just as Mrs Pritchard came running out of the house, shaking and teary eyed, the Grangers's BMW pulled into the driveway. Dr Rose Granger stepped out in a hurry, shocked to see the nanny in such a state. Her husband followed.

"Mrs Pritchard! Are you alright? Where's Hermione?", Rose asked taking in the sight of the terrified woman.

“This house.... it’s haunted!” Mrs. Pritchard cried, clutching her handbag to her chest as though it might ward off spirits. “Books flying off shelves! I won’t stay another minute!”

“You left my daughter alone in there?” Rose’s voice cut like glass. Fury flushed her cheeks, “You abandoned my child because you think you saw a ghost?”

Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, then she turned and bolted, her heels clicking frantically against the pavement until she reached her own car.

Rose and Hugo wasted no time, and rushed indoors.

“Hermione!”, Rose called as they burst into the study, eyes scanning the room. “Darling, are you all right?”

Hermione looked up from the armchair where she now sat serenely with the heavy volume in her lap. “Yes, Mummy. I was just reading.”

Hugo frowned, sweeping his gaze across the bookshelves, before bolting the study door.

“Could someone have slipped inside while we were out?”, he murmured, "Was it an intruder the nanny saw?"

“Not with all the security alarms set,” Rose replied, her tone still sharp. She turned back to Hermione. “Did anyone come in here, love? Did you see anyone?”

“No,” Hermione said honestly. Then, with a faint crease between her brows, she added, “I wanted this book, but it was too high up. So I got it without even touching it.”

Her parents exchanged a look.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Rose said gently, putting an arm around her. “You’ve had a fright, haven’t you? Mrs. Pritchard was hysterical, and it rubbed off on you. That’s all.”

“But....” Hermione began, clutching the book tighter. She could still feel that strange hum in her chest.

Hugo patted her head, already picking up the phone. “I’ll call the police. Just to be sure.”

Later, when the cops arrived, they searched every inch of the house. No signs of forced entry. No footprints. No evidence of anything unusual.

Just one frightened nanny who would never return to work. And a little girl who sat quietly in her armchair, wondering why no one believed her when she said the book had come to her on its own.

---

July 9, 1990. Granger Residence.

"What on Earth were you thinking Hermione?" Rose asked her daughter, unable to contain her exasperation. "You know better than to use such violence."

“I… it… it moved on its own,” Hermione stammered, trying to explain, her words tumbling out in frustration. “I didn’t touch it! I didn’t mean....”

Rose’s face hardened. “Your behaviour today was unacceptable, Hermione. You are soon going to university. You cannot act like this. You must learn to control your anger. Even if you were upset, throwing objects at people is not civilized!”

Hermione herself was at a loss, as to how to explain to her parents what happened at the birthday party.

Simon, the boy who lived just a few houses over, was celebrating his twelfth birthday. His parents insisted that Hermione attend his party. It'll be good for you, darling. You might end up having a really good time. Her mother had told her, and Hermione reluctantly agreed to go.

As it turned out, it wasn't exactly fun for her

Simon and his friends had cornered her outside a bathroom and the usual taunts and jeering ensued.

“Well, well.... what do we have here?", said Simon with a mocking sneer, "The little book worm thinks she belongs at a party?”

“Mind your manners,” Hermione said, cold and firm. "Your parents invited me. If you have a problem with my presence in your home, I'd suggest you take it up with them."

"She even talks funny!", said one of the boys.

Simon continued to taunt her, while trying to appear intimidating, “Or you'll do what, swot? You’ll lecture us to death with a theorem?” He smirked, and his friends joined in.

“Yeah, or maybe she’ll pull a science experiment on us,” one boy added.

"Hey freak, we heard you got into Cambridge.", said another, "are they gonna study you?"

The boys snickered, as Simon announced, "I'll bet they'll put the freak on display. Behind a glass.".

Hermione’s fingers twitched. Her chest tightened, she felt a strange pressure as if something was trying to push outward.

“Enough,” she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her effort to remain calm.

“Or what, freak?” Simon jeered, leaning closer.

In that instant, Hermione felt an uncontrollable pull. Her eyes widened as the pressure in her chest surged. A nearby lamp lifted silently into the air. It spun slowly, before flying at Simon’s head.

Simon, letting out a high pitched shriek, jumped out of the way just in time. Hermione had just realised what had happened, when the adults, including her mother heard Simon's screams and came running.

“I did not throw the lamp!” Hermione said, her voice sharp with indignation, as they stood in their drawing room. “Mum I didn't do anything! It just flew at Simon's head on its own!"

Rose and Hugo exchanged a frustrated look.

Hugo bent down and spoke to her in a calm voice, "Sweetheart, you can't expect us to believe that. If you did act out in a moment of rage, you should at least own up to it. Making up such outlandish lies is unbecoming of you."

"Hermione,", Rose’s tone was firm and one that would book no arguments, "you are about to enter Cambridge. After you've worked so hard to earn your place there, do you really think it's wise to continue with such silly, childish tantrums?"

"But Mum....", Hermione was nearly in tears now but her mother remained unmoved.

"No need to speak, girl.", said she, "now go to your room and calm yourself down. And please think about how you are going to conduct yourself yourself from now on."

Hermione knew there would be no convincing her parents, and walked away.

Even as she tried to divert her mind with thoughts of attending one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and the glorious education she would receive, that hum in her chest would not abate.

---

October 1, 1990. Cambridge University

The autumn air in Cambridge had a pleasant crispness. The courtyards of the Trinity College echoed with footsteps, the shuffle of fabric, the murmur of voices reciting formulae. Hermione Jean Granger, all of eleven years old, untamable curls and books clutched to her chest, stepped among men and women nearly twice her age.

She had begun her classes in October 1990, scarcely a fortnight after turning eleven. To the world, it was remarkable. One of the youngest undergraduates in decades admitted not only into one Tripos but two — Mathematics and Physics. And lodged among students who had earned their place after years of secondary schooling. To Hermione, however, there was nothing extraordinary about it. She had done the work, taken the exams, and passed them. This was where she was supposed to be.

But no one else seemed to think so.

Her fellow undergraduates noticed her at once. Some stared incredulously, nudging one another as the child walked into a lecture on Newtonian mechanics with a bag that was far too big for her frame. Others went quiet, their eyes sliding over her with admiration. A girl, still small enough to be mistaken for a first year in grammar school, sitting in the front row while professors spoke of eigenvalues, variational principles, and canonical quantization.

The tutors praised her brilliance and encouraged her diligence. Most of the older students kept their distance, not knowing what to say to her. Some smiled with polite condescension when she attempted to contribute to group problem sets. But there were always those who offered genuine warmth and listened with interest as Hermione Granger offered her opinions. A few openly lauded her and asked for her help when they struggled. Some just smiled good naturedly when her hand shot up any time a question was asked.

But Hermione knew that these people weren't her friends. How could they be, given the age difference?

Not that it mattered, of course. She hadn't worked herself to the bone so she could make friends. She'd done so in order to achieve greatness. And greatness would be hers.

---

December 26, 1990. The Granger Residence.

Aunt Margaret, Rose’s older sister, arrived for a visit with her husband, Uncle John and her three children in tow. Warm-faced and gregarious, she brought mince pies, Christmas jumpers, and the sort of boisterous energy that filled a perfectly quiet house.

Hermione had no patience for it.

On Boxing Day, while her cousins played on the carpet, unwrapping new board games, toy cars and dolls, Hermione sat on the sofa with a thick textbook titled Methods of Mathematical Physics. Her eyes moved over the pages as she worked through an example problems.

“Hermione, darling,” Aunt Margaret said, after watching her for several minutes, “wouldn’t you like to come and join the others? You’re still a child, after all. There’ll be time enough for books later.”

Hermione lifted her eyes. They were large and brown, but held an oldness. “I am joining them. I’m in the room, am I not?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Margaret pressed. “You need friends your own age. Don't you wish you had someone to play with? Someone to talk to? You can’t spend all your time locked up with books.”

Hermione closed the textbook softly, her patience thinning. “Why not? Books don’t lie. Books don’t leave. They don’t mock you for being different. They don’t waste your time.”

The words, spoken so coolly from such a small mouth, made the air go taut.

Margaret tried again. “But, Hermione, children learn about life by playing together. You can’t learn everything from..."

“I don’t want to play,” Hermione cut in, “and I can learn everything I need from here. Thank you for your concern Aunt Margaret." She re-opened her book and blocked out everything and everyone else.

Come January, Hermione’s reputation at Cambridge had grown. Professors praised her essays. Dense, meticulous, and written with the detachment of a seasoned researcher.

“Brilliant mind. Hardworking and assiduous.” Professor Halden remarked to a colleague. “But rather detached, isn't she?”

Hermione overheard.

That night, as she struggled with a difficult problem in quantum theory, her frustration mounted until a small flame erupted and burned nearly half the paper. She gasped, terrified, but was able to put the fire out without any real damage.

Hermione knew better than to talk to her parents about these strange occurances. They'd never believe her. In the past year, she'd confessed to them that sometimes she feels that there's something inside her. Something that wants to come out.

Her parents' response was to ask if she was unable to handle the pressures of higher education. Her father even suggested that she take a break if Cambridge was proving to be too much for her. To Hermione, this was unthinkable. Besides, it wasn't the academic work that vexed her. She herself didn't have a name for what it was that seemed to live inside her.

So, Hermione went to the place that always had answers to her questions, no matter how profound or how many. The Cambridge Library.

She found several books about people being able to move objects without touching them. Telekinesis. And the ability to produce flames. Pyromancy.

However, the books made it clear that none of this was scientifically verified. Such accounts were likely to be hallucinations or hoaxes. Some of the books looked at these so called experiences from cultural or psychological standpoints.

Books had always provided Hermione with all the answers. But this time, they only left her confused.

---

June 5, 1991.

By the time June rolled in, Hermione was preparing for her Part IA exams. Yet another mountain waiting to be scaled.

Her aunt visited once more. Still unable to wrap her head around all that her niece was doing.

“She’s brilliant, Rose. No one denies it. But Cambridge at eleven? Don’t you think that might be too much?" Margaret said quietly as they watched Hermione study in the conservatory, bent over yet another book, in the midst of beautiful flora. “And she’s so alone. She doesn’t have any friends, has zero interaction with children her age. She doesn’t look for connection or approval. Rose, she’s… hardening.”

Rose’s smile faltered. She regarded her sister with a cold gaze, and Margaret was reminded exactly from where Hermione had got that expression.

"My daughter is an extraordinary girl, Margaret.", Rose said, in an even tone with sharp edges. "She's meant for great things. Perhaps it's just difficult for her to connect with ordinary children."

Margaret backed off, but her words lingered.

When Hermione had her academic paper published in a respected student physics journal, Rose saw a rare gleam of satisfaction in her daughter’s eyes.

“Boundary Effects in Quantum Tunneling: A Mathematical Model for Non-Linear Potentials”

The paper dealt with the way quantum particles behave when tunneling through irregular potential barriers (not smooth, but jagged, chaotic, or dynamically shifting).

Rose and Hugo's pride and joy had accomplished this at barely twelve years of age. As she held the published journal in her hands, her sister's words came to Rose’s mind.

Were they really pushing Hermione too hard?

Was she being robbed of a childhood?

The following week, Hermione sat with her cello in her room. She drew the bow across the strings, filling the air with rich sound. Music, piano and cello, was her solace, the one thing that felt like speaking without the use of words.

Her father knocked gently. “Hermione, love?". Hermione greeted him with a smile.

"Hi Dad!"

"Your mother and I have noticed that you've been working quite hard." Hugo said, as he sat beside her. "And by that I mean more than usual."

Hermione chuckled and said "yes, the course load is challenging. But I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Hugo took her hand in his "Darling have you ever felt that by achieving what you have at such a young age, you might be missing out on something?"

"Not at all", Hermione replied without hesitation, "I’m not missing anything. I'm more than happy studying hard and being at par with those nearly a decade older than me."

After a brief pause she asked, "Dad, are you asking me all this because of the things Aunt Margaret said?"

"She means well, Hermione", Hugo replied, "she just..."

"Thinks there's something wrong with me.", she interrupted, "Well there isn't. So she should keep her opinions to herself."

Hermione set her bow down sharply, and to her shock, the cello quivered on it's own. The strings vibrated as if struck by an unseen hand, sending out a harsh chord that sounded like an auditory representation of her displeasure.

Her father blinked, startled. Hermione stared, heart pounding. Then she said quickly, “I was practicing resonance — sympathetic vibrations. It must’ve been that.”

Hugo frowned but said nothing.

It was apparent to both Rose and Hugo that their Hermione was never happier than when she was with a book in her lap. Than when she threw herself into her studies, her passion for learning propelling her forward, taking her far ahead of those much older than her.
As long as Hermione was happy and was succeeding, her parents decided there was no need to fix that which was not broken.

They had, without a doubt, raised their daughter to be a winner. Sharp, formidable, infallible. But there were those rare occasions when she would struggle.

---

November 7, 1991.

The lamplight cast a harsh glare across Hermione’s desk, bleaching the pages of her calculus textbook. She hunched forward, pen scribbling furiously, but the equations refused to line up. Her notes were a mess, something she never allowed. And the numbers swam until they looked like meaningless smudges against the white sheets of paper.

Her chest felt tight, her breathing shallow.

“Why can’t I do this?” she whispered, slamming her pen down. At last, the tears came, hot and humiliating.

The door opened with a soft creak.
“Hermione?” came Rose Granger's voice as she stepped in and surveyed the desk. “Still at it?”

Hermione scrubbed her sleeve across her face. “I have to finish. Everyone else already knows this. They’re older, cleverer. If I fall behind, they’ll....” her voice hitched, “they’ll say that I don’t belong at Cambridge.”

“You’ve been working since dinner, my darling. It’s past midnight. That’s not sustainable, love.”, said Rose, her voice calm and reasonable.

“But you don’t understand!” Hermione burst out. “They’ll think I’m a mistake. That I don’t deserve to be there. I have to keep up!”

Rose’s brow furrowed. “Hermione, no one is questioning whether you deserve to be there. You’ve proved that already. What you need is discipline, and that includes rest. Even the brightest minds can’t run without fuel.”

Hermione’s fists clenched. "But Mum...."

Her protests were cut off.

“Hermione Jean, that’s nonsense. You are good enough. You are the very best, and I can't see you fail simply because your emotions didn't allow you to work through a crisis. Think about it logically, dear. Spending hours upon hours this way won't bring you any closer to the solution."

Before Hermione could say anything else, Rose closed her books and notebook and piled them neatly on top of each other.

"Now, go take a warm bath and go to bed. In the morning, once your head is clear, you can start afresh."

After giving her daughter a goodnight kiss on the forehead, she left.

Left in the lamplight, Hermione stared at the empty doorway. The echo of her mother’s voice offered not comfort, but something more useful. Strategy. One that she'd be wise to put into action. However, a part of young Hermione yearned for something more. What she wanted, she couldn’t even name aloud. Not advice or rules, but reassurance that she belonged in those prestigious corridors, even when she had her rare stumbles.

But since no one would give her that, she swore she’d earn it herself.

---

July 23, 1992. Cambridge University.

Graduation day was a festival of robes and flowers, of laughter and photographs, of parents crowding into the college grounds with expressions of unrestrained pride. Clusters of students embraced, tears shining in their eyes as they spoke of futures uncertain and adventures yet to come.

Hermione Jean Granger, twelve years and ten months of age, dressed in a black gown that seemed to swallow her small frame, stood apart.

Her parents hovered close by, practically glowing. Dr. Rose Granger smoothed Hermione’s gown with unnecessary fuss, while Dr. Hugo Granger simply watched her with an affectionate smile, his chest puffed out with fatherly pride. Around them, older students glanced, some with admiration, others with bemusement.

The ceremony took place in the grand hall, its timbered roof echoing with the shuffle of feet and the murmur of names being called. Hermione sat in the front row, her back perfectly straight. Around her were students about a decade older than her.

When the Master of the college rose to announce the recipients of First-Class Honours in Mathematics, Hermione’s name was called first.

“Hermione Jean Granger.”

The applause was thunderous as she rose, walked forward with brisk, purposeful steps, and bowed her head slightly as she shook the Master’s hand. The scroll felt heavy in her hand.

Soon, her name was called again. This time for Physics.

“Miss Granger, having achieved First-Class Honours in both the Mathematical and Natural Sciences Tripos, is hereby commended….”

She stepped forward again, shook hands, accepted the second scroll. The applause grew louder. The murmurs swelled. Two Firsts, at twelve years old. Unprecedented.

Hermione’s heart felt as though it would burst out of her. She looked at her parents. They were both in tears, glowing with pride and elation . She smiled at them, they smiled back.

All her hard work, all those late nights she spent doggedly at her study table, all the sacrifices she made. It had all been worth it.

---

August 2, 1992. The Granger Residence

The Grangers’ dining room was alive with chatter. Aunts and uncles had gathered for Sunday roast, cousins sprawled in corners comparing school gossip. Rose Granger, in her usual proud but understated tone, mentioned to her sister that Hermione had begun preparing for a Master’s degree in Theoretical Physics, with a specialisation in Quantum Mechanics.

Margaret looked at her sister with eyebrows raised, "Rose, that's very impressive. But.... she's only twelve. Maybe she should take a break from all of it. Just be a child for a while."

“Yes, she’s only twelve,” Rose replied, almost defensively. “But our Hermione enjoys living a life of academic achievement."

"Besides", Hugo added, "the university agreed her research warranted it. They said it was unprecedented. We wouldn't hold her back from accolades that are rightfully hers."

The room once again fell into relaxed chatter. The calm atmosphere was ruined, however, when Hermione’s paternal cousin Oliver, a boy about a year older than her, but with an impish grin and a habit of mocking what he couldn’t understand, gave a high laugh.

“Master’s degree? What, do they give freak shows degrees for juggling equations?”

Hugo was about to tell his brother to make his brat apologies to his little girl. Hermione, sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap, didn’t flinch. She turned her gaze on Oliver, her brown eyes cool, appraising, as if he were no more than a bug pinned under glass.

“You’re nearly failing your Key Stage exams, aren’t you, Oliver?” she said in a voice that was calm, clipped, almost too adult. “Still struggling with fractions, as I heard.”

Oliver’s smile faltered. “That’s none of your...."

Hermione leaned forward just slightly. “So while I’m solving tensor equations for quantum tunneling, you can’t divide three-digit numbers without a calculator. You laugh at me because you think being ordinary is safer. But tell me, Oliver, when you grow up and realise the world doesn’t reward mediocrity, what will you have left? Other than being the cousin who used to snicker at someone he’ll never be able to equal.”

Her words sliced like a scalpel. Oliver’s face went red, his eyes shining with the threat of tears. The adults shifted uncomfortably; someone coughed. Oliver’s parents, Gregory and Silvia, wore expression that seemed to flicker between outrage and embarrassment.

"That's quite enough Hermione, you've made your point.", said Rose. The reprimand barely qualified as one. Especially since her eyes held a gleam of approval that Hermione could always spot.

Hugo didn't even make any attempt to hide the fact that he was pleased.

"Our little girl is growing up. Bullies beware."

The comment was met with polite laughter from all but three people at the table.

The conversation lurched forward again, but no one laughed at Hermione.

---

August 8, 1992. Saturday evening.

The doorbell rang at exactly half past six in the evening. It being a Saturday, Hermione was spending a rare evening with her parents as they watched a movie on the television. Her father made witty remarks, to which her mother gave equally witty responses. And Hermione laughed heartily.

“I’ll get it,” Rose said, heading into the hallway. Hermione tilted her head back in mild curiosity. They weren’t expecting visitors, and their neighborhood was the kind where people rarely dropped by unannounced.

A moment later, the sound of the front door opening carried into the room, followed by a pause so long it prickled with unease. Then came Rose’s voice, strained with a hint of nervousness.

“Can I… help you?”

Hermione pushed back her chair, curiosity getting the better of her, and padded into the hallway. Her mother was standing stiffly by the open door. On the step outside stood the strangest looking woman Hermione had ever seen in her life.

She was tall, severe, and with black hair streaked in silver pulled into a bun so tight it looked like it might creak. Her expression was sharp, as if her face were carved from granite, but her eyes behind square spectacles held a fierce intelligence. And the way she was dressed. Utterly absurd. Flowing black robes. Not a costume, not a gown, but proper fabric that caught the porchlight in dark folds. A tartan scarf was draped across her shoulders. In one of her hands she carried a scaly leather bag, and in the other, something long and slim, like a polished stick of wood. The lady looked as though she might be in her late sixties.

“Good evening,” the woman said crisply, with the air of someone entirely sure of her welcome. “My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. May I come in?”

Rose blinked. “I...well... this is a private residence, Madam. I think you’ve got the wrong....”

“I assure you, Dr Granger,” the woman interrupted smoothly, “I am at precisely the right address. I have come to speak with you about your daughter.”

Hermione, who had frozen halfway into the hall, flushed scarlet when the woman’s piercing gaze swung to her.

Rose frowned. “Our… daughter?” She stepped protectively to the side, half-blocking Hermione. “What business do you have with her?”

McGonagall inclined her head gravely, as though conceding the question fair. “It will be easier to demonstrate than to explain. With your permission?”

“Demonstrate?” Rose repeated, unable to decide if she should entertain the request or just slam the door and call the police.

Hermione felt her father step up behind her, a steadying hand on her shoulder. He exchanged a look with his wife.

“You may come inside, then,” Hugo said cautiously.

McGonagall entered with the air of someone inspecting a new discovery. She paused in the drawing room, where the light of the standard lamp fell across the neat sofa, the stack of Reader’s Digests, and the tasteful artwork on the walls. With a subtle flick of her wrist, too quick for Hermione to track, she pointed the slender wooden stick at the ottoman in the corner.

“Observe,” she said.

The ottoman gave a sudden lurch, sprouted four spindly wooden legs, and began to toddle across the carpet like a newborn foal.

Rose screamed, Hugo’s mouth fell open. Both of them stood before their daughter like a wall. Hermione just stared wide eyed.

The ottoman circled once around the coffee table, wobbled uncertainly, and then stilled again at a quiet tap from McGonagall’s stick.

“I beg your pardon for the intrusion,” she said calmly, as if reanimated furniture were a perfectly reasonable calling card. “But I find demonstrations of this sort leave little room for disbelief.”

Rose sputtered...“What… what on earth....”

“This was magic Dr Granger,” McGonagall said gently. “I am a witch.”

The word hung in the room, enormous and impossible. Hermione’s heart thudded so loudly she was sure they could all hear it. A witch.

She wanted to laugh, to scoff, to dismiss it as absurd—but she couldn’t. Not when she thought of the lamp that had flown across the room two summers ago, slamming into the neighborhood bully. Not when she remembered the way books sometimes leapt from shelves when she was angry. Or the time a piece of paper had spontaneously combusted. Or that strange pull she felt in her chest when her emotions overwhelmed her.

All her life, she had told herself she was imagining it. That she was over-tired, over-excited, mistaken. But somewhere deep deep down, she had known.

McGonagall’s voice cut into her racing thoughts. “Your exceptional daughter, Hermione, is a witch as well. Quite a talented one, if our records are accurate. Her magical abilities have already manifested, and we at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry have been aware of her since she was but a toddler.”

“Hogwarts?”, asked Hugo, trying to hold on to his composure.

“School of Witchcraft And Wizardry. The best one in all of Europe.", McGonagall said, with brisk authority. “It is where I was taught, and where I currently hold a teaching position. With your permission, Hermione here can attend Hogwarts where she will be taught to use and control her magic."

Hugo finally found his voice. He looked at his daughter, then at Professor McGonagall. “You mean.... you mean all those strange things she said happened....”

“Were the results of uncontrolled magic,” McGonagall confirmed. “Quite ordinary for a child of her talent.”

Hermione looked from her father’s bewildered face to her mother’s rigid one. “Mum,” she whispered, “I—”

Rose shook her head sharply. “No. This is absurd. My daughter is a student of science. She’s beginning her Master’s....”

“I am well aware of Hermione’s extraordinary academic achievements.” McGonagall said firmly, "But do remember that she is also a witch. And unless she learns to control her gift, the accidents you have already witnessed will become more dangerous."

There was silence. Hermione’s chest tightened. She knew. She had always known.

"This can't be real..." Rose said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

"I assure you that it is.", McGonagall replied, quite simply.

"Well then... how is it that we are just learning about this? Why have we never heard of this.... this Hogwarts?"

"That is because, Dr Granger, your world and our world exist in overlapping dimensions.", McGonagall told her. "And unless and until there is an imperative need, such as making contact with a magical child, those from our world prefer to stay away from yours."

"Overlapping dimensions", Hermione repeated quietly, as though processing this information.

McGonagall gave Hermione a fleeting smile, as she reached into her bag and withdrew three books, placing them carefully on the coffee table. Hermione stepped out of her father’s protective grasp and looked at them. The first was heavy and leather-bound: Hogwarts: A History. The second, smaller and green, bore the title Basic Spells for the Young Witch and Wizard. The third, an old-looking tome with gilt letters, was A Brief History of Magical Civilisation of Europe.

“These will give you an introduction, Miss Granger” the older witch said. “You will gain a basic understanding about magic and the world you are about to enter. I've placed an enchantment on them, so that if anyone besides you and your parents looks at them, they will appear to be ordinary storybooks."

Hermione reached out with trembling fingers, brushing the cover of Hogwarts: A History. She opened it and gasped. The pictures moved. Just like images on a television screen.

"Mum, look!"

"My word!", Rose murmured as she beheld the magical images.

“I know this is a great deal to take in,” McGonagall continued, softening a bit “So I will give you a week to think on it. I shall return next Saturday, at the same time. You may give me your decision then. But I must be plain. This is not a matter of choice, not truly. Magic will not be denied. It will not be suppressed. The only choice is whether Hermione is to be properly trained or left to struggle alone.”

Her gaze swept over the family, pausing briefly on Hermione, as though to impress the words upon her most of all. Then she straightened, robes swishing. “Good evening.”

And before anyone could respond, she turned and strode to the door. The Grangers stood frozen, listening as it clicked shut behind her.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Rose finally sank onto a chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. “This… this is madness.”

Hugo looked dazed, but not disbelieving. His eyes flicked to Hermione. “Sweetheart, you've known for some time, haven't you?"

Hermione swallowed hard, hugging Hogwarts: A History to her chest. Her eyes stung, though with what emotion she couldn’t have said. Relief? Terror? Exhilaration?

“Yes,” she whispered. “I think I have.”

Hermione hadn’t put the books down since McGonagall’s departure. Hogwarts: A History lay perpetually open on her desk. The books on soellcraft and magical history had already acquired dog-eared pages from how often they were read.

Hermione’s voracious appetite for knowledge was nothing new. But this time, her parents read with her.

Together, the family learned words like "Muggle", "Muggle-born", "Squibs". They learned about Dimensional Folds - doorways between the two worlds that could be seen only by animals and people with magical abilities.

"And there are creatures I thought were fictional", Hermione exclaimed, "centaurs, merfolk, goblins, dragons! They're real Mum. They exist!"

"This is fascinating", Rose observed, "an entire world, existing parallel to ours."

"The Statute of Secrecy does make sense", commented Hugo, "especially in light of what we already knew of witch burnings."

"In order to attend Hogwarts," Hermione told them one evening, "a student has to be not less than thirteen years old on the First of September. Which means I won't be eligible to attend till next year."

Rose and Hugo considered this.

"I suppose it's good that they reach out to children from our world a year in advance.", she observed, "Gives them time to ..... to come to terms with it all."

"Muggle-borns", said Hermione.

"Dear?"

"Magical children from our world.... from non magical families are called Muggle-borns, Mum."

This drew a chuckle out of Hugo.

"Look at our girl! Already fluent in the lexicon."

Rose smiled tenderly at Hermione, who had once again buried herself in the text on magical history.

“She’s never looked happier.”, Rose said to her husband as they sat in the kitchen late one night. Hermione had finally gone to bed, though Rose suspected she was still reading with a torch under the covers.

"This is all so fantastical, isn't it?", said Hugo, holding her hand, "Something that shouldn't be real. But if you really think about it, this was inevitable."

Rose noded. She knew what Hugo was talking about. All the strange occurances around Hermione that they had wilfully ignored for years. It all made sense now.

“She’s never been like other children,” Hugo said gently. “You’ve known that since she started reading academic texts at five. Cambridge didn’t change that. She’s always been out of step with the rest of the world. And now…”

Rose finished his sentence, “…now she thinks she’s found her place.”

Friday evening, the day before Professor Minerva McGonagall was due to return, Hermione knocked on the door of the master bedroom. She and her parents made themselves comfortable in the sitting area.

“Mum, Dad", she began, "you’ve always told me knowledge is the most important thing. That I should seek truth wherever it leads. Well, this is the truth. We can’t deny it anymore. I know what I’ve always felt, all those times when something strange happened around me. I thought there was something wrong with me. But it isn't. I’m a witch. I'm magical.

Rose put an arm around her daughter, as though in anticipation of that other world pulling her little girl away. She saw her own emotions reflected in her husband's eyes.

“I promise I won’t abandon science,” Hermione said, words tumbling. “I’ll finish my Master’s after Hogwarts. But please, let me go. Don't take this from me."

Rose and Hugo had never seen her so desperate. So vulnerable.

“Please,” Hermione whispered. “This is what I am. The world Professor McGonagall came from is where I belong."

For a moment Rose couldn’t breathe. Then Hugo sat beside Hermione and pulled her into a hug. “Your mother and I have talked about this, darling. We understand."

The decision was made.

---

August 15, 1992. The next Saturday

The doorbell rang, once again, at exactly six thirty in the evening.

The Grangers were waiting when Minerva McGonagall appeared on their doorstep. Rose had dressed carefully, as if for a formal meeting, a dark blazer over her dress. Hugo had a notebook and pen tucked into his pocket.

Hermione was already in the hallway, perched on the edge of the bench where she had stacked her three books like prized jewels. Her hair was even more untamed than usual, a halo of frizz around her eager face. She had barely slept the pervious night, and all but shook with nervous energy.

Minerva stepped inside, her magnificent robes sweeping neatly behind her. She carried herself as though she were entering a boardroom, not the front hall of a suburban dentist’s house. She inclined her head.

“Dr and Dr Granger. Miss Granger.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Rose said, her voice polite but taut. “We’ve… well, we’ve thought carefully. We want Hermione to go. But we do have questions.”

“Of course.” Minerva’s expression softened. “It would be foolish not to.”

They led her into the sitting room, where they served tea and scones. Acutely aware that the last time this stately witch had entered their home, they had offered her nothing. Watching furniture strut about does tend to make one forget basic etiquette. Hermione sat rigidly on the edge of her chair, practically vibrating.

Rose glanced at Hugo, who gave her a small nod. “Our first concern is safety. If Hermione goes to this Hogwarts… will she be safe there?”

Minerva folded her hands. “Hogwarts is one of the most heavily warded places in the magical world. Its protective enchantments are older than Britain itself. Within those grounds, she will be far safer than she could ever be outside them.”

Rose did not look entirely convinced, but Hugo leaned forward. “Will we be able to visit her?”

There was the smallest pause. “No,” Minerva said. “I’m afraid not. Muggles cannot enter Hogwarts, or even the magical world without a special permit from the Ministry of Magic. That's our governing body.”

Hugo’s face fell slightly, but Minerva continued before anyone could interrupt. “However, the Ministry of Magic has a Department for the Protection of Muggle-borns. They will remain in contact with you. You will receive regular letters by owl, with updates on her welfare and education. And, of course, Hermione herself will be able to write to you.”

“Owls,” Hugo repeated faintly.

“They make excellent couriers,” Minerva said briskly.

Rose straightened. “And the cost of tuition?”

“There is none,” Minerva said simply. “Hogwarts is publicly funded by the Ministry of Magic. Your daughter’s books, robes, and wand will need to be purchased, of course, but tuition itself carries no fee.”

"When will I be able to visit home?", Hermione asked.

"During summer at the end of the school year. From mid-June till the end of August. And for Yule Break. From the twenty first of December to the First of January." Minerva told her.

"But how will she get here?", asked Rose.

"Oh the Hogwarts Express brings students from Hogwarts to Platform Nine and Three Quarters." the older witch replied, "From there a Ministry official will bring her to the Dimensional Fold closest to your home."

“There is one more matter,” Minerva added. “You will be required to sign a magical contract. It will bind you, quite literally, from revealing what you know of our world to anyone else. This is in accordance with the Statute of Secrecy, which keeps our worlds separate. The enchantment is unbreakable, and will render you incapable of even mentioning our world in front of anyone besides your daughter. Or another Witch of Wizard."

Rose and Hugo looked at each other.

"So it takes away our autonomy.", Hugo commented.

"I'm afraid such precautions are necessary." Minerva replied.

Hugo only nodded.

“In July of next year,” Minerva continued, turning to Hermione. “An owl will deliver your official Hogwarts Acceptance Letter. At that time, I will return,along with an Auror, and we shall escort you and your parents into the magical world. You will need to be outfitted for school, and you must also open an account at Gringotts.”

“Gringotts?” Rose repeated.

“Our bank,” Minerva explained. “Run by goblins. They are formidable, highly intelligent, and scrupulously fair in their dealings."

Hermione’s pen was already scratching across her notebook.

"Professor, what is an Auror?", she asked.

"A law enforcement officer.", Minerva smiled at the young witch's enthusiasm.

Turning to her parents, she continued.

“Gringotts does not accept Muggle currency. You will need to bring precious metals or stones. Gold and silver would be ideal. Goblins tend to devalue non-magical jewels.”

“Of course,” Hugo murmured faintly.

"How much gold, would you say?", asked Rose.

Minerva pondered for a second, and said "a gold coin the size of your pennies would be more than sufficient to purchase books, uniforms, robes and stationery that would last the entire school year."

Hermione scribbled faster.

“Now,” Minerva said, reaching into her bag, “I thought Miss Granger might appreciate additional reading.” She set a neat stack of volumes on the table. “A three-volume study of magical societies across the world. A geography of Magical Britain, which will give you more detail about the Dimensional Folds. And lastly, The Luminaries: Great Witches and Wizards of European History.”

Hermione’s eyes shone.

"You've brought me more books, Professor? Thank you!"

“Ordinarily, Hogwarts only sends the three I gave you last week,” Minerva said with a small smile, “But it seemed… prudent to provide more. You, Miss Granger, strike me as the sort of student who will not be content with the bare minimum.”

Hermione flushed with delight. She touched the top of the stack reverently, as though the books themselves were holy relics.

“I should probably start learning Latin,” Hermione said quickly. “Most of the spells I saw in the beginner’s book were in Latin. If that’s the case, I’d like to be ready.”

Minerva’s stern face softened into something like approval. “An excellent idea. Most students muddle along with only the incantations themselves, but true understanding requires language. You will find your efforts amply rewarded.”

Hermione sat straighter, beaming.

Rose and Hugo sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the flood of information. Finally Rose said, “We’ll do what it takes. If this is what she wants” She looked at Hermione, whose face was radiant. “then we won’t stand in her way.”

Minerva inclined her head, a rare glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. “Wise. Very wise.”

She rose, her robes rustling. “That will be all for today. I shall return in July, when her letter arrives. In the meantime, I suggest you all grow accustomed to the idea. The magical world may be hidden, but it is no less real than your own.”

As Minerva departed, Hermione clutched the new books to her chest, her eyes brighter than Rose had ever seen them.

For the first time, Rose thought, perhaps her daughter had finally found a world vast enough to contain her.