Chapter Text
At age eight, Hermione Granger is the Smart Kid of The Class. She's learnt her multiplication tables twice as fast as anyone in her year, and she has read all of the books in their small primary school library. Perhaps she doesn’t need to learn the periodic table, but. She has to do something at recess.
She has brains; she achieves; she learns. Her teachers tell her parents that she has so much potential, she can be anyone.
Hermione thinks it’s nice, of course, but she’s fine being Hermione. She does however plan to be the best Hermione there can be. She stops bringing home novels and subscribes to science magazines. She doesn’t understand much of it yet. She’ll get there. Her father asks questions to urge her to think. Whenever her mother enlists help in the kitchen, they absentmindedly speak about what they'd like to know more about, what they'd learnt that day. Hermione knows more about teeth than anyone in her complete school. Their family recipes are always new, curated from someplace in the world her parent's would like to travel to. The results are always edible, though no one would dare say delicious with absolute honesty -- it is, however, always interesting.
Whenever they feel fanciful, at dinner, while washing the dishes, or on the way to school, they play trivia games. Rapidly quizzing each other, eagerly giving answers.
At these games, Hermione shines.
Her teachers tell her parents she is so great already, she can do anything she put her mind to. Something deep inside her clenches. Yes, yes, yes. She knows she can do things – anything. Amazing thinks. Incredible things.
She can't replicate it, can't make it logical nor predictable. It makes no sense - but she knows --
It's a secret she doesn't admit, even to herself.
000
At age ten, her parents reward a semester of straight A's with a weeklong trip to Greece. History and myths adorn every monument, there are stories whispering in the paved streets. It's a curiosity's delight and Hermione could not be happier.
Until one morning, she wakes up to an antique marble busts sharing her hotel's bed. She throws herself away -- something in her says don't you dare break it --
Her father says, after a moment, isn't that the missing statue on the news? And then he adds, how did it get there?
Hermione's mother sighs.
000
Magic, three strangers dressed in red togas tell her.
She'd scoff, of course she'd scoff. Except the strangers -- policemen of sort -- popped into existence before her eyes, and she's still... processing that.
A month before she turns eleven, Hermione Granger is told with little fanfare, you’re a witch.
She’s heard it before. This time, it's a different sort of punch in the face.
000
It changes everything.
Her carefully laid plans about secondary school become obsolete. She has extensively researched the extracurricular programs, the comparative size of each school’s library, the qualifications of all the teachers whose names she could find, the illustrious scholars, the exciting teaching methods. Hours upon hours of meticulous analysis and cross-references.
She could get a great education, the best in the country. Have dazzling teachers with as much compassion as they had inquiring minds. Or.
Or, she could have magic.
Some decisions warrant no thought.
000
Here's the rub:
She could never sit still in a class about physics, knowing some people could break its laws with a wave of a wand. She could not stay quiet in history class when she is now aware that the so-called “Muggles” – everyone she had considered to be normal people a week before – have such a glaring blind spot. Fairytales and legends, everything had to be re-examined, reconsidered. The new paradigm is too much to take in at once, but already questions race through Hermione’s mind.
Can magic cure cancer? Can wizards and witches teleport? Did magic come from a genome mutation? Was it a fluke?
The fact that Hogwart’s only celebrated club is a sports club – with a few side activities listed, but none too academically oriented – can't tamper her glee.
Neither can Professor McGonagall’s blank look when Hermione delves into the topic of the human genome.
000
Midway through her introductory textbook, an alarming thought occurs to her.
Professor McGonagall hadn’t only been ignorant of biochemistry and quantum physics; she had also appeared clueless about submarines and tanks, as well as satellites and the moon landing.The woman had been extremely knowledgeable in her field, though. Minerva McGonagall had explained the charms behind platform 9 and ¾ easily, and Hermione’s mother had commented on how amazing it was that she commented on it as if it were a small thing. Professor McGonagall had blinked; it wasn’t, she assured, it took great expertise to set up properly, but overall, it was still rather common and expected that these sorts of things would work.
Hermione had thought, like explaining a cellphone to someone from the centuries past.
Of course, this has to mean something else – something very worrisome indeed: that the gap between magical and non-magical is far greater than she suspected. Wizards and witches could manipulate reality with a flick of the wrist, and they’d been at it for centuries. Of course it would be so.
How behind Hermione would lag, learning of those possibilities only now.
‘The problem is dire,’ she announces at dinner. ‘Mum, dad. Can you imagine?’
Her mother nods. ‘It’s certainly very exciting.’
No, she wants to say, but they couldn’t understand. They could never see her true failings. That she’d be a laughing stock. Other children would take advantage of the holes in her knowledge. They’d tell her witches could fly if they sung, and cackle as she plummeted to her death.
‘Think of how many sectors of research could intersect famously,’ her father pops in, looking greatly enthused. He had been speaking of Herbology and dentistry ever since they’d found a book about the many uses of chewing Thunderroots.
Her mother fills her plate with Chinese cabbage and sweet corn. ‘Darling, don't fret. It’s a magical school, but it's still a school. You do school better than anyone.’
Her father adds a bit of peas to her pile and smiles. ‘You’ve always done school better than anyone.’
Breathe, Hermione, she tells herself. She would read a lot. She would read everything. She'd refuse to believe any nonsense without proof.
It’s a sound, solid plan.
Breathe, she repeats, and repeats, until she doesn’t have to pull each breath forward.
Kids could be cruel, but Hermione could outsmart pettiness.
000
‘Who goes first?’
As the only magical person in her family, it should be her. However, she has this niggling doubt – that maybe you need to believe. And she still allows for the possibility that this is a dream. A vivid, colorful, complex - and quite lengthy at this point - hallucination. Maybe she tripped in Greece and has been in a coma ever since and her imagination is finally getting a workout.
‘Do you want me to go first, dear?’ her mother asks when the hesitation sees no end. Her voice is soft, but it sounds weary. They all had trouble sleeping.
‘No!’ Hermione says, quick as you please, because she's going to be a Gryffindor this year.
Also, if it’s a test of faith, her father might be the only one able to pass it. Except her father is Not Magical, not in that sense. He might only get a broken nose for the trouble, were he to go first.
She just. She doesn't know.
‘Are you going to dither about all day, girl?’ a sharp voice asks from behind her.
Face flushed, Hermione pivots. They’d only be standing there a minute or so!
‘Madam,’ she greets, her righteousness shaken by the horrid stuffed vulture adorned on the woman’s hat.
‘Muggleborn, then.’ Hermione sees a boy with chubby cheeks standing behind the old lady, looking mightily uncomfortable. ‘Well, go on them. The passage is right there, see. You only need walk through it at a brisk pace.’
Old people are impatient, Hermione reminds herself, and it has nothing to do with any of us.
But there’s something about the curt rasp of the lady – a voice dry like crackers – and the wince of the boy which annoys her. Or it might be the lack of sleep. Nevertheless, she isn’t as courteous when she replies, ‘Well, my parents are muggles, see.’
She only knows she isn’t being too courteous because her mum squeezes her arm like she hasn’t done in years.
The lady doesn’t seem bothered. Rather, she nods as if to approve. ‘They must stay close to you, but they’ll pass. You are far from being the only Muggleborn to accommodate, child.’
‘I know that,’ Hermione grits. People are always telling her things she already knows like they presume her stupid and ignorant. She is so tired of having to thank them for it. Still, she does. She forces a smile. A good little woman she is. ‘Thank you, madam.’
With her father's hand on her right shoulder and her mother's on her left and her eyes tightly shut, Hermione walks through the bricks.
No part of it hurts. It's like a whoosh. Or that may just be the breath she releases when she catches sight of the railways. Or the glorious red steel of the Hogwarts Express.
It’s like all the epic poems, the great novels, she thinks. It begins with a journey.
000
She’d have helped Neville Longbottom find his toad regardless of whether he’d been that boy with the abrupt lady. After all, kindness is its own reward, all the great philosophers and writers say so. Still, that he is that quiet boy, a child who looks so self-conscious, makes her feel more comfortable. He is not scary. He is not intimidating.
Getting him to talk, she realizes, is like pulling teeth. So she does most of the talking – more talking than she’s done with anyone her age, but she’s nervous about how tearful her mother was and how long boarding would be. Besides, Trevor isn’t turning up, and Neville genuinely seems to listen to her. He’s a tentative friend.
She hasn’t had one in years.
000
‘I’d like Gryffindor, please,’ Hermione thinks loudly as soon as the tattered hat sinks over her brow.
‘Oh, to be young again,’ a voice sighs in her mind. It sounds pretty stuffy, very human – she feels chills on her neck. ‘I’m afraid I’m a Sorting Hat, not a wishing lamp.’
She knows. She read it in Hogwarts: A History.
The hat hums. ‘Rowena would take you within her fold without a second thought. You’d be ill at ease anywhere else, I believe.’
‘But Gryffindor – ‘
‘You have principles, yes, you seem ready to defend them with courage aplenty; yet I do not think you’d defend them brashly on the front lines, not when ink and paper serves you so much better. And trust me – I’m an old hat at knowing these things, really – you’d be thrown into more trouble than you’d need in a lifetime with those adventurous Gryffindors.’
Hermione frowns. ‘I can handle all that. I can be that girl.’
‘Of course; the self is ever changing, and I’ve no doubt you could become reckless if you put your mind to it -’
‘- I’m sure they’re not all reckless – ‘
‘ – but do you truly want to? Your nature yearns for substance, research, the quiet of libraries and the wisdom of old tomes. Lions hardly ever think before they act, you know,’ the Sorting Hat comments, sounding fond. ‘I see it in your mind, how little you think of such behaviour. You want to be recognized, you want the best. The best for you is Ravenclaw.’
Hermione scoffs. ‘There is no reason why I shan't grow my mind in Gryffindor. The library is open to all, mind you.’ She conjures the image of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore. 'If anything, I might learn more from trying something different. There is no indication Gryffindor might impede my intellectual progress.'
The Hat chuckles. ‘Argued like a true Ravenclaw.’
The sudden desire to throw the hat on the ground and stomp on it is surprisingly strong.
She hears the Hat tutting. ‘Throwing a tantrum might be as good a reason as any to sort you with the lions, I suppose. They lack manners, the lot of them.’
It still sounds cheery. Hermione supposes it did use to be Godric Gryffindor’s hat. 'Please,' she thinks.
The foreign presence in her mind roll its eyes before it leaves her, easy as a whisper.
‘GRYFFINDOR,’ the Hat shouts, and she so goes, prim and proud.
Every adult she’s ever met has been telling her she could do and be anything she set her mind to. They had been impressed with her intellect and her sharp curiosity, the way she wielded words and drew ambitious yet solid conclusions. On this night, adorning a fetching shade of scarlet, Hermione feels for the first time like they hadn't been just polite.
She’s part of Gryffindor now.
Yes. Her potential is limitless, thank you so very much. She's a witch, you see. And she is going to be the best witch of her generation.