Chapter Text
°1985°
“Excuse me, are you the librarian?”
The man with the white beard behind the counter raised his head, offering Hermione a radiant smile.
“I am,” he said with a little bow. “At your service, milady.”
“I’m looking for a book, sir.”
He winked. “You’re in the right place, then. Do you remember how it’s called?”
“Well, I’m not looking for a specific one, just for one with a real story. I can’t keep reading books for little kids with pictures and nursery rhymes anymore.”
The librarian chuckled with amusement. “You are a bright kid, aren’t you?”
“And a very particular one,” said her mum with a smile, caressing her hair. “It turns out that Elmer the Patchwork Elephant is too simple for her.”
“I finished it in thirteen minutes!” It was obvious that she would have found it simple.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll manage to find a real book that suits you.” The librarian walked around his desk with a delighted expression and gestured for them to follow. “Come, I’ll show you the junior section.”
Hermione nodded, pleased, and she followed him over the stairs, making an effort to keep up with his steps.
“So, young lady, may I ask you how old are you?”
“I’m five years and a half old,” she answered promptly, her chin held high.
The librarian turned toward her, his eyes wide in surprise. “Five years and a half? Then you’re even smarter than I thought!”
“I’m the only one in my classroom that can read proper books,” said Hermione, happy to clear things out. “The other girls still play with their Barbies.”
“Once in a while you could play with them too, Hermione.” Her mum gave her a gentle smile. “There’s nothing wrong in it, and books don’t run away.”
“Oh, well, sometimes our books do!” said the librarian with mirth. “One day they vanish, and they never come back.”
Hermione’s heart missed a beat, and she swallowed hard. “ Vanish? You mean… into thin air?”
Her mum squeezed her shoulder, but the librarian chuckled again. “More like at somebody’s place. I’m afraid not everyone remembers to bring back the books on loan, but I’m sure this won’t be your case.”
Hermione’s heart calmed down. There was nothing to worry about: books couldn’t just vanish in thin air. Nothing could: her teacher had said it very clearly when Julia had made up that her Barbie had suddenly disappeared while she was playing.
“And here we are! This is our junior section.”
Only the label at the entrance distinguished it from the rest of the library: there were shelves upon shelves filled with books, real books, and Hermione nodded in approval.
“Give me a minute to pick something that might intrigue you, then you’ll tell me which story appeals to you the most, okay?”
Hermione stared in awe while the librarian checked rack after rack, grazing the covers with his fingers in search of the right title. Once in a while he stopped to pull out a book: sometimes he nodded satisfied and held it under his left arm, other times he put it back, shaking his head.
He seemed quite pleased when he finally came back to her, laying four books on a little table.
“Et voilà!”
The old man took the first book and showed her the front cover, a picture of a beautiful girl with an aquamarine dress.
“Swan Princess. It’s about a princess cursed by an evil sorcerer and –”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve already seen the animated movie,” cut in Hermione. “And I don’t want a princess story, anyway.”
The librarian raised his eyebrows, taken aback. “No princesses?”
Hermione shook her head, making her bushy hair dance in front of her eyes, and he chuckled with amusement.
“I reckon I should have seen it coming,” he said good-naturedly, winking at her mum. “Now I understand why you said you have a particular daughter.”
Mum smiled. “I knew you’d agree, eventually. I should have warned you that at the moment princesses aren’t her cup of tea.”
Hermione huffed, annoyed. How many times did she have to explain to her mum that she didn’t like that kind of stuff anymore? “It’s not my fault if princess stories are all the same.”
“I can see your point,” agreed the librarian. “I won’t waste your time suggesting this novel, then.” He moved the second book at the bottom of the pile and picked the third one. “This is The Secret Garden. It’s about a girl that finds out how to sneak into a garden and starts exploring it with her friend Colin. What do you say, think this might suit you?”
Hermione studied carefully the drawing on the cover. In the middle of the page, a girl with curly blonde hair and a red coat was peering through a hedge.
“Maybe,” she conceded with a hint of curiosity. She wanted to see the last book as well, before making a decision.
The librarian clapped his hands cheerfully. “Particular, and prudent! In all frankness, I think you’re right to be cautious, because it’s time to see my fourth – well, third – recommendation.” He leant closer and spoke in a whisper, his hand around his mouth as he was confiding her a secret. “And I assure you it’s no coincidence that I kept it for last.”
He held the book in front of her with a certain reverence. A girl with straight brown hair and fair skin sat on a wooden box with a big volume opened on her legs, and piles and piles of coloured books rose from the ground around her.
And just like that, Hermione knew.
“It’s the story of –”
“I’ll take this one.”
The librarian gave her a bright smile. “I knew you’d pick Matilda. Or maybe I should say the book picked you…”
°1991°
June
“It’s about a witch that falls in love with a vampire, and there are werewolves too! It’s amazing.”
“Thanks, Fardly,” said Mrs Stendeer, writing down the title on the blackboard. “Granger?”
“Well, I believe spending the summer reading about children’s fantasies such as sorcerers, unicorns and vampires would be a real waste of time, since these things don’t exist,” stated Hermione. “I’d rather suggest trying out War and Peace. A light reading, I finished it in eight days.”
The teacher gave her a strained smile before writing the title below Night in Transylvania, then she turned again toward the class.
“Mitchell, what do you propose?”
“So, how many votes for Night in Transylvania? Five… ten… Castark, is that a raised hand? Then thirteen… fifteen… twenty-one!” Mrs Stendeer wrote down the number beside the title. “It seems you were very convincing, Fardly.”
Hermione huffed loudly, trying at the same time to convey all her disapproval and to ignore the excited giggles of her classmates.
“Now, how many votes for War and Peace?”
It was definitely harder to remain indifferent to the scornful laughs that broke out when she raised her hand, but Hermione held her arm up until the teacher had written ‘one’ beside War and Peace.
When the last bell of the year rang in the halls, her classmates screamed like little kids and rushed to the door, shoving each other in their haste to leave.
Hermione looked away and her eyes caught the line she had just written down.
Homework for the summer: read ‘Night in Transylvania’ by Stacey Moore.
She slammed her homework planner shut and shoved it in her packed schoolbag. After standing up, she slung the heavy backpack on her shoulders, adjusting the straps to balance the weight better.
“Have a good summer, Mrs Stendeer,” she said with cold courtesy.
“Thank you, Hermione.” The teacher took a deep breath, and for a moment Hermione thought she was about to add something meaningful.
She was clearly wrong, though, because “Good summer to you too,” was everything Mrs Steender deigned to add.
Hermione gave her with a curt nod, and walked out of the door.
Jayne was twelve years old and she had long black hair, intense blue eyes and a petite figure. In short, on the surface she was a girl like every other, if it wasn’t for a tiny detail.
Jayne was a witch.
While the other mothers taught her friends how to cook, her mum made her brew magic potions; while her classmates learned to dance, she studied spells to move objects. While normal girls’ only worry was not to get their clothes dirty, she trained to hunt vampires.
Hermione closed the book with an abrupt thump.
She hadn’t finished the first page yet, and she already hated it.
How silly, she thought with deep annoyance. Nobody can move objects without touching them. Nobody, not with their thoughts, not with magic.
“Magic doesn’t exist,” she said through gritted teeth. Of that she was sure: magic only existed in books – books for stupid kids.
Six days had gone by since the last time Hermione had opened Night in Transylvania, but now that she had finished Les Misérables she had run out of excuses to procrastinate her assigned reading.
She took the book from her bedside table and sat down at her desk. She usually read on her bed, but she wasn’t going to qualify something this insipid as ‘reading’.
It’s homework, Hermione told herself. And homework shouldn’t be done in bed.
After finding where she had left off, she heaved a long, resigned sigh and began reading.
Because that was her family’s specialty. Hunting vampires was an art they passed on from mother to daughter for generations, and it would continue until all the vampires in Transylvania were eradicated.
Her mother had very similar features: she had the same bushy brown hair, the same hazelnut eyes and even the same protruding front teeth.
Hermione froze, her heart beating loudly inside her chest. Her eyes feverishly skimmed over the last sentence and then went back to gaze at the first lines.
Hermione was eleven years old and she had bushy brown hair, intense hazelnut eyes and protruding front teeth. In short, on the surface she was a girl like every other, if it wasn’t for a tiny detail.
Hermione was a witch.
She dropped the book like it was burning hot, and jumped from her chair in shock when it actually caught fire.
“Please, go out, go out!” she squealed, horrified. “Please, please, stop!”
A moment later, there was only a pile of ashes on the unmarked desk.
Hermione looked at it in bewilderment, her breath still ragged.
As if by magic, the little fire had died out, even faster than it had flared up.
No, not by magic, rectified Hermione, taking a deep breath. The fire extinguished itself only after consuming the whole book, or maybe the wind put it out.
And yet, the window was closed. Hermione opened it to let in fresh air, even if she couldn’t sense any burning smell, then she lifted her bin near the edge of the desk and swept the ashes inside with trembling hands, fighting the urge to wipe her silent tears.
This time it was going to be much harder to persuade herself that it was all a dream.
°1985°
By the age of one and a half her speech was perfect and she knew as many words as most grown-ups. The parents, instead of applauding her, called her a noisy chatterbox and told her sharply that small girls should be seen and not heard.
By the time she was three, Matilda had taught herself to read by studying newspapers and magazines that lay around the house. At the age of four, she could read fast and well and she naturally began hankering after books. The only book in the whole of this enlightened household was something called Easy Cooking belonging to her mother.
Hermione was immediately won over by Matilda’s incredible abilities.
I wish I was that clever, she thought with a hint of envy.
An instant later, though, she felt terribly guilty. It must have been horrible for Matilda to have parents like that.
One and half pages later, Hermione had understood two things.
One, that her next book had to be The Secret Garden, since Matilda herself had read it.
Two, that she didn’t want to be Matilda anymore.
She would have much, much preferred having her as a friend.
That afternoon Hermione devoured page after page without ever stopping, except to write down the books Mrs Phelps recommended.
As she read, she was indignant over the dishonesty of Matilda’s father, warmed by Miss Honey’s kindness, enraged by Trunchbull’s hammer throw, impressed by Bruce Bogtrotter’s resilience, and when dinner time came, she hadn't even realised she was hungry.
Hermione ate in a hurry and then crawled under the covers.
She was laying on her stomach with the book on the pillow when the story took an unexpected turn.
Slowly Matilda sat down. Oh, the rottenness of it all! The unfairness! How dare they expel her for something she hadn’t done!
Matilda felt herself getting angrier . . . and angrier . . . and angrier . . . so unbearably angry that something was bound to explode inside her very soon.
The newt was still squirming in the tall glass of water. It looked horribly uncomfortable. The glass was not big enough for it. Matilda glared at the Trunchbull. How she hated her. She glared at the glass with the newt in it. She longed to march up and grab the glass and tip the contents, newt and all, over the Trunchbull’s head. She trembled to think what the Trunchbull would do to her if she did that.
The Trunchbull was sitting behind the teacher’s table staring with a mixture of horror and fascination at the newt wriggling in the glass. Matilda’s eyes were also riveted on the glass. And now, quite slowly, there began to creep over Matilda a most extraordinary and peculiar feeling. The feeling was mostly in the eyes. A kind of electricity seemed to be gathering inside them. A sense of power was brewing in those eyes of hers, a feeling of great strength was settling itself deep inside her eyes. But there was also another feeling which was something else altogether, and which she could not understand. It was like flashes of lightning. Little waves of lightning seemed to be flashing out of her eyes. Her eyeballs were beginning to get hot, as though vast energy was building up somewhere inside them. It was an amazing sensation.
The description was written so well that even Hermione could feel that warm, electric sensation in her own eyes. She went right back to reading, filled with curiosity.
She kept her eyes steadily on the glass, and now the power was concentrating itself in one small part of each eye and growing stronger and stronger and it felt as though millions of tiny little invisible arms with hands on them were shooting out of her eyes towards the glass she was staring at.
“Tip it!” Matilda whispered. “Tip it over!”
She saw the glass wobble. It actually tilted backwards a fraction of an inch, then righted itself again.
She kept pushing at it with all those millions of invisible little arms and hands that were reaching out from her eyes, feeling the power that was flashing straight from the two little black dots in the very centres of her eyeballs.
“Tip it!” she whispered again. “Tip it over!”
Once more the glass wobbled. She pushed harder still, willing her eyes to shoot out more power. And then, very very slowly, so slowly she could hardly see it happening, the glass began to lean backwards, farther and farther and farther backwards until it was balancing on just one edge of its base. And there it teetered for a few seconds before finally toppling over and falling with a sharp tinkle on to the desk-top. The water in it and the squirming newt splashed out all over Miss
When Hermione moved her gaze to the next word, a patch of water started expanding on the page, blurring all the letters.
Hermione looked at it with horror. The book from the library! she thought in despair, blowing on the paper in the faint hope to make things better.
Dry up, dry up, please dry up!
That’s when the book caught fire.
Hermione squealed and threw it on the ground, grabbing a slipper and hitting the book with it. Go out, go out!
With a last hit, the fire went out.
Hermione leant against her bed to catch her breath, but any chance to calm down vanished as soon as she saw the state the book was in. How am I going to explain it to the librarian? she wondered with anguish.
A moment later, she heard the door opening, and with a quick push she sent the book beneath the bed before her mum could see it.
“Hermione!” she exclaimed with worry, rushing at her side to help her get up and gently rubbing her back. “What happened, darling?”
“Just… just a dream.” Hermione’s voice was trembling, in part because of what happened, in part because of the lie and the ruined book hidden beneath her.
“Did you fall from the bed?”
“I… I think so...”
“Don’t worry, honey. Everything is fine now.” She gently kissed her forehead, and Hermione felt a bit relieved. “Now get under the covers, so I can tuck you in.”
Hermione lay on her side and hugged the pillow, letting Mum fuss over her. Her heart was still pounding, so she made a conscious effort to breathe slower. Even if her mind kept running to the ruined book beneath the bed, Mum’s soothing caresses helped her calm down.
She was finally drifting off when Mum kissed her forehead and stood up.
“What is this?” she asked a moment later, reaching down to grab something at her feet.
Hermione jerked awake and watched in horror while her mother picked up the book.
When Hermione saw it, though, her horror turned into astonishment.
Mum smiled knowingly, glancing at her bedside lamp. “You fell asleep while reading, didn’t you?” She held the undamaged copy of Matilda in front of her. “Would you like me to read it to you until you fall asleep?”
Hermione shook her head, unable to speak.
“Good night, then,” wished Mum, before turning down the lamp and leaving the room, closing the door behind her with a low click.
As soon as the sound of her steps faded away, Hermione turned on the light, eager to understand how the book could look as new.
She grabbed it and turned it over in her hands, flippin through the pages: not a patch of water, not a single word washed-out, not a corner blackened by the fire.
The book looked as if nothing had happened.
She focused on the cover, and froze when she recognised herself as the girl of the picture. She shut her eyes, and a moment later Matilda was back, lost in thought.
Clearly, it had really been just a dream… After all, only in fairytales little girls were smart enough to make things happen with their mind.
In that instant, Hermione decided that the next time she would give the librarian even more specific instructions: no princesses and, most importantly, no magic.