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“Such a strange child.”
Hermione Granger is used to hearing what adults think of her. She hears them talk of her strangeness when her parents have parties, though the adults don’t think she understands. That’s quite foolish of them. After all, she is eight years old and hears more than people assume.
“We don’t want to play with you.”
At school, the other children laugh at her, poke fun at her, and turn their backs if she walks toward them. It doesn’t matter that she is really making her way to the cluster of sycamore trees at the edge of the school’s playground; they like to mock her as she walks by.
Hermione doesn’t care, not really. She only talks to her peers when forced to do so, usually in class, and she hates that most adults talk down to her, like she’s unable to hold a conversation. Her parents speak to her like she understands adult conversation because, well, she does understand - to an extent, anyway.
No, Hermione Granger doesn’t care for other children and even most adults.
What she does care about are the faeries.
It started when she was a wide-eyed four-year old, listening to her grandma tell her about the otherworldly creatures who walked the Earth with them, though most stayed hidden. The books she was shown depicted them as small, thin creatures with silvery wings. Hermione thought they were beautiful and her most fervent wish was to meet one. Over the years, she learned much about them:
- They were very protective of secrets and to ask to be told one was very rude.
- There were different types of faeries, ones who kept the peace and ones whose very existence was to wreak havoc on Earth. (Hermione knows she only wants to search for those on the side of Good. She has now need for Dark fae who prey on emotions.)
- To see a faerie was a blessing.
Hermione keeps the information tucked away, especially because her love of faeries is starting to cause problems. Her teachers write small notes home to her mum and dad, telling them she’s distracted and doesn’t like to play with the others. Of course she doesn’t - she wants to read the new book Grandma sent or likes to wander off to the trees in hopes she’ll see a visiting faerie.
On a cool day at the beginning of October, Hermione runs from her house on the path that winds between trees into the lush forest nearby. There are tears welling up in her eyes, the rising sounds of her parents fighting echoing in her head. Today’s argument was about her, about the latest note sent home, about her easily distracted mind.
Hermione is highly intelligent but her stories about faeries out to kill unsuspecting children is scaring her peers and is disturbing content to be discussing at such a young age.
Her dad says she’s just exercising her imagination, that there’s nothing to be worried about, especially since it’s just stories. Her mum thinks differently. Hermione had snuck out of the house because she didn’t want to hear them arguing anymore.
Especially because for her, they’re not just stories. They’re real.
Faeries are real and she wants to meet one.
There is a spot in the running path that splits off - the left continues on and will circle back around to the other side of her neighborhood. On her right, the path heads into the thick of the trees until it disappears into dirt and grass. Her parents allow her onto the path because it’s safe and they only know of the circular route. Hermione doesn’t tell them she sometimes veers off.
At the invisible break between the neighborhood and the forest, Hermione slips off her shoes and leaves them at the base of a large tree. The packed dirt beneath her feet is strong as she curls her toes into it, trying to create little divots. She bends down and rolls up the bottom of her trousers so she doesn’t trip, and then she’s running, faster and faster until her hair is bouncing in the air behind her and the wind rushes over her skin.
She’s free.
The more she runs, the more she forgets the mean words said to her by Abby and Lottie during maths. She forgets her father’s resigned tone from arguing with her mother, and she forgets the way her mum sometimes looks at her as if she were a puzzle. She doesn’t think about homework or dinner or the book that is on her nightstand, waiting for her nightly read.
She forgets about everything except the wind in her air, the branches that seem to reach for her, and the setting sun. That is, she forgets about the last one until she pauses to take in deep breaths of air and realizes that the sky is much darker than when she left. Hermione looks around and doesn’t recognize where she is anymore. This is much further than she’s ever run before and upon looking down at herself, she finds tiny cuts on her hands and arms where they had brushed against gnarled bark and hanging branches. Pain suddenly shoots into the soles of her feet.
A cold wind blows around her, pulling her hair, making her shiver. A twig cracks to her left.
“He-hello?” she stutters.
A laugh wraps around her body, causing a bit of terror to course through her. Goosebumps appear on her arms.
“Is-is anybody there? Hello?”
Another laugh, this one more high-pitched, reaches her ears. She doesn’t like the sound, the way it aggravates her ears, and her heart thuds in her chest. A rustle of leaves catches her attention, this time on her right, and Hermione spins toward it. She catches a glimpse of dark, curly hair, and a flash of silver.
“Hey!” She calls out even though a sense of foreboding washes over her. “Come back! Please! Can you help me?”
More laughter - deep, dark - seems to stab at her head.
Hermione lets out a gasp. “Please. Help me.”
Suddenly, the darkness fades, and Hermione feels like she can breathe a bit easier. For a moment, she thinks she hears the tinkling of bells.
“I think I’m lost,” she whispers. Her stomach tightens in fear, and she bends at the waist, breathing deeply.
“You’re only lost if you can’t be found.”
Standing upright again and whirling around, Hermione gasps to see a boy only a few feet away from her. He looks like he could be her age, but he’s tall and otherworldly, almost glowing, even just leaning against a tree in a pair of trousers that look torn. He lifts a hand in a wave.
“Hello there.” His lips form a smile and Hermione can’t stop staring. “You don’t have to worry. They won’t come back.”
“Who-who are you?” Hermione asks in a shaky voice.
At the question, the boy’s face goes blank, a mask that changes his entire demeanor. Sharp silver eyes glare at her. “You should know better than to ask that question of me.”
“Wh-what?”
The boy’s arms cross over his chest and he sneers. Hermione doesn’t like the look on his face at all.
“Mother says you’re a special sort of girl, that you know our ways. Mother is always right, but I’m not quite sure if she’s right about you.”
They stare at each for long seconds, and Hermione’s eyes widen suddenly. “You- you’re a- a faerie .”
It’s not a question. She knows it, deep in her heart.
“Well, of course I am, silly girl.” The boy - this faerie - smiles again. Hermione is enamored at the way his face seems to glow when he’s happy. “What did you think I was?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione whispers. “I’m a little scared here.”
“Scared?” His brows furrow and his head tilts. “But why?”
“Because I’m lost.”
He laughs, the sound like chimes on a windy day. “You’re not lost. You are on the border between your world and my family’s realm.”
“Oh.” Hermione isn’t sure if that’s supposed to ease her fears.
“But you shouldn’t say things like that - that you’re scared or lost. Not everyone in my family is kind and Light.”
Hermione’s hands reach up to cover her mouth. She shakes her head, eyes wide, but the boy reaches over and tugs her hands down. His touch is light on her wrists, like rose petals when she touches them at the store when her mum isn’t looking.
“Don’t worry now,” he says with an impish grin. His silver eyes sparkle. “You’re with me now, so you’re safe.”
“But who are you?” Before he can frown, she pushes on. “Not your name, just who you might be?”
“Oh.” He nods like he’s proud of her cunning. “Well, I’m the future ruler of The Light Realm.”
Though she didn’t think it possible, Hermione thinks her eyes widen even more - it feels like it anyway. Her heart races because she never imagined she would ever meet this faerie.
“Then you’re -”
“No!” He shakes his head and his thumbs press at the pulse points on her wrists. “Do not say my name here! There are those who are always listening, those who would hurt me, you, anyone.”
His words wrap around her, a warning Hermione knows she must heed. At a loss for what to say, she stays quiet and looks at him, this faerie princeling who is staring back at her so thoughtfully.
“Would you like to see my Realm?” he asks suddenly.
A gasp escapes her lips. This could be her moment, the one that could prove to all the naysayers that she’s not strange for believing in faeries, not weird or childish to learn their lives and stories. From everything she’s read, Hermione knows what an honor it is to be invited into one of the Realms.
She also knows that once she enters, it will be almost impossible to leave.
“I can’t,” she says quietly, painstakingly. It feels like her heart has dropped into her stomach, especially when his hands loosen their grip on her.
“Of course you can.” The boy leans in close and the fading sunlight glints off of his white-blond hair. “I am inviting you.”
“I want to,” Hermione admits.
He leans in even closer, so close that the scent of apples and lemons brush her nose, and she can almost feel the way the earth responds to his every move. “Then come. You are so very special and meant for great things - we have Seen it.”
“Me?” She is both astonished and confused. “I’ve been Seen by faeries?”
“Oh yes. Your belief in us is strong, your devotion a lovely thing to see. You could have so much if you come with me.”
“But I’m only eight! I’ll miss my parents! I miss them now!”
“Well -”
“Son.”
The boy jumps away from Hermione immediately. The two children turn to see a tall figure just beyond the trees, shadows cloaking him, yet light still seems to shine from within.
“Father!”
“It is not her time yet.”
Hermione feels a bit faint. She’s not quite sure if it’s because she’s gone so long without a snack or if it’s because a Faerie King stands before her. In the back of her mind, she wonders if her parents have already had dinner, if they’re waiting on her, if they’re worried. Then the Princeling’s voice interrupts her thoughts.
“But Father, she -”
“Not yet,” the Faerie King says, amusement lacing his tone. “You must be patient. She will call on you when she is ready.”
The boy lets out a sigh.
A feminine voice joins the conversation, a musical tinkling in the air. “But you may tell her, my little love. Whisper your Secret and she will return to you.”
The boy turns back to her with a giant smile. He reaches out with his left hand and presses it against her shoulder. “May I tell you a secret?”
Hermione nods, but she’s also internally squealing. Faeries, she remembers, are well-known for their Secrets, for their ability to hold in all that is important in their lives. To know a faerie’s Secret is to hold his or her life in the palm of a hand.
“But first, something from you,” he requests.
“Okay?”
“I know your name,” he says. “But I would like to hear you say it.”
“Me?” The request seems strange. “I’m -”
“No,” he stops her. He points to his right ear and leans in toward her. “Tell me here.”
It dawns on her - he is requesting a formal exchange of Secrets. It means their lives will be bound together, though for what reason, she isn’t quite sure. A quick glance at the older couple shows the shadows retreating slightly and she sees a very tall man with long white-blond hair standing next to a petite woman with hair like the sun. Their faces are still hazy but she can see the crowns upon their heads - his, one of twisted bark the color of flames, and hers, a diadem of flowers and dewdrops. They nod at her.
So Hermione leans in and whispers softly into the boy’s ear, “My name is Hermione.”
He does not move away. Instead, he turns his head, causing their cheeks to brush against each other. He speaks so softly, it sounds like a light summer breeze.
“Hermione. You are of great importance to me, to my world, my future Realm. When you are ready, call for me.”
As if in a trance, Hermione opens her mouth. The words that come out surprise her, as though someone has told her what to say. It’s nothing like she’s ever said before, too formal even for her precocious self.
“And when the time comes, whom shall I call for?”
The boy, the Princeling, leans in closer, his lips touching the lobe of her ear as he grants her his most precious Secret.
“Draco. You will call for Draco.”