Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hermione smiled as she approached the group of kids, a wrapped book held tightly in her hand. She had never been invited to a birthday party before. And Sarah was really popular. It almost didn’t matter that she had invited the entire class - she had invited her, too. And Hermione was determined to prove that she was worth inviting. 

She saw a few of the girls look at her, some of them giggling. She smiled in return and they started laughing. 

“Hey everyone, she came”, one of the girls managed to get out in between giggles. 

“I told you she would”, Sarah replied before turning to Hermione. “Not so smart after all, are you?” 

Hermione looked around, then back to Sarah. “What do you mean?”, she asked, voice wobbling. Something was wrong here, although she had no idea what.

“Did you really think we wanted you here?”, the girl asked with a nasty smile.

Hermione’s eyes went big. They had tricked her. Of course they didn’t want her, she should’ve known.

“Look at her face!”, one of the girls yelled. Hermione began feeling dizzy. She heard shouts of “Freak” and “Loser” and she felt how her arms flexed upwards to shield her chest and how her hands started shaking. 

Her face burned hot, her breath came fast and ragged, everything was too loud, too bright, she smelled smoke, they were laughing at her and suddenly, distantly, she heard herself screaming

“Shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP”. From one second to the next, the voices disappeared. 

The girls’ mouths were still moving however, and they seemed to realise with mounting panic that they were unable to make a sound. Hermione dropped the book that had started smoldering in her hands and ran before they had a chance to blame her for it. 

Only once the park disappeared from view when she turned around did she slow down. 

When she came to the crossroads that would take her either home or to the library, it took only a split second before she turned right, to her second home. Her parents had been so happy when they heard that she had been invited to a party and Hermione didn’t want to face their disappointment when she told them what had happened. 

********************

At the library, she blindly walked into one of the sections, grabbed a random book and sat down in a far corner, out of the way from most people. Only then did she allow herself to break down. She pressed the heels of her hands into the sides of her head, then started hitting herself with them until her ears were ringing. Then she curled up into a ball and started rocking back and forth, scratching her calves as hard as she could and stifling her sobs. 

********************

Hermione wasn’t sure how long it had taken for her to calm down but once she had, she felt exhausted. Blearily, she looked at her watch. Four thirty pm. If she came home now, there would be questions. Sighing, she resigned herself to staying in the library for at least another hour. She looked at the book she had grabbed. “Runes. A Guide For Beginners” the cover said. Something about it spoke to her so she opened it and began to read. 

“Runes are one of the most diverse magical tools and an essential component to a multitude of magical practices. From ritual magic to divination, from protection to attack, there is something here for every witch”.

Hermione paused. The girls in the park hadn’t been able to speak after she had shouted at them. It could have been a prank, of course, but they didn’t usually follow up a prank with another that quickly. And then there was the book. It had caught fire in her hand. There was no natural explanation for that. But perhaps there was a magical one? She started leafing through the book looking for the section on attacks and found that if you inscribed the correct runes into a piece of food and someone ate it, they would develop difficulties speaking or get a sore throat, maybe lose their voice entirely. It wasn’t exactly what had happened but then again, she hadn’t used runes, either. Did that mean that she was a witch, then? She wished that she had taken a notepad and a pen so she could write down some key questions, but her mum had convinced her that she shouldn’t bring them to a party. 

Hermione found herself gnawing on her hair as she continued to read, trying to keep all the information in her head. When she looked at her watch a second time, it read six pm. 

That had to be late enough, she decided. When she passed the shelf with the magic books on her way out, she grabbed several more, one on tarot cards, one on rituals, and one on covens. Party or not, she had held firm that she would take her library card with her. When she approached the librarian to check her books out, she found that the idea of speaking sent a spike of anxiety through her and so she kept her mouth closed. Luckily, everyone here knew her already and knew that she sometimes didn’t speak and so the man behind the counter just gave her a commiserating look and wished her happy reading. 

She smiled softly, waved a hand and left. 

At home, she found her parents sitting in the living room, clearly waiting for her.

“How did it go?”, her mum asked hopefully.

Hermione waved her hand in a so-so motion and saw her mother’s face fall. “Was it too much?”.

Hermione shrugged and pretended she didn’t see the looks her parents exchanged, and how her father sighed when he looked at her books. She pointed at herself and pretended to fall asleep, then moved towards the staircase.

She barely registered the good night wishes as she let her pretense fall. It was hard to act happy in front of her parents but she didn’t want to disappoint them. Once in her room, she tried to shake away the bad feelings and the overwhelm to focus on the important part:

She was a witch. Why should she care if some stupid kids in her class didn’t like her? None of them could do magic, after all, so what did their opinions matter? Hermione vowed to stop trying to fit in. From now on, her goal would be to become the best and most powerful witch there ever was. Maybe she’d even find other witches. Maybe they were like her and she’d make some friends. And if they weren’t, well then she’d just have to be strong enough to make them respect her.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up late the next morning, having read for hours past her bedtime. 

She’d come to the conclusion that runes were a good, safe place to start. She could paint them on her things so they wouldn’t get damaged or to help her study. 

With the rune book to her left and a dictionary to her right, Hermione sat crosslegged in her bed and began to sketch out runic formations in hopes of coming up with something that would help her hide things. The book had suggested that all writing systems could be used magically and that it was important for the sigil to be meaningful to the caster.

She had selected a couple of runes that symbolised protection, understanding, and perception and was trying to turn them into a word that made sense to her.

Suddenly, she remembered the Shakespeare play she’d gone to with her parents once. The actors had kept saying “hark” and her mother had told her it meant “come see”. If she invited outsiders to look at the sigil and repelled them, her things should be hidden. Not truly invisible but irrelevant in the minds of people who looked at them.

Looking over her notes, Hermione was reasonably sure that it would work. Hagalaz would power the sigil at its root. It could be used for banishment and symbolised the power of nature. At the same time, its place as the ninth rune marked it as a protective one. Ansuz symbolised magic and language, but also confusion and deception. Raidho would support her in her journey and growth, but cause restlessness in anyone else trying to look at her things. Lastly, Kenaz would make her see when she tried to study the unknown and help her intuition, but it would make any invader ill.

After a few minutes of sketching, Hermione was satisfied. Now came the hard part: drawing it properly and charging it. She bit her lip. She was pretty sure she’d done everything right, but what if she’d made a mistake and the sigil would be aggressive towards her?

A look outside told her it was raining. Rain was purifying, right? And if things caught fire for some reason, she wouldn’t be burning down her room. Mind made up, she drew the sigil very carefully on an empty notepad. She snuck down and went into the backyard where she stood underneath the roof, right at its edge so she was just inches away from the rain. The smell of wet earth and fresh plants was surrounding her like a gentle hug.

Hermione sat down crosslegged, notepad in her lap, and tried to clear her thoughts. She was buzzing with excitement and a little worry, but the rhythmic drumming of the rain helped her calm down. She breathed deeply and evenly until the world around her faded away and she felt as though she were hovering above the ground. 

Hermione gripped the notepad, not wanting to become untethered and lose herself in the emptiness. She imagined the magic flowing through her body the same way blood did and with every exhale, tried to direct it towards her hands. She felt a tingling in her fingers and when she looked at the sigil, she noticed how it started to appear more present somehow. 

Still, it didn’t feel as though it were enough yet and so she kept breathing and kept pushing until a soft glow started emanating from the sigil. Suddenly, her head fell forwards and the world came back to her. Immediately, she started feeling exhausted and very very hungry. 

She got up on shaky legs and made her way to the kitchen, a triumphant smile on her lips.

Her parents were there, wearing what Hermione knew to be their supportive-commiserating looks. They always used those when she was unable to talk. Privately, Hermione thought they shouldn’t be so upset about it. Everybody talked all the time, things would be a lot nicer if people just shut up sometimes. She smiled obligingly at them when they wished her a good morning and went to the cupboard to grab her bowl. It had rainbow stripes that she used to tell her how much she needed to fill it. Today was a cereal day so she grabbed the milk from the fridge, trying to ignore the gust of cold air that greeted her. She poured the milk quickly and put it back, closing the fridge door with a soft ‘Thudd’.

The bowl went to her spot in the corner, quickly followed by a table spoon. 

Grabbing a box from the cupboard in the corner, she shook a small quantity of cereal into the bowl so every bite she ate was soaked to the right degree. She placed the box next to her bowl and sat down.

“Did you sleep well?”, her mother asked. Hermione nodded and pointed at her.

“Me too, honey, just a little short. We watched a movie last night that ran late”.

Hermione gave a thumbs up and a thumbs down, then raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, it was good. A murder investigation movie. Turned out the priest was the killer”.

Hermione grinned and started eating. Halfway through her first portion of cereal, her father spoke up.

“The new books any good?”. She nodded eagerly. He had no idea.

“What are they about?”. Hermione was about to answer truthfully, when she felt a sudden and fierce protectiveness around her new knowledge. She didn’t have to tell them, not yet. 

Instead, she pointed at the vase on the windowsill. 

“Plants, oh my. I hope you haven’t inherited your mum’s talent for them, we all know how that’d turn out”, he replied, looking at her mother who playfully hit him with the newspaper. “Oh shush, you”, she said, but her face turned pink. Hermione felt her breath on her upper lip as she exhaled sharply in amusement. Her mother managed to kill any plant that was put under her care, even the cactus her father had once randomly gifted her and told to just water once a month.

“What were you doing outside, honey?”, her mother asked when her father kept teasing her.

Hermione placed a hand on her notepad to try and test her sigil - both her parents eyes followed her hand, but immediately glided away from it. She tried to keep her giddiness hidden as she mimicked rain and pointed to her nose and ears.

She had done it! Her mind was racing with ideas on what else she could do with her newfound skills.

Chapter Text

Hermione had been worried about her classmates’ reactions when they saw her the next time, but when she came to school Monday morning, they seemed to have forgotten the entire incident. Sarah even said something about how sad it was that she hadn’t been able to come. She was showing off gifts she had gotten from her family and the other kids all fawned over her. Hermione ignored them, putting on ear muffs to drown out the noise as they waited for the teacher to arrive and open the door. It was far too hot for ear muffs but her mother had encouraged her to wear them instead of the ear protection Hermione wanted. 

By the time Ms Jones arrived, she was sweating under them and resolved to talk to her mother about it. She didn’t want to make friends with the other kids anymore anyway so she might as well commit to being weird.  Hermione was first in line as always and passed Ms Jones a note from her mum saying that she wasn’t talking at the moment. The woman frowned but said nothing so Hermione sat down at her table and took out her things for maths. 

She had the table for herself which used to bother her, but felt wonderful now. She could read some of her library books or try to arrange runic sigils and nobody would ask her annoying questions. The classes were all really easy so she wouldn’t have to pay full attention in order to get good grades. 

Hermione was rocking side to side during class, aware of the eyes on her but forcing herself not to care. They didn’t have a right to judge her. None of them wanted to be her friend anyway so their opinions didn’t matter. Ms Jones’ pursed lips were harder to ignore. Hermione didn’t want to displease her teacher, but at the same time, the woman had never done anything to help her when the other kids were being mean. And Hermione wasn’t distracting anyone. She wasn’t whispering like Jessica and Sarah or throwing paper balls like the boys in the back. So Ms Jones could be angry with her, but she would be wrong and Hermione wouldn’t have to care. 

She could fade into the background today because the teachers tended to ignore her whenever she couldn’t speak which was usually awful and made the classes drag on forever, but she kept thinking about how the others had acted as though Hermione hadn’t been at the party. 

If she had scared them, surely they would leave her alone? And if she hadn’t, wouldn’t they mock her for thinking she had? The whole thing was strange. The longer she considered it, the more sure she became that for some reason, all twenty-two kids in her class had somehow forgotten what had happened. 

And there was really only one way for that to be possible: some witch or wizard had come by and made them forget. She wondered if she was going to get into trouble. Magic in the way she had cast wasn’t supposed to be possible, so it was clear she was supposed to hide her abilities. 

If people found out what she could do, they’d want to study her and do lots of tests. The very idea made her want to scream. So, she had to make sure that her magic would remain secret and that she didn’t have any outbursts like that again, unless she could make people forget. 

Or, she thought meanly, unless she could threaten them into silence. If she learned to control the fire, then she could scare people enough to be quiet. And even if someone talked, who would believe them? She’d just have to make sure to never do magic in front of a crowd again.

Hermione flinched at a sudden noise. She blinked several times. Why were her eyes so dry? 

A look at the clock solved that mystery. Somehow, it was noon already and school was over. She had never even taken out her material for the other classes. The teachers must have looked right past her today. She stuffed her things in her bag and left the building through a side entrance to avoid the others. 

On her way home, she was struck by inspiration. Wands. Witches had wands. She would have to get one. Her parents wouldn’t be home until three so she turned around and started walking to the library.

Hermione didn’t find any books about wands, so she decided to look into the symbolism of wood instead. The section on the ash tree mentioned the holy tree Yggdrasil from Norse mythology and she nearly vibrated in excitement. The runes were Nordic as well, so clearly, that culture was full of magic. If they had a holy tree, then that type of tree had to be magical.

She frowned at a footnote stating that some researchers believed Yggdrasil to be a yew instead. How could there be confusion about such a vital part of the story? 

She turned to the section on yew and nearly gasped. Where ash symbolised healing and protection, yew symbolised death and eternity. Nearly every part of the plant was poisonous and while parts of it could be used for healing, it wasn’t to be used by beginners. She rubbed her temples, suddenly worried about the idea of a yew wand. What if she held it and then ate something with the same hand? Would she poison herself? She took a deep breath and tried to focus. She would deal with the dangers of yew if she ended up with a yew wand. Until then, she wouldn’t allow her worries to take over. 

The question was how she would gain a twig from which she could make a wand. The very thought of taking a saw to a tree for it felt disgusting. Magic, to her, seemed alive. Trees were definitely alive. So, to cut off a part from the whole, to just decide that something was hers, it couldn’t be right. She would have to find a way to make a deal with the tree. Hermione frowned, trying to figure out how that could work. Maybe there were fairies in the trees? Or some sort of sentient spirit? And if she did good things for the trees, they would allow her some wood? She wasn’t entirely sure what good things she could do or how she’d know that she was allowed to take some piece of the tree, but she would figure it out. 

And since Nordic mythology had been helpful so far, it might be able to teach her how to trade with a tree, too. She left the library with three books of Nordic folk tales as well as one for identifying plants and one on nature magic. 

Chapter Text

For once, the answer didn’t seem to lie in Norse mythology, but rather that of the Greek.

The book on nature magic told Hermione in no uncertain terms that dealing with the Fae was risky unless she followed a number of guidelines and used her speech carefully. Apparently, Fae were very literal creatures. That fact alone made Hermione wish to meet one. She wanted to talk to people who said what they meant. 

The idea of striking a deal with them caused her anxiety regardless. She had no idea of what would be an acceptable price for a branch of wandwood. It would probably be best to make overtures to them before asking for anything. Hermione wrote a checklist of things Fae did and didn't like so she could make a good first impression. They generally wanted the environment to be healthy so she should probably do something good for the forest. She wondered if it had to be something magical or if it could be as simple as picking up garbage. 

Should she plant something? 

She groaned and wiped her forehead. It would be so much easier if she had a guide for it all. Maybe she could poke around the park and make a fire again to make the other witches come back? Meeting others like her would be a great opportunity, especially if they were willing to teach her.

But there was no way to know what they would do. 

Maybe they were evil witches like in storybooks. Hermione sighed and decided to only try to contact them if it was an emergency.

She would need to figure out a sign that she had contacted them, though, just in case they wiped her memory as well. She scribbled that thought on a post-it and stuck it into her notepad before going back to her planning. 

When ideas refused to come to her, she admitted defeat to herself and went downstairs in the search of some books on gardening. Her mother had made a valiant effort with their backyard when they had first moved here from their old apartment, and there was an entire shelf full of gardening books. Hermione was the only one who’d touched them in years, and only when she was bored and wanted to reorganise something. Luckily, that meant she was fairly well acquainted with the books themselves so it took only moments for her to find a promising one: Plant Care - Fertilizers, Protection, Strengtheners

She eased the book out of the overfilled shelf, pushing a book about roses that got dragged along back into line. Of all the plant books, this was the one her mother had used the most, usually in vain attempts to rescue one plant or other. Its formerly almost neon-yellow cover had been bleached into a pastel tone by the sunlight, the plants on it a ghostly shadow of their original colours. While the book itself was in a dreadful condition - Hermione would have to find a spell to keep her books safe from things like that - the information inside seemed promising. 

A week and a half of research and preparation later, she finally felt ready to try to speak with the Fae. She put on a linen dress and a pair of wellies. She didn’t much like the shoes, but all her others had metal on them and wouldn’t exactly help make a good first impression with creatures that hated iron. Hermione’s hand hovered over her keys as she prepared to leave. Her stomach felt heavy at the thought of leaving the house without them. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of last night at supper.

“I’m gonna go for a walk in the forest tomorrow”, she’d said. “I don’t want to take my keys, I don’t want to lose them. Can you let me back in when I come back?” 

She’d looked into her soup while speaking, trying to catch all the right noodles to spell wand on her spoon when her father had answered “Of course, sweetie. I’ve got no plans tomorrow, I’ll be here all day”. Her mother had hummed, adding “a walk sounds like a great idea, the weather is supposed to be very nice tomorrow”.

Hermione had looked up and smiled, thanking them.

As she tried to go through the interaction and remember as many details as she could - the salty smell of the soup, the rumbling voice of her father, the spoon in her hand - she felt her worries calm. Instead of her keys, she grabbed her drawstring backpack, walked outside, and shut the door behind her.

The forest was only a few minutes of walking away and Hermione felt a flush of thankfulness for moving here. If she had learned that she was a witch back in their apartment, she would’ve had to take two buses to be anywhere near a forest. 

She sighed contentedly as she arrived at the edge of the forest and the sun came out from behind the clouds, shining on her arms. For a moment, she stood still, closed her eyes and tilted her head back, drinking in the comforting warmth. It felt as though she were being charged through it, energy racing through her body like tiny lightning bolts. Once she felt the buzzing up to her fingertips, she exhaled and walked into the lightly shaded forest. 

It had rained the night before and the air was fresh and alive with the scent of dirt and growth. She took meditative breaths as she walked through the forest and tried to banish her thoughts. She wanted to get a feel for the forest and all plants and creatures within.

Her books had spoken of magical sensitivity and it was worth a try, at least. She imagined her magic like gentle wisps of golden light, reaching out to the forest saying “Hello, you may call me Hermione”.

She walked through the forest like this for several minutes, when suddenly, she sensed something like a tug on her magic. 

“Hello, Hermione”, an echoing voice said inside her head. “Nice to meet you”.

Chapter Text

Hermione barely suppressed a flinch at the sound. 

“Hello,” she thought back. “Who am I speaking to?” 

She looked around her for any sign of a creature, careful not to move lest she break contact.

The voice in her head giggled. “Turn to your left,” it said. 

Hermione obeyed unthinkingly. Right next to her, she saw large blackberry bushes, a young oak a few inches taller than her, and a random assortment of mushrooms interspersed with stinging nettle. 

In the distance though, away from the path in the middle of a clearing, there stood a giant yew, larger than any tree she had ever seen. Its trunk was easily two meters wide. 

“Come to me,” echoed through her head.

Hermione still couldn't see anyone, but without a doubt, this was the origin of the voice. When she focused in on the tree, she could feel the tugging, as if pulling at the end of a single hair. Hermione tried to find a spot where the bushes might be far enough apart for her to wedge herself through. Unfortunately, wherever she looked, the bushes seemed tighter than before. With a fortifying breath, she stepped off the path and towards the closest bush, carefully stepping around the mushrooms. Her boots proved themselves to be a good choice of footwear as the stinging nettle hit harmlessly against them. 

The nearest bramble bush was in her reach now, so she put her hands on two of its branches, softly pushing them upwards. They barely moved, so she increased the pressure and sent some of their magic out towards it, trying to communicate her wish of passage. She felt the thorns dig into her hands and arms and hissed in pain. There was a sense of trade and so she left her hands where they were, withstanding the instinct to pull them back. After a second or two, the branches raised themselves out of her way, opening a narrow path forwards. Hermione allowed herself a sigh of relief as she moved forwards.

She felt a blow of wind ghost over her as she stepped inside the clearing, though the stillness of everything around her suggested it wasn’t real wind. Now, right in front of the tree, she felt a new admiration for it. It looked as though multiple trees had fused together, only to split apart again at roughly six feet height. The branches were wild and chaotic, weaving around each other in a variety of angles, some nearly parallel to the ground. The lower ones didn’t have a single needle on them. The needles on the upper ones were in a shape similar to that of a mushroom cap. Hermione stood there quiet for a moment, transfixed by the trees beauty, before she forced herself to get back on track. She was here for a reason. She blinked several times and examined the tree again. Something shimmered on one of the horizontal branches and she focused on it immediately. A sense of amusement radiated through her head and the shimmer turned into a half-translucent person. Their skin was dark and textured, blending in seamlessly with the tree. Their hair looked like roots and their eyes were the soft red of the tree's berries. They were illuminated by a single ray of sunshine that Hermione would swear hadn’t been there a second ago.

She swallowed. “Are you a member of the Fair Folk?” she asked inside her head and the person smiled. 

“Indeed, I am,” they responded, this time out loud. “It has been a long time since last a mortal visited me.”

“Do you have a name you want me to address you by?” Hermione’s voice came unwavering and she fought to keep the pride in check. She needed to be careful here.

“You may refer to me as Dryad,” the person replied. 

Hermione inclined her head, viciously biting down the “Thank you” her manners wanted her to speak. The book had been very clear about not implying debts with the Fae. 

“Hello, Dryad. You may be aware of this already, but I have come here today seeking to make a trade.”

The Fae smiled widely, their teeth glinting in the sunlight. “A trade, is that so? What are you offering, witchling?” They were leaning against the tree stump, casually running their hand through their hair and blinking slowly like a happy cat. 

Hermione allowed herself a smile at being recognised as a witch by the Fae. “I believe it would be best to determine my offering together. As a show of goodwill, not bound by any bargain we might strike today, I bring offerings.”

She stepped close to the tree, then took off her backpack. From it, she removed a small glass bottle of water, another of honey, and a silver bracelet charm. She placed the three items on the floor and took several steps back. 

Dryad was gliding down the tree to the lowest branch, supporting themselves only with one leg. They were running their hands over the bottles, uncorking them. They grabbed first one, then the other, holding them against the light and sniffing them. Lastly, they grabbed the bracelet charm, a little butterfly, and pushed it on one string of root-hair. Only then did they look at Hermione again. 

“You are not the most foolish mortal I have encountered. State what you wish.”

“I am looking for a branch to make a wand out of and I believe this tree would be a good source for it.”

Dryad hummed consideringly, moving upwards on the tree again and peering down at her.

“Wand wood for a witchling. Yes, I could give you what you seek. But why should I? What would you give me in turn?”

Deep breaths , Hermione told herself. I’m close. It will be fine. 

“I have heard it said that the Fair Folk care deeply for nature. Perhaps there are things I could do for this tree or this forest that is of sufficient value.” Her voice sounded wavering, even to her.

The Fae’s eyes shone. “Is that to be our bargain then? A branch of wood in exchange for you helping The Yew?”

Suddenly, they were hanging off of a branch over Hermione’s head, hand held out.

Hermione swallowed, hard. Do not offend them, her mind screamed.

“We have to determine what actions would be of equal value, first. A bargain cannot be struck with blind eyes.”

Dryad pulled a face, seemingly annoyed, before smiling again. It was a surprising difference to the earlier one which Hermione could only now identify as “honeybaited trap”. 

“Truly a smart witchling,” they said. “The Yew needs power. The Yew needs protection. Can you provide that?”

“I brought clover seeds to plant. They will give The Yew nutrients so it can grow. And I have nettle water. It protects against animals that will harm The Yew,” Hermione offered. 

She took both things out of her backpack and held them out. 

The Fae inspected them from all angles with pinched eyes, then said: “You will have to give off your magic, too.” Their tone left no room for argument. 

“How?” Hermione asked, concerned. “What if I’m unable to do it? And how much do you want?” Give up some of her magic? The idea scared her, but she wasn’t sure if she could back out at this point.

“Calm yourself, witchling,” Dryad said with a giggle. “The process will not harm you. You will lay your hand on The Yew and push your power in It like you did with the bushes. Your power recharges. It will all have returned by tomorrow morning.”

Hermione bit her lip, then nodded. “I agree. I will give my magic in the way and to the extent you have just described, plant the clover, and make a circle of nettle water around The Yew in exchange for a branch that I may use to make a wand.” She held out her hand, hoping she hadn’t overlooked anything.

Before she could back out, Dryad shook her hand. “Our bargain is struck,” they said and their eyes glowed red.

Hermione walked up to the tree and laid her hands on it. She felt the wounds from the bramble bush open again as she pushed her magic into it. It took longer, this time, and she began feeling dizzy. Sweat started building on her brow, but finally, the tree released her. She stumbled back several steps, then fell flat on her bum. She sat there for a few moments, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Once it did, she saw Dryad peer at her from the tree.

“You act as though you never did this before.”

Hermione huffed as she got back up. “Well, I didn’t.”

“What, never? Where is your master, then?”

Hermione held the clover bag in one hand and threw the seeds with the other.

“What master? I just want a wand.”

“The mortals have few people that interact with us directly. Those are the makers of all the wands. You must be younger than I thought not to know this.”

“I was born seven years ago.”

“Seven! I had no idea mortals could walk at seven years old!” 

Hermione looked dubiously at Dryad as she picked up the nettle manure but the Fae didn’t seem to be deceiving her.

There was silence as she walked around the tree in a large circle, pouring a thin stream of manure out of the bottle as she went. 

When she was finished, she heard a soft crack above her and a branch about as long as Hermione’s arm fell down right next to her. She was immediately overcome with an intense feeling of longing and fell to her knees, petting the wood. 

“Hermione,” Dryad said. 

Her head shot up.

“Since you don’t have a master to tell you -  the poison of The Yew will not harm you, for you have earned the right to wield it. And when you are searching for your core, you may wish to look for deadly nightshade.”

Hermione was still struggling to find an appropriate response as Dryad shimmered out of view.

“I am glad to have struck a bargain with you,” she finally said.

A rustle in the tree branches was her only answer, but she was sure the Fae was still there and had heard her. 

She packed her things together with one hand, unable to take her eyes off the branch that was going to become her wand for even a second. 

The blackberry bushes allowed her to pass through easily this time and Hermione spent the rest of her way home thinking about what on earth deadly nightshade might be and how she could get a core into her solid branch of wood.

Chapter Text

Only when she arrived home did Hermione notice how incredibly tired she was. The ritual must have taken more out of her than she thought. She managed to stay awake long enough to have dinner with her parents and then collapsed into her bed immediately afterwards. She dreamt of Dryad and The Yew, of the branches picking her up, embracing her as part of it, as its voice and protector. 

When she woke up, the branch that would become her wand was the first thing she saw. 

She grabbed it from her nightstand and started running her fingers over it. It was about twelve inches long and half an inch thick. The bottom three inches where it had been connected to the tree were wider and the branch was shaped in a gentle curve that made for a perfect handle. When she closed her hand around it, it fit the curvature exactly and there was a groove that seemed to have been designed for her middle and ring finger to slot in. Dryad had said that a couple of people made the wands for everyone else and she couldn’t imagine how that was supposed to work. 

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that she was given a branch so perfect for her. How could a tree donate branches that fit equally well to people who weren’t even there? Perhaps the other witches accepted that their wands weren’t as nice because they didn’t dare get the wood themselves? Or maybe Dryad had just been mistaken. They hadn’t known that humans her age could walk, after all. 

She would have to ask them if they knew how she could find the other witches. Hermione began peeling off the bark while imagining what it would be like to meet others like her. It would be interesting at the very least. Hopefully she’d fit in better with them than the kids at school. Maybe she’d even make friends. And if she didn’t, well. At least there was Dryad now. She stopped in her tracks when her fingers made it to the handle. It didn’t feel right to remove the bark so she chose to leave it. 

The next thing would be to find deadly nightshade. It had to be a plant of some sort, she thought. Potatoes and aubergines were nightshades. Hermione wondered if she should be concerned that her wand was associated so heavily with death. She wasn’t sure what it meant for her, or if it meant anything at all. The only thing she was sure of was that she wasn’t going to give up her wand, no matter how creepy it was. At least it didn’t require some animal substance. She might not have been able to go through with it if she had to harm an animal to get her core. Hermione stared at the groove of the handle where she could see a bit of the branch without any bark. She felt her vision blur around the edges until all she saw was the handle, gently cupped in her hands. Suddenly, a pinpoint beam of blue light came from it, splitting the branch open where it has been injured in the past. The split widened and Hermione was bathed in what felt like moonlight, a cold embrace combined with gentle lightning ghosting over her body. She felt her face split into an elated grin as she abruptly understood how she could complete her wand. She took a deep breath and released her focus until the split closed and she could see her environment again. 

Regretfully, Hermione placed the almost-wand in her nightstand. She didn’t want her parents to ask about it. Her newfound interest in plants had been a good enough explanation for yesterday’s walk, anyway. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t like plants so it hadn’t been a total lie. It just hadn’t been the entire truth. Hermione didn’t like to keep secrets, but the way her parents looked at her sometimes when she was accidentally being weird - it hurt. She would have to figure out how to magically do something they liked before telling them. Something with plants, if possible. 

But first came her wand. Hermione made a beeline to the downstairs bookcase and grabbed the fourteenth book in their encyclopedia set. Half a minute of page turning later saw her rewarded with a long entry on the nightshade family. 

The nightshades or Solanaceae are a family of flowering plants that span over 2000 species, ranging from herbs, spices, and agricultural crops to medicinal plants and weeds. Many members of the family, such as potatoes, tomatoes, bell peppers, chili peppers, and aubergines are used for food but some are highly toxic.

Hermione skipped past the history of the plants and their distribution to the category labeled “Taxonomy”. Skimreading, she found a section titled Hyoscyameae and within it, nestled between Atropa baetica and Atropa mandragora, there it was. Atropa belladonna, also known as deadly nightshade. She pulled the first encyclopedia book out of the bookcase and started leafing through it. 

Atropa Belladonna, commonly known as deadly nightshade, is a toxic member of the nightshade family with black, cherryfruit like berries. The name atropa comes from Greek mythology. The goddess Atropos was one of the three goddesses of fate or Moirai and the one who chose the time and manner of death of mortals by cutting the thread of life. The origin of the epithet belladonna is unknown, but suspected to come from the Italian bella donna for “pretty woman” as its juice increases the size of the pupils and used to be consumed for cosmetic purposes. 

The foliage and berries are extremely toxic and lethal even in small doses. 

Hermione turned the page to keep reading and froze at what she saw. A photo of a bush carrying her favorite berries that was somehow, incomprehensibly, labeled as Atropa belladonna. She had never told her parents about the bush she’d recently found in the forest and that carried the most amazing sour-sweet berries because it never carried a lot and she felt oddly possessive of what little was there. And yet this book told her that just ten berries were enough to kill someone?

She wondered if she’d have felt the same enjoyment of them if she wasn’t a witch. Did her immunity come from her magic or was it a sign that she was destined for a wand with belladonna in it? Hermione refused to imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t been immune. She was and she was supposed to have belladonna as a core and that was all that mattered. The only question now was how to get a piece of the plant and which part to get.

She was fairly sure that there was no Fae living in the plant, so finding the ideal bit might be a bit of a struggle. Hopefully, if she brought her almost-wand, the two would call to each other the way the wood and the bush called to her. She put the books back on the shelves and walked to the kitchen to make breakfast. Her parents had already eaten so she had the kitchen to herself and could have what she wanted. Her parents liked cereal or a full English for breakfast, but Hermione wanted to try out the food she would’ve eaten if things had been different. The orphanage hadn’t known her exact origins, so she simply searched for African recipes in hopes of finding something that sounded nice. 

She hadn’t made a lot so far because most recipes were too advanced for her, but she’d become fond of Genfo, an Ethiopian porridge made from wheat flour, clarified butter, and spices. Hermione filled a pot with water and put it on the stove to boil before grabbing the flour, the cardamom, and the berbere mix she’d made. She had to dig around the fridge for the niter kibbeh and by the time she’d found it, the water was already steaming. She quickly mixed the flour and the cardamom and grabbed a chair so she could see over the stovetop. She shook the flour into the water with one hand and whisked with the other. Once the flour bowl was empty, she set a timer and kept stirring until the mixture was well-combined and properly mushy. The alarm started beeping a few seconds later and she put the porridge into the flour bowl, leaving a hole in the middle. A few tablespoons of niter kibbeh went in the microwave with a tablespoon of berbere and once the butter was fully melted, she poured it over the porridge and into the hole in the middle. The scent of chili and garlic filled her nose and she smiled as she sat down to eat. It tasted like a hug.

Chapter Text

.E. had always been Hermione's least favourite class. There was shouting and the squeaking of shoes on linoleum, balls thrown or kicked every which way, the light was blinding and the teacher's whistle hurt her ears. 

Hermione knew it was going to be bad the moment she saw the giant ball container next to her teacher. 

He would probably let them choose and they'd end up playing football or basketball or dodgeball. Team sports were always awful. Students got to pick the teams and she was always picked last which didn't help matters. She tried not to get to upset about it. At least it made sense to pick her late since she actually was quite bad at sports. Being picked last in other classes was worse since everyone knew she was the best in them and working with her guaranteed you an A*. 

Mr. Brown blew his whistle to quiet them and Hermione fought hard not to wince. 

“Good morning everyone! Today, we're going to play some ball games so I can see what progress you made since the beginning of the year.” Everyone groaned at that. Hermione's heart skipped a beat. Mr. Brown's tests were awful and embarrassing. This was even worse than team sports.

“Let's start with a warm-up, I want you all to run three laps, and no corner cutting! I mean it, Josh.” He gave one of the boys a serious look. Josh was probably the only one worse at sports than her. He had very short stamina and sometimes couldn't breathe properly for a few minutes.

The running was alright. Running was easy. One foot in front of the other in front of the other, carry the movement in your arms. Hermione wasn't the fastest, but she was solidly average. 

A whistle blew. “Skip-running, now.” 

There was also that. They were always supposed to do a bit of funny running. It made things much less boring.

The whistle again. “Side-gallop with switches, please.”

Hermione grinned ear to ear. She loved running sideways. She did it outside of class sometimes to wake herself up or just for fun. Her parents didn't like it much but at least it was something sporty, which mollified them.

As always, warm-up ended far too quickly and they were called to gather around the basketball hoop. It was lower than a proper hoop, but as far as Hermione was concerned, it may as well be stuck to the ceiling.

Mr. Brown was holding a clipboard. “Form a line, please,” he said. “Everyone gets three shots.”

Hermione tried to go first to get it over with, but she was shuffled to the end of the line.

Sarah went first. All three balls went in.

Then Jennifer. She made two.

Adrian. Three again.

Josh missed each shot, though one of them came fairly close.

“Bad luck,” one of the boys exclaimed. “You'll get it next time,” Adrian added. Sarah giggled, but didn't say anything.

Then, it was Hermione's turn. There were whispers behind her. She tried tuning them out, but they persisted like mosquitoes buzzing around her face. Her hands were grossly wet with sweat, her body was tense. She fumbled the throw. The ball fell out of her hands more than anything, landing on the floor and bouncing weakly a couple of times before rolling away.

The others behind her broke out into laughter and Hermione felt the sting of tears welling up in her eyes.

Mr. Brown looked behind her with an annoyed look. “Cut it out,” he said, and the laughter stopped. He gave nasty punishments when he was angry. He looked back at her. “Go get the ball, Hermione. I'm not counting that throw. You can try again.” His voice was neutral now. He was trying to be kind, but all he did was prolong her humiliation. She managed to throw the ball as best as she could, but it still didn't turn out much better. By the time she had thrown the last, he was scribbling something on his clipboard and frowning and she was furiously wiping away tears.

Mr. Brown looked at her, then turned towards the class as a whole. Hermione could hear nothing but her blood rushing through her body. She did her best to follow along as they practiced passing, kickball, and finally ended with dodgeball. 

Her numbness was interrupted by the chatter of the other girls in the changing room.

“I really liked today's lesson. I had no idea I'd gotten this much better,” Emily said.

“I told you that you did,” Sarah replied in a long-suffering voice. “All of us did. Well,” she added after a few seconds of staring at Hermione with a smirk. “Maybe not quite everyone.” 

Jennifer snorted. “Everyone that matters did. Mr. Brown is a great teacher, but nobody can turn a sloth into an athlete.” 

Hermione clenched her teeth. She wouldn't cry she wouldn't she wouldn't- 

Moments later, she found herself in the hall, still in her gym clothes, her regular ones stuffed in her back and with tears streaming over her face. She didn't pause for a second, just started walking home. Gym had been their last class of the day so she didn't have to stay and deal with the others anymore. She turned the memories of class over in her head and it was only when she smelled the gentle scent of dirt and plants that she realised where her feet had taken her. She took deep breaths and let herself be calmed by the forest's soft embrace.

Hermione shook her head to dislodge the nasty thoughts and let herself be called by The Yew. 

The bramble let her pass without resistance this time. She let her bag slink to the ground, keeping her keys safe from passers-by but reasonably far away from The Yew. On a whim, she took her shoes off and placed them on her bag. The clover Hermione had planted had grown into a sea of green. She took her steps carefully, narrowly avoiding it. Once she was close enough, she leaned against The Yew, wrapping her arms around it. She dug her toes into the moist dirt and let the tension bleed out of her. 

The leaves were rustling around her until suddenly- “You're back,” a voice echoed in the clearing. Hermione's eyes flew open. “Dryad,” she replied, searching for the Fae. “Hello. I hope I'm not bothering you.”

Dryad emerged from somewhere in the branches and began gliding down The Yew. “Not in the least. Wandmasters forge a connection with Their Tree. It is only natural that you returned.” 

Hermione blinked. “Oh. I didn't know that.”

Dryad made a dismissive noise. “I'm not surprised. You still have much to learn. But that can wait for another day. Tell me why you are upset.”

Hermione looked at the Fae, uncomprehending. She hadn't thought Dryad capable of understanding human emotions.

“The Yew is echoing your pain. I don't like it. So we have to fix it. Tell me what's wrong.”

Hermione paused for a second and then, everything tumbled out at once. 

“We had sports class today and we did ball sports and I'm so bad at those and everyone laughed at me and the children are so mean and they tricked me into thinking they liked me and I can't tell my parents because they'll tell me to try and fit in and I'm just so lonely.” 

Tears were welling up in her eyes again and Hermione began to flap her hands. 

Dryad looked at her. They seemed confused and… was that worry? 

“Do you want to fit in with them?,” they asked and there was a prickling on Hermione's skin. She froze. The Fae was thinking of offering a trade, she was sure of it.

“I don't know,” she replied cagily. “It would be easier if I did, but I don't think I want to be like them.” The pressure let up. “Witches don't fit in with the nonmagicals. You must seek out your own kind.”

“But how? Where? And what if they don't like me either?” Desperation coloured her voice. “I just don't want to be alone anymore.”

Dryad let out peals of laughter. They shifted until they hung upside down off a branch, their face at the same height as Hermione’s. “Silly witchling,” they said in a gentle voice and poked her nose.

“You're tied to The Yew now. You're tied to me. You're not alone.”

Hermione stared at them, eyes wide. 

“Calm yourself, and then go get your wand. I'll show you how to finish it.”

Chapter Text

“Show me what you've done so far,” Dryad demanded the moment Hermione entered the clearing again, her almost-wand cradled to her chest. She obeyed without question, closing in on the tree and holding the branch in two open palms like an offering. Dryad looked at it and nodded.
“You've done well. It's time to collect your core. You know where to find it. Let it call to you.”

Hermione considered asking how she should harvest the core but stopped herself. This felt like a test and she was determined not to fail.
“And don't wear those,” Dryad called after her, looking at her feet.
Regretfully, she took off the wellies she had brought and left them at the edge of the clearing.
Luckily, the belladonna bush grew just a few metres away, but the small stones and fallen twigs on her path dug into her feet. By the time she arrived, her feet were prickling and stinging. A look at her soles proved her worries correct - she had cut herself on something and both her feet were bleeding. She balled her hands into fists, pushing the pain away. She had to trust Dryad on this. Once she felt calm again, Hermione stared at the bush, letting the world fall away.

Slowly, she grew aware of a faint pull tugging at her wand like a magnet. She reached out with it and felt the wood open the way it had in her bedroom. A stalk, heavy with leaves and berries, began to glow, pulling her in close. It was instinct to lay her free hand on the stem and let it take some of her magic. It drank greedily and the effects were immediate. The leaves grew more lustrous, the berries plumped up, and the scent was more intoxicating than ever.

Her stalk grew brighter and brighter until it seemed to be made entirely of light. It was painful to look at, but she couldn't bring herself to avert her eyes. The stalk separated from the bush with a soft snip and began to flow into her wand like water. Once it was fully inside the branch, the light dimmed until it revealed the stalk was solid once more. Slowly, the hole in the wood closed and all that remained was a tiny mark. Hermione staggered backwards, head dizzy. She breathed deeply for several minutes until she dared to move again. Her wand felt warmer than before. More alive. It was like holding hands with a friend.

She returned to The Yew, eager to show her wand to Dryad. They clapped when they saw her, face delighted. “I knew you could do it, witchling. Now give it to me. It's best I do the next step.”
Hermione held out the wand and shuddered as Dryad took it and a wave of coldness crashed over her in its absence. Her discomfort was immediately replaced by horror as she saw Dryad viciously bite their hand. Instead of blood, an amber coloured thick liquid streamed out, its sweet and warming scent filling the clearing. It was resin, Hermione realised. Dryad began massaging it into the wand, turning it shiny and ever so slightly darker. Their mouth moved, but they were speaking too softly for Hermione to make out any sounds. When they finally returned her wand, she marveled at its smooth surface. She looked at Dryad expectantly. They looked back, unblinking. “Your first spell can determine the course your wand will take. Think carefully.”
“I want to heal you,” Hermione replied without a second thought.

A smile split Dryad’s face and they held out their hand, resin-blood still flowing freely.
Hermione pointed her wand at it, carefully touching the bark-like skin, tracing the outline of the injury. She tried to remember the last time she'd had a deep cut and how it had healed. The resin on Dryad's hand stopped flowing. It began to dry, then flake off, revealing healed skin with a few slightly darker lines a distant memory of the bite.

Dryad broke the reverent silence. “You chose well. A healer's wand will temper your warrior nature.”
“I'm no warrior,” Hermione objected.
“You will be.” The certainty in Dryad's voice sent a shiver down Hermione's spine and she cast around for a change of topic.
“You said it would be best if you did the next step,” she said. “That sounds like other wandmakers might have done it themselves.”
The Fae just smiled.
“I admit I would be curious about what usually would've happened if you would be willing to share.”
Dryad cackled. “Still so worried, witchling! We're tied together now, there is no benefit in my tricking you. I would suffer myself and I have no interest in that.”
Hermione looked pointedly at their hand.
They followed her gaze and waved the hand dismissively.
“That was necessary. An adult witch would've cut The Yew and done the incantation themselves, but you don't know it. Your body is too young to do the spell, anyway. I'd rather not see you turn nonmagical because you overtaxed yourself in front of me.”
Hermione shuddered at the thought.
“You used a lot of your magic as is,” Dryad continued. You should rest for a day or two.”
Hermione pouted at the thought, but the dizziness she felt reinforced Dryad's warning.

Suddenly, the Fae’s nose twitched and their eyes widened in alarm. They shot up the tree in seconds, their movements reminiscent of a squirrel. Hermione tried to keep her eyes on them, but they quickly became obscured by the tree. Moments later, they came climbing down again and looked at her seriously. “You must leave. A werewolf has entered the forest. It's too early for her to transform, but she can still notice your scent. If you stay much longer, she might follow you home.”
Hermione's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “A werewolf?” she squeaked. Dryad closed their eyes and seemed to focus on something. They placed their hands on the ground. Hermione was about to ask what they were doing when two giant wolves with shaggy grey fur entered the clearing. She stepped back instinctively. She'd known that wolves were big, but knowing and seeing were two very different things.

Dryad opened their eyes again and released the ground.
“They will escort you to the edge of the forest and mask your scent. Don't visit for the next three days. I'll see if the werewolf is safe.”
“But what about you?”
Dryad's tension lessened minutely as a look of amusement crept onto their face. “Nothing in this forest can hurt me. I will be fine. Go home, Hermione. Use these next few days for practice.”
A snout pushed at Hermione. One of the wolves had moved towards her and was clearly waiting for her to move. The other was standing at the bush through which Hermione had entered the clearing. It looked back at her and made a high pitched noise.

Not wanting to upset them - or worse, encounter a werewolf - she followed them after a quick goodbye to Dryad.
Being flanked by two wolves was incredibly unnerving. It helped that they barely seemed to notice her and instead focused on their surroundings, but she was still extremely relieved to notice the trees thinning out as they neared the street.
“Um. Thanks,” she said to the wolves. They were gone before the words fully left her mouth.
Hermione shoved her wand into her sleeve and casually flexed her ring and little finger to hold it in there. Her mind was buzzing. Werewolves. Somehow, this was even weirder than her being a witch. Hopefully the woman turned out to be nice. Hermione didn't want to share her forest with a mean person, especially since it seemed that werewolves were quite dangerous, if Dryad's reaction was anything to go by.

Chapter Text

Hermione barely managed to take her shoes off before collapsing into bed. When she woke up the next morning, it was with buzzing excitement. She had a wand! A real, actual magic wand! It was still inside her sleeve where she had hidden it yesterday. She let it slide out, gripping the handle at the last second before the wand could clatter to the ground, and giggled. It felt right to keep it secret like this and to be able to use it at a moment's notice. She petted the wood. It seemed to glow softly from within, as if calling her to use it.
Remembering Dryad's warning, she regretfully decided to hold off on using it for the day. A look at the clock revealed it was almost time for her to get up and get ready for school. With a sigh, Hermione rolled off the bed, resigning herself to a boring day. At least it was Friday. Plus, summer break was only a few weeks away and she'd finally have time to focus her days on magic then.

Hermione spent her Saturday locked in her room, experimenting with her wand, ostensibly practicing for a test. The first thing she wanted to try was making light, and when she saw the gentle glow at the tip of the wand, she immediately fell down a rabbit hole of testing. Her magic mirrored her excitement, all but begging her to stretch its legs. She flicked her wand, imagining the light moving off it and floating around. True to her vision, it separated from her wand and began moving around in the air. Hermione closed the roller shutters and lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She made more and more lights, flicking them off until the small orbs were dancing like a swarm of fireflies. A thought occurred to her. She pointed her wand at the lights and moved it slowly. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to move the lights. “Come on,” she pleaded through her teeth. “Move!” The lights finally began to move, slowly as though they were wading through a moor. Once she had all of the lights collected, Hermione began drawing increasingly smaller circles with her wand, causing the lights to merge. By the time she was finished, there was a light the size of a basketball at her ceiling and she was panting from exhaustion, sweat building on her forehead. She held out the wand with great effort, and the light came down, disappearing back into it once it touched the tip. Hermione twirled the wand in her fingers as she caught her breath and began thinking about what all she might be able to do with her lights.

Her eyes landed on the small lamp on her bedside table. It projected waves to the ceiling and Hermione was determined to be able to do something similar with her wand. The lamp always calmed her, but she sometimes wished that it could do different colours or show the night sky. Since making many lights had been so exhausting, she figured it'd be best to work on getting it colourful, first. Hermione flicked her wand and a little ball of light appeared. She stared at it, willing it to turn green like her bedsheets.

When she saw no difference after a good minute, she closed her eyes and started to meditate. She imagined walking through the forest in the morning, illuminating the leaves with her wand, her light wavering and changing colours to match the soft green of young leaves. She let the peaceful feeling the forest gave her surround her like a cloak until she felt the taste of the magic change. Opening her eyes, she saw herself bathed in the green light she had been hoping for. Hermione smiled in delight. She had done it! And green was such a wonderful colour, too! Her good mood had an immediate effect on the light which twinkled and morphed into the vibrant yellow of a sunflower. She reached out and found the light warm in the exact way sun rays felt on her skin. She wondered if she had created artificial sunlight. She'd have to ask Dryad tomorrow.

Then, she remembered that she couldn't and a scowl sat on her face as she thought of the werewolf preventing her access. The light turned red with her anger and sparks started to fly. She ripped her hand away and shook it. Little red dots marked her palm where it had come in contact with the light. They burned as if she had touched a real fire. Hermione scrunched her face up in concentration until the light turned blue. She carefully poked her pinky into the light and found it pleasantly cool. She ran the wand over her wounds, carefully maintaining thoughts of healing and regeneration. After about a minute, she examined her hand. The red colour had lessened somewhat and it didn't hurt anymore. She stopped the spell and took a deep breath. That had gotten way too intense way too quickly. If the spell was this sensitive to her emotions, she needed to be much more careful with it.

She decided to call it quits for the day and turned back to her runic book. The Futhark runes, easy and effective though they were, did not feel entirely right to her. Her magic accepted them, but didn't feel happy about them the way it seemed to dance inside her when she used her wand. She looked at them, considering. What was it that made them magical, anyway? The Germanic people had used them for all writing, not just spells. If they had used it like an alphabet, did that mean the Latin alphabet could be used for magic as well? Some runes, like Hagalaz and Berkana had almost perfect counterparts in the Latin alphabet. Did they keep their meaning or had it been stripped off the letters? She gnawed at her pen. The simplest thing would be to repeat the spell she had done with her notebook.

Hermione sat down at her table, empty piece of paper in front of her, the final sketch of her sigil to her left. She carefully remade the shape, modifying it where necessary to keep it harmonious while using the Latin alphabet. Even as she was writing, she felt a resistance from the letters. Undeterred, she snuck outside to charge the sigil. Perhaps a stronger connection to nature would help. It was a warm and sunny day so she didn't hesitate in taking off her shoes to feel the grass under her feet. She sat down the way she had last time and began channeling her magic into the sigil. Rather, she tried channeling it. It splashed off the shape like water off a lotus leaf, dissolving into wisps in the air. She frowned, pushing more forcefully, until she finally felt something happening. Instead of the sigil being charged, however, the paper began to heat up. Suddenly, it broke out into flames. Hermione yelped, threw it to the ground and stomped on it until she was sure the fire was out. She breathed heavily.

“Alright, message received. No sigils with the alphabet,” she muttered to herself. She picked up the burned paper and ran her hand over the grass where she had dropped it. The damage caused by the heat disappeared and she smiled. At least she could make up for her mistake. She'd have to speak with Dryad about this, however. Maybe they knew what had happened. Maybe they even knew about other runic systems. Surely people in African or Asian countries hadn't known about Futhark and had used other systems instead.

Hermione entered the forest a few days later with better control over her light and many questions. As she made her way through the forest, there was rustling to her left.
“Hello there, kid.”