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Hermione Granger had always been top of her class. Perfect attendance. Top scores. Poised, well dressed and even more well spoken. The run of the mill overachiever.
So, when she’d received not one but two letters of acceptance to magical schools at the tender age of eleven, she’d of course developed a strategy to decide which would be the best choice for her.
Hermione had promptly badgered her mum to schedule visits to each school, to meet with the headmasters and take a look at the grounds. Her visit to Durmstrang had been first.
They’d toured the grounds, met with the Deputy Headmaster—“The Headmaster is much to busy to meet each and every prospective student, I’m sure you understand”—and we’re sitting in on a class, when Hermione noticed her.
There was a well dressed, poised young girl in the front row. She had a quill in hand, rapidly taking down the professor’s words. She answered every question with a calm certainty that Hermione grudgingly admired. Grudgingly, because after each answer the girl tucked her hair behind her ears as she checked her notes. Her brown, bushy hair. Come to think of it, the girl looked to be about her height, too.
Hermione edged to the side of the class, trying to be discreet as she strained for a better look. She bumped the table closest to her and a handful of quills clattered to the floor.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” She scrambled to pick them up, as her mother came over to help.
Standing with the last of the quills, she realized the whole class had frozen, and we’re staring at her. The girl was staring at her. It was like looking into a mirror.
She couldn’t shake the weird feeling for the entire rest of the day. She’d come practically face to face with her doppleganger.
By dinner time, her mind was made up. There was only room for one Hermione.
“Mum, Dad, I’m going to Hogwarts!”