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"Passports, please." The Heathrow border guard extended his hand with practiced efficiency.
Wendell Wilkins handed over their Australian passports. The man flipped through them methodically, glancing up at their faces to verify the photographs.
"Wendell and Monica Wilkins from Australia, eh? Looking for Hermione, are you?" The guard's face cracked into a smile. "Last book just came out last week. The whole airport's buzzing about it."
Monica tensed beside her husband. "I'm sorry?"
"The Harry Potter books. Everyone's reading the finale. My daughter stayed up all night to finish it. Business or pleasure?"
"A little bit of both," Monica answered. "We used to live here and are reconnecting with our past."
The guard nodded, stamping their passports before handing them back and waving them through. "Good luck searching for your fictional daughter. And mind the weather, nothing like Sydney."
Wendell took Monica's arm as they walked away, their rolling suitcases trailing behind them. Neither spoke until they boarded the train headed for London, finding seats across from each other.
"That's the fourth time," Monica whispered once they were settled. "First the bookstore clerk, then our neighbor, then our seatmate, and now the border guard."
Wendell frowned. "It's just coincidence. The book is popular worldwide."
"Popular enough that four people in two different countries would make the same joke about us having a daughter named Hermione?"
"It's... unlikely," Wendell admitted, his practical dentist's mind calculating the probabilities. "But what's the alternative? That we really are Hermione Granger's parents? That we've forgotten our own daughter?"
Monica gazed out the window at the passing London suburbs. "It doesn't make sense. But neither do the dreams. Neither does this feeling I get when I read about her parents in the books."
"Crawley," Monica said suddenly.
"What about it?"
"We should go to Crawley. I don't know why, but it feels important."
Wendell studied his wife's face. After twenty-nine years of marriage, he knew when she had her mind set on something. "Crawley it is."
The Crawley Travelodge was unremarkable but clean. After checking in and dropping off their luggage, Wendell and Monica ventured out into the streets, following Monica's instincts.
"Do you know where you're going?" Wendell asked after they'd been walking for about half an hour.
"No. Yes. Maybe." Monica paused at an intersection, then turned left with certainty. "This way."
They walked down a tree-lined street of modest homes until Monica stopped abruptly. Across the street stood a two-story house with white paint and blue shutters. A small garden bloomed in the front yard.
Monica stared at the house, transfixed. "Wendell... I've been here before."
"How do you know?"
She pointed to the driveway. "Right there. I taught a little girl to ride her bicycle. She had bushy brown hair and was so determined. She fell twice but wouldn't cry. She just got back up and tried again."
Wendell felt a chill that had nothing to do with the English summer. "Monica..."
"I know how it sounds. But I can see it so clearly." Her eyes filled with tears. "Why can I see it so clearly?"
A middle-aged woman walking a small terrier approached them. She slowed as she passed, looking at them with curiosity.
"Excuse me," she called. "I don't mean to intrude, but you look familiar. Are you relatives of the old owners? The Grangers?"
Wendell stepped forward. "The Grangers?"
"Yes, John and Jean Granger. They lived in that house for years. Lovely people, both dentists."
Monica's hand tightened around Wendell's arm. "When did they leave?"
"Oh, must be about ten years ago now, summer of 1997. Very sudden, it was. They just up and left. Sold the house and moved away without saying goodbye to anyone. It was quite the talk of the neighborhood."
"Did they have any children?" Wendell asked, his voice carefully controlled.
"One daughter. Hermione, her name was. Bright girl, always with her nose in a book. Went to some exclusive boarding school in Scotland." The woman laughed. "When the Harry Potter books came out, we all joked that our Hermione must have secretly been the real Hermione. Same name, same bookish personality, disappeared from the neighborhood for months at a time at school."
Monica made a small, choked sound.
"Are you alright, dear?" the woman asked.
"Yes, just... jet lag. Thank you for the information," Monica managed.
The woman nodded and continued her walk. Wendell guided Monica back toward their hotel, supporting her as her legs trembled beneath her.
Back in their hotel room, Wendell paced while Monica sat on the edge of the bed, her face pale.
"This doesn't make sense," Wendell muttered. "None of this makes sense."
"Doesn't it?" Monica looked up. "The books explain it perfectly. If Hermione Granger is real, and if she really is our daughter, then she modified our memories. She gave us new identities and sent us to Australia to protect us from Voldemort."
"These are fictional books, Monica!"
"Then how do you explain what's happening? The dreams we've both been having for years? The strange connection we felt to those books the moment we started reading them. And now this, a house in Crawley that I've never seen before but somehow remember, and a neighbor who says the previous owners were John and Jean Granger with a daughter named Hermione?"
Wendell stopped pacing. "Even if, and this is a massive if, even if there's some truth to this, what do we do now? How do we find out for sure?"
Monica stood up. "We find the Ministry of Magic."
"The Ministry of- Monica, be serious."
"I am serious. The books say that you enter it through a telephone booth in Whitehall. If it doesn't exist, fine, we'll know this is all some bizarre coincidence, and we can come home with a funny vacation story. But if it does..."
Wendell sat heavily on the bed. "This is insane."
"Maybe. But we came all this way for answers. Let's try to find them."
They didn't sleep much that night. Wendell tossed and turned, his mind racing through possibilities, each more outlandish than the last. Monica lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, memories that might not be memories playing through her head.
The next morning, they took the train to London and made their way to Whitehall. The grand government buildings loomed around them as they searched for telephone booths.
"What's the code again?" Wendell asked as they approached the first booth.
"62442. It spells 'magic' on the telephone keypad."
Wendell dialed the numbers. Nothing happened. They tried three more booths with the same result, earning confused stares from passing government workers.
"This is ridiculous," Wendell muttered as they approached a fifth booth. "We're adults searching for a fictional magic entrance."
But something about this booth was different. People walked past it without seeming to notice it was there, their eyes sliding from the building on one side to the building on the other.
"This one," Monica whispered. "Try it."
Wendell squeezed into the booth with Monica and dialed 62442. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a cool female voice spoke, seemingly from nowhere.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
Wendell gripped the telephone so hard his knuckles turned white. Monica leaned toward the receiver.
"We're… Monica and Wendell Wilkins," she choked out. "We're trying to find our daughter, Hermione."
"Thank you," said the voice. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."
Two badges slid out of the metal chute where returned coins normally appeared. Wendell picked them up with shaking hands. One read "Wendell Wilkins, Family Reunion" and the other "Monica Wilkins, Family Reunion". They awkwardly clipped them to their shirts.
"Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."
The floor of the telephone booth began to sink. Wendell grabbed Monica's arm, steadying himself against the glass wall as they descended into darkness. After a moment, golden light flooded the booth, revealing an immense hall below them.
The booth came to a stop. "The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant morning," said the voice.
The door sprang open. Wendell and Monica stepped out into a vast, splendid hall with a polished dark wood floor. A fountain featuring golden statues dominated the center, and emerald green flames periodically erupted in fireplaces lining the walls, disgorging witches and wizards who strode purposefully across the Atrium.
Wendell felt lightheaded. "Monica," he whispered, "this is real. This is all real."
They walked toward a desk labeled "Security" at the far end of the hall, passing people in flowing robes who carried wands and discussed magical legislation. A balding, middle-aged wizard sat behind the desk, looking bored.
"Wands, please," he said without looking up.
"We don't have wands," Monica replied.
The guard raised his eyes. "No wands? Then what's your business here?"
"We're looking for our daughter, Hermione."
"The Minister has a very busy sched-" He stopped abruptly. "Did you say that she is your daughter?" He examined their badges with renewed interest, then looked at their faces more carefully.
"One moment, please." He picked up what appeared to be a small hand mirror and spoke urgently into it. "This is Eric at Security. I need to speak with someone from the Minister's office immediately. Yes, it's an emergency."
He set the mirror down. "Please wait here."
Wendell and Monica stood by the desk, overwhelmed by the sights around them. People apparated with loud cracks. Paper airplanes zoomed overhead, carrying interdepartmental memos. A witch walked past leading what looked like a miniature elephant on a leash.
After a few minutes, a tall red-haired man hurried across the Atrium toward them. He wore navy blue robes and had a friendly, freckled face.
"Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins?" he asked, slightly out of breath. "I'm Ron Weasley."
Monica gasped. "Ron Weasley? From the books?"
"Yes, from the books, although I think that Rowling took several liberties with my character." He smiled nervously. "If you'll follow me, please."
He led them to a bank of golden elevators. When one arrived, they stepped inside among a crowd of witches and wizards.
Wendell and Monica watched in amazement as the elevator moved up and down and sideways and even diagonally, stopping at many different floors, before finally coming to rest at "Level One, Minister for Magic and Support Staff."
"This is us," Ron said, gesturing for them to exit.
They followed him down a carpeted hallway lined with offices. Ron paused before a door labeled "Hermione Granger, Minister for Magic."
"I should warn you," he said quietly. "Hermione's been missing you for ten years now. This might be hard for her."
Without waiting for a response, he knocked and entered the office, closing the door behind him. Wendell and Monica could hear urgent, muffled conversation from within.
A moment later, the door flew open. A woman stood there - mid-twenties, with bushy brown hair and intelligent eyes currently wide with shock. Her face had drained of all color.
"Mum... Dad..." she whispered.
Her hands trembled as she motioned them inside. Ron slipped out past them, murmuring something about giving them privacy.
The office was spacious, with bookshelves lining the walls and a large desk piled with parchment. Magical instruments whirred and spun on various surfaces. Through a window, they could see what appeared to be a sunny London day, though they were supposedly underground.
Once the door closed, Wendell found his voice. "Are you... are you our daughter?"
Hermione's lower lip quivered. "Yes."
"Why?" Monica asked, her voice breaking on the single syllable.
Hermione's composure shattered. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to speak.
"There was an evil wizard named Voldemort who was hunting everyone connected to my friend Harry Potter," she sobbed. "It was the only way... I couldn't bear to lose you... I thought that I would be able to get you back..." Her words dissolved into heaving cries.
"Why didn't you reverse the spell?" Wendell asked, his own eyes wet.
Hermione wiped her face with her sleeve. "The spell had taken root too deep. I tried. God, I tried. When I found you in Sydney right after the war ended in May of 1998, I attempted to restore your memories, but... the magic had integrated too completely with your minds. Trying to force it risked permanent damage to your brains."
"Have you been alone all these years?" Monica stepped closer to her.
"I've been visiting Sydney four times a year since the war ended. Just to check on you, to make sure you were safe and happy." Hermione's voice was small, vulnerable in a way that made Monica's heart ache. "I'd watch you from across the street or sit a few tables away at your favorite café."
"My baby," Monica cried, "all alone!" She pulled Hermione into a fierce embrace.
Wendell joined them, wrapping his arms around both women. They stood there, holding each other, for over a minute. Wendell felt wetness on his cheeks and realized he was crying too.
Finally, Hermione pulled back slightly. "I have a husband - Ron, who you just met - and a daughter, Rose. She's one and a half now." She smiled through her tears. "But they could never replace you in my heart. Not ever."
"Could we meet them? Properly, I mean," Monica asked.
"Of course." Hermione pressed a button on her desk. "Ron? Could you bring Rose in, please?"
While they waited, Wendell cleared his throat. "Are our real names John and Jean? We spoke to a neighbor in Crawley who mentioned the previous owners."
Hermione nodded. "Yes. John and Jean Granger. I've kept the house exactly as it was in 1997, in case... in case you ever came home."
"John," John said, trying out the name. "I like it better than Wendell, actually."
"And I prefer Jean to Monica," Jean added. "Those names feel... right, somehow."
The door opened, and Ron entered carrying a toddler with reddish-brown curls. The little girl looked around curiously, her bright eyes landing on Jean.
"Up!" Rose demanded, reaching toward her.
Jean glanced at Hermione, who nodded permission. She took the child into her arms, and a maternal instinct she didn't know she possessed kicked in. She bounced Rose gently, and the little girl giggled.
"How did our story end up in books?" John asked, watching his wife and granddaughter with wonder.
Hermione sighed. "It was Dumbledore's idea initially. He planned to protect magical secrecy as Muggle technology advanced. He worked with a Muggle author, Rowling, to create a series of books about Harry's adventures that portray magic as fiction, making any actual glimpses of real magic easier to dismiss."
She frowned. "I was furious when Rowling snuck that private detail about sending you to Australia into the final book at the last minute. I never authorized that. But now..." She smiled tremulously. "Now I'll have to remember to thank Rowling for it. Without that detail, you might never have found your way back to me."
Rose patted Jean's cheeks with tiny hands, completely content in the arms of the grandmother she'd never met.
"What happens now?" John asked, the practical dentist emerging once more.
"That's up to you," Hermione said, hope visible in her eyes despite her attempt at a neutral tone. "You could go back to Australia and come for visits, or... you could stay here in England."
John and Jean exchanged a glance, a lifetime of shared understanding passing between them.
"We'd rather be around our daughter and granddaughter," Jean said firmly.
Hermione's face lit up with joy. She threw her arms around her parents again, Rose squeezed between them, babbling happily.
When they separated, Hermione wiped away fresh tears. "Are you ready to go home? To your real home?"
John nodded, taking Jean's free hand in his. "Yes. I think we are."
They walked out of the Ministry together, a family reunited, wearing smiles brighter than any of them had had in a decade.