Chapter One
The afternoon sun was high in the sky that August morning, streaming through her windows and over Hermione’s face, where she stood bracing herself against her bedroom door, trying to stabilise her rattled emotions. An overwhelming feeling of surprise, anxiety, and even a little dread, flooded her body, leaving her legs feeling like they were about to give out.
In a desperate bid to calm herself down from an oncoming panic attack, she went through her senses, naming five things that she could see, hear, touch, smell and taste. Sight: her dark wood floors, the childhood patchwork quilt draped over her beloved reading chair, the books stacked on her bedside table, her floral patterned socks digging into the rug, the oak tree swaying outside her window. Hear: cars passing on the street, a lawn mower rumbling in the distance, the kettle whistling on the stove downstairs, the living room telly playing the mid-day news, her ragged breaths dragging in and out. Smell: her vanilla and jasmine candles, the faint smell of disinfectant, the summer sun, her fruity perfume, and the coconut shampoo she used. Touch: the wood of the door at her back, the rug beneath her toes, the socks around her feet, the denim of her jeans and the parchment she was holding.
Hermione climbed into bed, breath slowly settling as she tucked her feet beneath the blanket and surveyed the letter, scrawled across with green ink.
Miss Hermione Jean Granger
The Second Bedroom at the End of the Hall
8 Heathgate, Hampstead Garden Suburb
London, England
A woman named Professor Minerva McGonagall had just handed it to Hermione and told her that she was a witch—a wand-waving, cloak-wearing, spell-speaking, magic-holding witch! The thought was entirely absurd and ridiculous. And yet, Hermione had sat there listening as Professor McGonagall answered questions Hermione and her Mum had wondered about for all of Hermione’s life.
All of the times she’d cried in the church at St. Catherine’s—the private girls school Hermione attended—and prayed to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in for whatever evil that must have a hold of her to be gone. All of the odd instances and encounters that surrounded Hermione without answer. When she’d found a book she wanted from the library so badly but had reached the limit of books she could borrow at a time, she would come home to it on her desk, waiting for her. When a torrential downpour had happened right after Hermione had taken the time to do her hair for school in the morning, hoping the girls would tease her for her curls less, only for Hermione to make it to the car—without an umbrella—and her hair to be entirely untouched. The time when Alice Ruthers had to cut her hair short from glue exploding in her face and drying in clumps after she laughed at Hermione’s curly hair, Hermione trying to hide her tears as she wished for Alice to stop laughing at her for once.
So many times where Hermione had wondered that if there was a God, why did he make her this way when all she wanted to be was good and just?
And yet, Professor McGonagall had opened the door for her into this new world with only a few words and a letter . . . a place where she might finally fit in—something that she’d never had before.
When all of the other girl’s at school turned away from her, citing that she was a know-it-all with no friends, or an attention seeking teacher's pet; when they laughed at her never tameable hair, or the food she brought for lunch that they said was weird . . . all that time, and a world had been waiting for her, with people she had at least one thing in common with.
Hermione’s Mum, Amina, had taken one look at her daughter’s face and had opened the door wider for her, accepting Hermione’s place at Hogwarts without a moment of thought or consideration to what it might mean for their future. To her, the light in Hermione’s eyes—that was so rare these days—was worth any sacrifice of her own.
Before leaving, Professor McGonagall had handed them a thick bundle of parchment that would give them more information about the magical world, both in Britain and worldwide, and Hermione spent the next few weeks devouring the knowledge inside.
It detailed Hogwarts’ conception and history throughout the last thousand years—a place that Hermione could scarcely believe she would call home for the next seven years—as well as Diagon Alley, the largest magical shopping district in the UK, as well as the many other smaller districts. She learnt about the Ministry of Magic, the magical government in Britain, as well as the International Confederation of Wizards and the Statute of Secrecy that they enforced. In fact, her new Headmaster was a part of that Confederation, and was highly regarded as the most powerful and influential wizard in all of England.
Hermione eagerly consumed information about the classes she’d be taking, including the electives she could choose in her third year. There was a lot she didn’t yet know about them, outside of the obvious with Charms and Potions, but she was excited to get her school books and learn as much as she could before heading off to Scotland at the beginning of September.
However, learning about this new world didn’t take away from that deep rooted insecurity she held toward her success and abilities, because the sheer thought that she, Hermione Jean Granger, could be special and talented was unfathomable. She wanted to believe it, sure; wanted to believe that she was worthy of this gift, but Hermione had never really felt good enough. No matter how much she studied, or tried to fix her appearance, or converse with the other girl’s in her year, she’d never really found her place—or her confidence. It was much easier to bury her nose in her books and take on the nickname of know-it-all than confront the fact that maybe without them, she was just ordinary.
And yet, she had magic. She would go to a magical school and live in a magical castle, spending her day learning real magic. That had to account for something; she had to believe that maybe she could be something more than ordinary. But hope had always been a struggle for Hermione when she knew that logic often won out in the universe.
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Her Mum worked as a dentist in her own practice, and that thankfully meant she set her own hours. Usually, Hermione would go along and sit in the back office, where she could help out the receptionist with menial tasks to take up time once she finished her homework or had read the book she’d brought along.
In the weeks leading up to her trip to Diagon Alley for her school supplies, she would take in her information packet with her. She’d circle places in Diagon Alley that she was most interested in: potions stores and apothecaries, bookshops and places to buy wizarding knicknacks, Ollivanders Wand Shop and other smaller wand makers. Her Mum would peer over her shoulder periodically on her lunch break and point out places she wanted to visit as well.
The morning of that Diagon Alley trip, Hermione was awake with the sunrise, re-looking at the map obsessively. Once her Mum was awake–the kettle whistling away downstairs—Hermione got out of bed, dressing and methodically, carefully, untangling her curls until she could pull them back into twin braids that fell down her back.
As she ate a breakfast of some simple toast and orange juice, she considered the other Muggleborn students that she’d meet today. Like her, they’d probably be overwhelmed, balls of butterflies and jitters; eager and fearful about entering this new world. She wondered if they’d devoured the information given to them like Hermione had, looking desperately for something new to memorise in its pages—answers to questions they might have been asking all their lives. Their families could be terrified of letting them go; of surrendering to this change in their lives; a change that could never be undone, buried or ignored. Hermione hoped that all of their families were as accepting as her Mum had been when Professor McGonagall had stood on their doorstep and uttered the words that had altered the course of Hermione’s life.
Most of all, Hermione hoped that she made a friend today so that when she went to Hogwarts she didn’t feel as alone. She hoped that she wouldn’t be an outcast there as she was at St. Catherine’s.
God did she hope—did she pray.
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When they arrived in London, they followed Professor McGonagall’s instructions to the outside of Indira’s Music and Instruments—a Muggle store on Charing Cross Road, nestled between a bookstore and a pub called the Leaky Cauldron which served as the bridge between the magical and Muggle world.
When they approached, they could see students and families being ushered into the Leaky Cauldron by Professor McGonagall. The pub was old, to say the least, with its black paint peeling in places. It looked nothing like what she imagined the entrance to the most populated magical district in the UK would be, but Hermione guessed that was exactly why it had been chosen.
Inside, the gathered group of Muggleborn students and their families looked as nervous as Hermione had felt all week as they surveyed the room. Beside Hermione, a pale, blonde-haired girl with gleaming blue eyes that paired nicely with her floral dress, said to her Mum, “It’s so gloomy.”
And it was. Panels of dark, stained wood covered the floors and walls. At the far end of the room, a long bar stood, with a staircase to its left. Most of the room was taken over by tables and booths that were grouped with no rhyme or reason. Some were occupied by patrons—a group of witches wearing high-necked robes covering most of their skin were eating mouthfuls of porridge; a pale man was drinking at the bar, and being served by the barman who polished glasses and wiped tables in between customers; a witch was sweeping the floors with a broom that moved itself, while a mop followed—but most were empty with it still being rather early for most to need service of the pub. The entire pub was lit by candles, some in the large, rusty chandelier that didn’t look as if it’d been cleaned in a long while, other candles were clustered on tables or in the wall sconces. Hermione wondered if they were magical, because none were dripping candle wax.
“This is the Leaky Cauldron—one of the oldest businesses in our world—and it serves as the entrance to Diagon Alley. Commonly, it is occupied by students and their families leading up to the school terms, particularly those who have come into London from far away,” explained Professor McGonagall, “Rooms can be booked with the barman and owner, Tom.” She pointed at the man behind the bar. He was rather old, with no hair and his pale skin was stretched thin over his thin cheekbones. Hermione thought he must’ve been handsome in his youth—his features were strong and his eyes were kind and very green—but in his older age, he was hunched and walked with a limp. As they passed him, he smiled at them all genially. Hermione smiled back.
Professor McGonagall led them all out of a side door to a small alley with smelly bins at the far end that made Hermione’s nose wrinkle. Their group was a little large, so they all nudged close to one another as they intently watched Professor McGonagall show them how to open the barrier. They all watched reverently as the entire walk shook, beginning to fold in on itself until a gap wide enough for three people to stand side-by-side appeared.
Spreading as far as their eyes could see was the wide, cobbled street of Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley was the main street of the district, but it curved as far as the eye could see, with secondary streets shooting off of it. The sight of hundreds of shops, all with their own bright colours and items was slightly overwhelming, and had them all gasping with sheer wonder.
“Diagon Alley is hidden by a branch of magic known as warding, which allows for much larger things to be hidden inside of smaller objects, or to be hidden from view at all. You won’t learn about it until your sixth or seventh year if you choose to take that class, but there’ll be some books available in many of the bookstores if you’d like an introductory look into it,” explained Professor McGonagall to them all.
They were being taken to Gringotts Wizarding Bank first, where they could exchange their Muggle money for the currency used in the magic world, or open a vault if they would like to.
Gringotts was at the far end of Diagon Alley, and they had to pass most of the usual stores visited by students on the way. Their heads were on a swivel as they attempted to absorb the array of stores, colours, people and noise that welcomed them as they pushed through crowds of shoppers. It was a busy day with it being such a beautiful summers day so close to the beginning of the new school year, and all around them, witches and wizards bustled by in robes, children running alongside them with dripping, heaping ice-creams, whilst owls fluttered over their heads, delivering letters. Around them, stores took advantage of the busy day, their store signs flashing with moving advertisements that displayed sales, hoping to draw buyers in.
Hermione wanted to dive into every store she passed—the apothecaries, bookshops, broomstick stores; places where she could buy robes and clothing, telescopes and items for seers and practitioners of the Olde Magicks; stalls that sold food, furniture and stationary, and the many cafes, restaurants and sweet shops; Meangeries that boasted offers on owls, cats, rats, toads and snakes and animals of all kinds; bits and bobs for more frugal witches and wizards; galleries where one could buy magical portraits or have their own painted. There was so much and she wanted to see it all.
Outside of Gringotts, they were led up the stairs and into the enormous marble and stone structure that was topped with a life-size statue of a dragon. They passed spear-wielding goblins, with long fingers, white hair, pointed ears and dark scowls. Hermione tried not to stare at them as they passed, Professor McGonagall bowing her head respectfully as they passed—something Hermione stored in her mind for future. Inside, the bank was made of the same marble and stone as outside, and every shuffle of their feet echoed loudly in the quiet space. Everything they passed was imbued with gold, silver and other gems that glittered beneath the flickering of the enormous candelabras. In the middle of the lobby, U-shaped desks were occupied by goblins that shuffled through parchment, counted coins, weighed jewels and gems, murmuring to one another and talking to customers in hurried, deep voices through their sharp-toothed mouths. Behind the giblins, hallways and doors led off to places Hermione couldn’t see.
Their large group joined the line of quiet, patient customers. Professor McGonagall encouraged them to organise their money before getting to the goblins, who supposedly didn’t tolerate their time being wasted. The line progressed quickly and when it was Hermione’s turn, a goblin wearing a name tag that said Bogrod growled, “Vault or currency exchange?”
The goblin huffed and pulled out a form, quill and a small knife. “You will need to fill out this form and prick your finger so your magical signature is recorded for your security. Hand over your currency and I will count it.”
Her Mum handed over a stack of pounds from her purse, which the goblin counted and replaced with gold, silver and bronze coins—galleons, sickles and knuts. While he did so, her Mum filled out the from with Hermione’s basic details: her name, date of birth, address, and who was approved to access her vault, which would be her Mum, considering she was still underage and would be in Scotland for most of the year—particularly so that her Mum could deposit money into her account frequently for Hermione to access while away.
Hermione then pricked her finger, wincing at the sharp pain, before directing a droplet of her blood onto the small box at the bottom of the form. When the droplet met the page, it sizzled and sparked and judging by the frown on the goblin's face, that wasn’t supposed to happen.
The goblin called over another goblin. “Take them to Griphook.” He handed over the form and exchanged money, which the goblin took and instructed them to follow him.
“What’s going on? Is there something wrong?” asked her Mum to the goblin, who instructed that they couldn’t discuss it openly in the bank and that they would need to speak with Griphook, who supposedly was the bank manager.
They were led down one of the hallways, turned left, then right and then were down another hallway before they stopped at a door, whose gold name plate read: Griphook, Bank Manager, Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The goblin swiped a long-nailed finger over the door and it opened by itself.
Inside, they were instructed to sit in front of the desk. The room itself was stone just like the entire building, but it had a rough, worn sort of shape that was less polished and perfect than the rest of the bank—it felt much like a cave would. The sconces illuminated the large desk, which had a row of daggers resting on its top.
Behind them, the door opened and a small, round, older goblin entered. “I am Griphook, the bank manager. Who are you?”
Hermione went to speak, but her Mum beat her to it. “Dr Amina Granger, and this is my daughter, Hermione. We were here to open a vault and exchange currency but something seems to have gone wrong, though I’m not sure what.”
The goblin hummed. “Yes, well, you were unable to open a vault as there is already one opened under the name Hermione Jean Granger,” he said, looking at them as if they were hiding a secret from him.
Her Mum—and Hermione—blinked at him owlishly. “Pardon? That’s not possible,” answered her Mum, “Hermione is a Muggleborn, this is our first time at Diagon Alley.”
“The vault was not opened by either of you,” said Griphook, looking down at a secondary piece of parchment. “The vault was opened on March 3rd, 1979 by Regulus Black, to be for his successor. When Miss Granger was born, our magical records noted her bloodline and it was changed into her name, as Mr Black intended.”
“Regulus?” Her Mum gasped, covering her mouth.
When Hermione looked at her Mum, she was crying and Hermione had no idea why. She’d never heard that name before.
“Mum . . . who’s Regulus?” asked Hermione, deeply confused about what was going on.
“Regulus is—he’s your father.”