Invisibl-io?
9:45 AM.
He wasn’t coming.
Hermione Granger lived in a group home in Bromley close to the Widmore Tesco. She was eleven years and eleven months old, liked dogs, lemon ice lollies, and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils. She was a quiet child, respectful of her authority figures, and “singular unto herself.” (That’s what her case worker wrote in her most recent report, anyway. Hermione liked to sneak copies of her file every time it was updated.)
Hermione had many secrets: she hid all the books she stole from the local library under her mattress, she dreamed of being a famous singer even though she couldn’t carry a tune, she was kind of allergic to strawberries but still ate them so she wouldn’t bother her house parents for accommodations, and, most importantly, she was a witch. This last one was a surprise—her accidental magic was never very intrusive—due dates changing on library books, pens that never ran out of ink, and any time she wanted to be invisible (which was all the time, thank you very much), the adults around her could never, ever find her, even if she was standing right in front of them.
It wasn’t until her eleventh birthday that she realized there was a word for her cunning—grownups had never paid her much attention, so when the mild-mannered man who was dressed like Mr Tumnus showed up asking about her, she just did what she always did when strange adults came around: she closed her eyes, turned invisible, and crept closer to watch.
“Yes, hullo. I rang earlier this week. I’m here to meet with a Miss Hermione Granger?”
Mrs Previtt, the elderly house manager who smelled like cheese and spent her nights listening to horse races on the radio instead of taking care of the babies in the nursery, shrugged and walked away, citing the need to do laundry. Hermione was certain that would be the end of it—it always was, any time someone came asking for her—so was shocked when the man, instead of leaving, pulled out a stick, muttered a strange word, and smiled at the corner Hermione was hiding in.
“Good morning. You must be Hermione. I’m craving some refreshments today—would you like to join me?” He waved his stick again and Hermione had to blink very hard multiple times when she saw a table filled with chocolates biscuits and pear slices and cheddar blocks pop into the middle of the room. He picked up a blue teacup with red roses painted on it and poured some tea, gesturing towards the table in invitation. “I’m sure you’re not worried about people noticing this—that was some very impressive magic, Miss Granger, but I’ve added a couple of privacy spells as well. I thought we could talk?” He smiled at her, but her skin didn’t crawl the way it did with most adults. He didn’t have the same air of entitlement she’d seen from all the other grown-ups in her life—she was pretty sure if she declined, he wouldn’t have been angry. He really didn’t seem like the kind of person to get angry.
She nodded shyly and sat down.
Mr Lupin—Professor Lupin, as he introduced himself—was apparently a wizard and taught at a school for other people like Hermione, people with magic. Apparently, when magical kids turned eleven, their magic was deemed stable enough to begin magical instruction, and Hogwarts was a boarding school open to all magical kids in the wizarding world. (The point here was magic. Like, real Matilda, Narnia-level shit.) Hogwarts didn’t care that she was an orphan or poor or more socially awkward than a rock–-it wanted her. Mr Professor Lupin explained that she would be appointed a magical guardian who would support her during her school years, and the Ministry of Magic (a real wizarding government with laws and everything!) put aside funds for muggle-born orphans through their education.
He said this all very kindly and a bit tentatively, but Hermione had gotten over her feelings about being an orphan years ago. She was fascinated by this world he introduced her to—and they spent that whole afternoon talking about the things they both liked (books! learning! chocolate digestives with hazelnut!) and planned for future meet-ups.
Eleven months passed, and throughout the year, Mr Professor Lupin sent Hermione several letters. He was smart and kind and never talked down to her, and when she told him about her book pile under her mattress, he didn’t scold her, but promised to return them to the library with promises of a much bigger one at Hogwarts.
Hermione felt the most recent letter the professor sent her. It was well creased from taking it out of her pocket many times just to remind herself of the plan:
Dear Miss Granger—
Yes, we do have Dickens at Hogwarts, but our filing system has him under Muggle Contributions Inspired by Wixen Authors. If you like Dickens, you must check out Hubert Henryworth who was a wizard who lived in the flat above Charles. They were good friends.
Remember, I am coming to pick you up at 9 in the morning next Tuesday—we will travel to Diagon Alley for your school list, including your wand. Please bring anything you want to put in Gringotts—we will be opening a vault for you, care of Hogwarts. My husband, Professor Black (remember me telling you about him?) bet me 10 galleons that I couldn’t bring you to Flourish and Blotts without buying myself a new book, so maybe you can hold onto it for me and we’ll just keep it between us.
Please stay out of trouble, eat all of your meals, and learn something new.
Sincerely,
Professor Remus John Lupin
PS Spell of the day is: Reparo (page 35 in Standard Book of Spells. I’ve included a copy.)
10:45 AM.
He wasn’t coming.
Hermione stamped down the budding disappointment—she knew better than to trust any adult, even if they smelled like tea and offered free chocolates and read the same books. She didn’t need some flaky grown up’s oversight to show her around London—if Hermione was anything, she was brilliant. She could find some magical alley by herself in her sleep, “magical guardian” be damned. If the professor eventually remembered her (doubtful), he’d probably be impressed by her independent, pioneering spirit, anyway. (Something in her gut twinged uncomfortably at that. Stay out of trouble wasn’t the kind of instruction that paired well with sneaking onto the Tube and traveling to downtown London without adult supervision, but it wasn’t like Professor Lupin was her dad or anything. He wouldn’t care what she did.)
Sighing once (that’s all she would allow herself), Hermione set off down the street, flickering in and out of sight. She’d be fine alone.
She always was.