Chapter 2
The day the letter finds her, she is reading a book.
It was not a good book, really, rather contrived in its theme and trying desperately to emulate the tone of far greater works. But she was bored, and the late afternoon sunlight streaming lazily through her windows caused her usually ready mind to slow and her thoughts to thicken. It was easier then, to skim this unnecessarily thick tome (really, who was publishing these?), reading the pages as large blocks of text rather than individual words, than waste energy pursuing a perhaps more engaging volume.
Her mother called from the kitchen.
“Jimena! The mail’s just in.”
Groaning inwardly, she rolled, rather than rose, from the comfortable nest on her bed. Normally, her mother would not alert her at all regarding the post, but since around the middle of the summer it had been an almost daily reminder. The cause, of course, being the short story she had been practically forced to submit at the beginning of the summer. The conversation had gone something like this:
“Ah, but mija! The story is so good, it has so much potential!”
“Mom, it truly does not. I wrote it on a whim, and I certainly don’t want to – “
“You know the Gazette just opened for young writer submissions. They’re publishing a selection (don’t give me that look!), a selection of stories at the end of the summer, and – “
“No, no, mama, absolutely not, and what compels you to have these sorts of conversations so early in the morning! Please! Let me eat!”
“Ah, but it so perfectly fits the bill, darling, here let me read you a bit of the...let me find it here in the stack – “
“No.”
“Pero, meeeejah!”
“No. And stop with the mija act. We both know you only do that when you want something from me.”
Silence. A sigh from the end of the table, then:
“Well. That hurt my feelings. And it was only a suggestion.”
And so, Hermione had eventually acceded to the naggings. She knew it was the only option to keeping relative peace in the household. Although she could have perhaps managed holding her position on the matter for the remainder of the submission period, it would have only led to more petulant silences while breakfasting and a downturn in mood which she would have to spend whole days elevating.
The punishment for this sacrifice was the task she had just been called to, and at which she was now very practiced at completing. It involved rising from whatever burrow she was currently ensconced in, walking to their very small entry hall (which was really just a glorified bit of tile with a few coat hooks), and sorting through whatever envelopes had been shoved carelessly through the slot in their door, all the while her mother pretended not to be interested in her activity whatsoever.
For the most part, there was never any mail for her. A reminder of her summer reading list (already completed), a scrawled picture postcard from a grammar school friend (address and date more neatly written to the left by her mother), a monthly children’s literary magazine (consumed quickly out of boredom). Never anything with any heft or weight, nothing official at all truly, so she really didn’t see the need to go through with this charade today –
She paused in her sorting for a moment, because a letter that she had almost rifled past was in fact addressed to her, in a deep brown ink that shone on thick parchment.
Looking back, she’s not sure why the letter had such an impact on her before she even knew what it contained. In fact, she’s almost certain it impacted her more before she opened it. For just holding it there, in her hand, she felt a breath of air. It felt, no, it was as though the letter had found her, flown there simply to be with her. (Further study found this to quite literally be the case, which comforted her, as she did not like to have such fanciful convictions without good reason.)
It felt as if her arms, which had been curving, reaching out so desperately, had suddenly been filled. So young, to have such a longing, but it was certainly there, able to be perceived by a mind which had already learned everything it felt it had in its reach.
Later, walking into the kitchen where her mother no longer tried to hide her curiosity, slitting open the yellowed paper, reading the first lines – these were moments which are still carefully catalogued in her memory, but they are in black and white, linear bullet points with not much to distinguish themselves from other more mundane recollections from that day.
The one which makes an effort to stay in the forefront of her mind, the one that remains underlined, boldly inked in red, is:
kneeling, on a grubby patch of tile, hands full of something that for the first time in her short life, feels of substance.
It is not her first encounter with magic, but it is the first one that has ever mattered to her.