Brave New Hermione

In her dream, she stood upon a narrow bridge carved of stone. There were no railings. It was sunset. From one end of the bridge somebody called her, repeating her name many times. The voice was awfully familiar. She could see a small, white hand beckoning her to come, but she could not see a face. She could not recall whose voice it was, though it seemed to her the dearest voice, perhaps the voice of her closest friend.

That's funny, she thought. Who is my closest friend? She thought some more, but the more she thought, the less coherent became what she was thinking, until she thought, Why, that's awfully funny. I thought I knew just a moment ago, but...what is a friend?

"I am a friend!" the voice from the end of the bridge seemed to cry urgently. "Come! Come here! Quickly!"

If she is my friend, why doesn't she call my name? she puzzled. She doesn't know my name, that's why, she answered herself. A friend ought to know one's name, she thought, but she was not sure where that thought came from, or whether it was true or not. Am I a friend? She was very puzzled by this question, and then, What is my name? A mental silence followed, and then: What is a name?

A name belongs, she thought, finally. Oh...but whatever does it belong to?

Night was falling fast. The dimness was becoming darkness. And she was more lost in her thoughts than ever. In the near darkness, the white hand at the end of the bridge was fading away and the sweet voice becoming fainter. This made her awfully sad - at least, she thought it made her sad, but she was not entirely sure what sad was. She thought she'd had it, but it slipped away, perhaps over the edge of the bridge, perhaps into the night, perhaps away with the voice. The darkness around her was almost total now and she could only very, very faintly hear the voice, but she could not tell what it said. Her words, her urgency, were lost to the wind.

She looked down. She was quite sure she was on a bridge. She was also quite sure it was night. She knew what night was. That was, in fact, the only thing she could remember now. Looking down, she noticed that- well, actually, she didn't notice anything. She could hardly see, but there, just there, barely visible in the blackness, she saw the small, white hand again. She smiled at it, wondering how it had got over here without her noticing. Then she realized it was her hand, and she knew who had been calling to her, and she remembered what a friend was, and she definitely felt sad now. She regretted not following the voice. And she realized she was cold. Then the darkness became complete, utterly engulfing, and she could not see anything. Then she remembered night, and she felt afraid. Afraid was worse than sad.

And she was swallowed by the night, and she could not feel anything anymore, and the little white hand finally stopped waving. Her last thought, before she was no more than another bit of darkness, was I don't believe there are any friends in the night. No, I'm quite sure of that.

***

Hermione Granger was very good at finding hiding places. Since she was a child, whenever she was angry or scared or simply wanted to be alone with her books, she would go to one of her "secret spots," and very rarely did anyone find her before she wanted to be found. Another child would easily have been discovered hiding beneath her bed or in her wardrobe, but when Hermione hid beneath her bed, it always seemed a mysteriously great deal roomier than it ought to. She had also uncovered a secret compartment within her wardrobe, which existed for no one but herself. In primary school, she had been able to escape the boys' constant torment by taking her book to a corner of the playground shaded by an ancient oak, and constructing, in her mind, a magic fortress which would keep out unfriendly visitors. Of course, none of the would-be visitors ever were friendly, so she was never bothered there. That suited Hermione perfectly.

When she received the letter from Hogwarts, her parents were, to their own surprise, relieved. Hermione had always been a bit of an odd duck; here was an explanation. Although the fact that Hermione was a witch was far from a logical conclusion, it was a peculiarity worthy of their daughter, and they were pleased. Finally, they thought, she'll fit in. Perhaps all magical children were too intelligent for their own good and naturally at odds with normal children. ("Not normal," Hermione's mother told herself reprovingly, "non-wizarding. They're all normal, in their own way.")

The fact remained, though, that Hermione was too intelligent for her own good, and she had long ago disabused herself of the notion that any child could naturally like a girl such as her. She knew that she was a "know-it-all" and a "teacher's pet," and would always remain so. Hermione had learnt, long before eleven, that her nature did not endear itself to her peers, and she knowingly exacerbated the situation. She would not settle for second best, 100% was not enough, and she regarded it her duty to answer any question put to her. She never saw this as a fault, merely the price paid for a wealth of knowledge, and she craved knowledge the way some people crave food or sex or power. She tried, in the same way, to explain away the other objects of her ridicule - certain of her features, which were considered somewhat less than beautiful, namely her overlarge front teeth and her bushy hair. Brains did not come with beauty, nor beauty with brains. It was a cruel balance - or perhaps it was simply fashionable to be stupid - but Hermione didn't care about that. She knew she was not fashionable, and she did not deign to be. She knew she was better than that...sort of.

So when the letter from Hogwarts arrived, Hermione was elated; she was terrified; she positively shook with enthusiasm and radiated excitement. But she knew that the students at a school for magic would be no different than the students at Westbrook Primary, because children, with or without magical abilities, are children - gay and innocent, but also selfish and, at heart, frightened of things they don't understand. However, this was not Hermione's most pressing thought. She had dealt with ostracization for years and felt that she could easily put up with it in a different location, because it meant a whole new world would be opened up to her. Of course this explained why no one came near her in her fortress-corner of the playground, and she was proud of her magic. It was something new and exciting to excel at, which she already had excelled at, apparently. A whole new field to study. And the books! Oh, how delightful they must be! Books on magic! Books of spells! Books of magical history! Biographies of magical persons! She could hardly contain her glee.

After coming home from school, when her father tremulously handed her the thick, yellow parchment impressed with the Hogwarts crest, Hermione was concerned by what she read. Her first instinct was to leap for joy, but her second was that this was probably some trick, some spiteful prank thought up, perhaps, by the sixth form girls from school.

Presently, there was a sharp rap at the door, and Hermione guiltily shoved the letter in her pocket.

"The Granger household, I presume?" said a dignified voice from the doorstep.

"Yes - "

"Then I trust Miss Granger has received her acceptance letter?"

Mr. Granger was taken aback, wary. "I'm not sure I know - "

"Mr. Granger, I am sure you know precisely what I am speaking of, and it would be most prudent to continue this conversation within doors." The voice was still dignified, and had a knowing air about it, as though the person it belonged to had heard this response many times, but it was not without warmth. Mr. Granger was no fool, and let her in the house immediately.

The woman who entered was tall and wore square spectacles. Her hair was pulled back into a high, tight bun, and her expression displayed intelligence and a no-nonsense approach to life. Hermione was impressed.

"Miss Granger, have you read and understood the contents of that letter in your pocket?" Hermione's eyes glowed. It was real.

"It isn't a prank, then," was all she could think to say.

"No. You are a witch, Miss Granger. My name is Professor McGonagall. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I am also the deputy headmistress. I am here answer any questions you may have about your abilities."

"Is one born with them? Magical abilities, I mean."

The corners of Professor McGonagall's mouth twitched in an ever so slight smile, something which they did not do often. "Unless I am much mistaken, you are a very clever girl. Yes, witches and wizards are born, not made, though it takes training to control your magic. A witch or wizard may be produced in any family, although the majority do come from a wizarding line."

"And is my magic as strong as a witch from a 'wizarding line'?"

"Certainly, and perhaps stronger than some. I have a book which might interest you." Hermione's eyes lit up. "I take it you are an avid reader?"

"Oh yes! There's nothing I like better in the world."

Professor McGonagall took out her wand and gave it a small wave. Hermione tried very hard not to blink, afraid of missing a single moment. A book appeared in mid-air and the professor took it and put it in Hermione's trembling hands. In gold letters, it read, A Beginner's Spellbook.

"This explains basic concepts, the uses and limits of magic, important rules, wand movements, etc."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you ever so much!"

"Please treat this book delicately. It belongs to the school library, and our librarian, Madame Pince, would be most displeased to find it in less than perfect condition."

"I will treat it with the utmost respect."

"Good. Now, if you will excuse me. I have other business to attend to." Mr. Granger made a move, but Professor McGonagall put out her hand to stop him. "There is no need to see me to the door. Please do not be alarmed." And with a loud crack, she disappeared into thin air.

A Beginner's Spellbook was Hermione's sacred treasure. Once she had reassured her parents of the reality of what had just occurred, she hurried to the secret wardrobe compartment and read and re-read her letter over and over again, hugging herself and imagining the wild things she would learn and be capable of. She stayed awake the entire night, soaking up the Spellbook's information, not daring to tear her eyes away from the pages. She stopped only for a very brief supper, at which the Grangers were all very silent and ate very little.

Through the last few weeks of school, Hermione's thoughts were only of A Beginner's Spellbook and Hogwarts. It was as if she was carrying a magic fire around inside her, a protection against the frosty treatment from her classmates. She kept the book with her wherever she went, including school, and this is how two incidents arose, which gave Hermione fair warning of what to expect in the wizarding world.

One afternoon, when the bell rang to signal the end of the school day, she very hastily packed her belongings into her book bag and the Spellbook happened to stick up a couple of centimeters.

"Oi, Beaver-face! What's that moldy thing in your bag? It looks like my dead cat!" Called out Rodger, a fifth former with sadistic tendencies. Rumour was that he'd taken a hammer to his cat's head.

Hermione did not turn around to face him. "Just- just a book!" she squeaked.

"What? I can't understand you. I think your teeth are getting in the way!"

It took Hermione a moment to reply, but she swung round to face him and blurted out, all in one breath, "I said it's just a book! Leave me alone!"

The boys around Rodger smirked.

"Why do you like books so much anyway, Beaver-face? I think I'll find out." The other boys chuckled as Rodger snatched the book out of Hermione's bag. She should have realized then that something was odd. The book was really rather light, but Rodger acted as if the book weighed a ton. He frowned. "What is this made of anyway, rocks?" he muttered. Hermione was paralyzed with fear. Rodger was staring at the title of the book.

"Please just give it back, Rodger!" She was panicking. "Rodger, please!"

What if they find out? she thought. What will they do to me? What should I do? She gasped inwardly. What will Professor McGonagall do?!

Rodger was now reading the title...trying to read the title.

A Beginner's Spellbook - it's not hard to say. Hermione thought, even in her panic. Even Rodger isn't that thick.

"The Ni..lo.." Rodger muttered. One of the boys behind him glanced over his shoulder and read, very slowly,

"The Nillo-tick Language of the...Muh-say..." Hermione was utterly bewildered. Rodger gave the boy a furious glare and the boy jumped back.

"You think you're so smart, Granger! Nobody cares about your stupid Nillo-ticks!" and he opened the book and made as if to tear out a page. Hermione had reached out to stop him, but suddenly Rodger froze, his eyes wide. His whole front was covered with stinksap, a mucousy, gray substance, hanging off his arms like alien bogeys. Hermione stood just as frozen as Rodger, her arms still stretched out in front of her like some comical statue.

Nobody moved or said a word for a full minute. Then Hermione snapped back to her senses. "Anti-theft device!" she yelled, the first thing that came to her mind, as she grabbed her book back, turned on her tail, and ran, clutching A Beginner's Spellbook to her chest, and didn't stop running till she got to her bedroom door.

The second incident occurred after Hermione visited Diagon Alley for her books and materials, which included her wand, a beautiful vinewood and dragon heartstring, which she carried everywhere with her, along with A Beginner's Spellbook. Since the episode of the stinksap, she had been left almost entirely alone by the other students, and she felt sure no one would be poking in her bag again.

One day Hermione walked to school rather early and, upon finding she was the first one there, decided to practice a bit of spellwork. She opened A Beginner's Spellbook and reviewed the theory for "A charm to accelerate the growth of plant life." The circular flower bed in front of Westbrook Primary was not terribly well-kept and harboured a number of weeds among the meadowsweet. Hermione chose a cluster of the small sprouts as her test subjects.

"Plantaeum Expidae," Hermione said firmly and flicked her wand upward. Before her eyes, the sprouts began to wriggle and stretch towards the sky. Within moments, a number of enormous, golden-rayed sunflowers in full bloom towered over her, four meters tall. Hermione gasped, then felt silly and turned about in a circle in a sort of victory dance, glowing with pride.

Now, four meter tall sunflowers would be perfectly acceptable had Hermione chosen an undisturbed field for practice, but it was at this most inopportune moment that the school prefects, who were always early, began to arrive.

Hermione's glowing cheeks flashed the colour of chalk as she was suddenly filled with horror. She hopped on the spot in panic and knocked A Beginner's Spellbook to the ground.

"Got to the find the counter-charm," she mumbled to herself and dove at the book. She tore through the pages with none of the reverence she normally gave it, but she could not find it. In her frustration she accidentally ripped one of the leaves, which she had never in her life done. Dizzy with panic, she began to sob uncontrollably. The prefects were now close enough to see everything clearly, but they were absorbed in conversation.

Oh, go away, go away! Go back in the ground! Disappear, disappear, disappear! she thought, her eyes screwed up. She instinctively curled into a ball on the ground.

The prefects passed by her so closely she felt one of the girls' skirts brush her, but they entered the school without pause, and Hermione heard the front door shut.

She opened her eyes and looked about. The sunflowers still bloomed. She was still curled on the ground. There was no one in sight, and there was no other explanation for it.

Oh...my gosh...I'm invisible.

"I'm invisible!"

And then she thought again of the flowers, and decided it was best not to repeat the scene, invisible or not. Now that she could look for the counter-charm calmly, she found it exactly where it should have been.

"Plantaeum Infantile," she recited shakily, pointing her wand at the roots. The blooms closed and the stalks receded into the ground until they looked exactly as they had ten minutes before.

Taking deep, steadying breaths, Hermione guiltily stowed her wand in her bag, then looked ruefully at the torn page. Very carefully and lovingly, she put the book away.

I'll have to mend it at home, she thought, but she felt sickened by it all the same. Ripping a page in a book, and a library book at that - she never thought she was capable of such an atrocity. Then an even more catastrophic problem occurred to her: But will I remain invisible? And for how long? Hermione envisioned raising her hand in class, unseen. She would be marked absent, something which had only happened once, when she had been really ill with the measles. Having read about accidental magic, she thought she must now be visible again, since the danger was past, but to be sure, she walked confidently into school and waved to the first professor she saw. He smiled and returned the wave. Catastrophe averted.

However, Hermione reprimanded herself for her incautious use of magic. It was so unlike her and, in fact, was almost breaking the rules. Being invisible, though - what a useful trick! As long as it never occurred during classes.