The kitchen was a buzz of activity as Mrs. Granger bustled about making tea cakes. Her daughter had never been particularly fond of tea cakes, but the guests would expect them. Without noticing, she began to hum the jingle from a recent toothpaste ad. She reached towards the hook where the dish towel usually hung, only to find it gone. She sighed in irritation and strode over to the door connecting the small yellow kitchen to the rest of the house.

“Hermione? Hermione? Can you be a dear and bring me down one of those dish towels that you were folding the other day?”

She took the muffled response as affirmative. “Hurry! I need to get those cakes in the oven in the next few minutes.”

Once she heard movement on the floor above, she shut the door and proceeded to clean up the mess of flour she had made while rolling out the dough earlier that morning. Finished with her tidying up, she stood in front of the refrigerator, feeling her anxiety level rise. There was nothing about the large metal appliance that bothered her it was the small white sheet of paper hanging from the front by a magnet that made her worry. It was covered in crisp, clear handwriting, listing how much more work Mrs. Granger had to accomplish before the guests arrived. She glanced impatiently at the round clock above the sink and frowned at the door as it swung inward.

“About time, I must say.”

“Sorry, Mum.”

The girl who had entered had lots of bushy brown hair that framed her face, making her seem smaller than her eleven years. Her sweater was wrinkled and she had a pencil buried halfway in the depths of her hair. She handed her mother a striped dish towel which was immediately put to use. Slowly, so as not to be noticed, Hermione began to edge back towards the door, clutching a book with rich, maroon-colored binding to her chest. She was about a foot away when her mother caught the movement.

“Oh no, young lady. Don’t even think about it. You’ve been hiding upstairs all morning reading and I need your help.”

“But Mum, it’s important! I’ve been reading the book on British royalty that Aunt Claire gave me and you know she’ll ask me all about it when she comes today. I need to be well versed on the subject.”

“Don’t give me any of that now, Hermione. We both know full well that you can recite all the kings, queens and prime ministers in order from God knows when. And the least you can do is help me arrange these pastries - it is your party, after all.”

“Fine,” grumbled Hermione, recognizing defeat. She should’ve chosen a different book as an excuse, for she did already know most everything there was to know about British royalty, having read the book in question twice plus extra research on the side.

Reading was, as she put it, a hobby, but others called it a passion. She always seemed to have a book tucked under her arm or on her lap at the dinner table. And her mother had a point: it was her party. The celebration was because she had been accepted to one of the most prestigious schools for girls in all of Britain, despite her young age. She was two years younger than the normal acceptance age, but her extensive previous knowledge and incredible drive to learn impressed the admissions office and they agreed to let her have a trial for the first few months of term. This news excited her parents to no end, having always been proud of their brilliant and extremely bookish daughter. Hermione on the other hand, wasn’t excited at all, this being the fourth school in her eleven years. They always didn’t feel right; she never fit in. Why would this one be any different?

Hermione pulled up a stool and began to cut the crusts off the slices of bread that would eventually become little sandwiches. She daydreamed of returning to her nice quiet room where she could go back to reading about the “strange magical happenings” in Great Britain over the past hundred years. She had bought the book with her own money, and was currently sitting on it, knowing full well that the subject bothered her mother. Whenever she didn’t know something, she always researched it so she would understand it next time she encountered it. However, in this case, Hermione had been stumped. Nowhere in the nearby library had she been able to find any books on the subject of magic. Not the little-kid fantasy stuff, no. She had been disgusted with the reactions of the librarians when she requested a book on magic. They had pointed to shelves of make-your-dreams-come-true rubbish. Utter nonsense. No, she was interested in real magic, that randomly moved objects and caused odd things to happen when she wasn’t trying to.

Her parents had always been a little frightened of the strange occurrences that happened around their daughter. These instances were very rare, but the one similar factor between them was that she always seemed to either be feeling very strong emotion or a distinct lack of it. Like one time when she was five, while she had been riding her tricycle, a neighbor’s dog had ripped through his leash and charged at her. The little girl began to scream and forgot to steer her tricycle. Just as she was about to crash, tipping dangerously on the edge of the sidewalk, the bike righted itself and rolled her to safety, up an incline and into her own house, without her so much as touching the pedals or handlebars. Another moment that she had never been able to properly explain, was when she had been locked in her room in a rare moment of punishment and the door unlocked itself, setting her free.

It had taken her a while, but she had finally tracked down a book that might hold an explanation for the odd happenings that her parents made a concerted effort to ignore. It had arrived the week before and she had been eager to read through it. However, it was not to be, for she had been recruited to help clean up for the party these past several days nonstop. For the first time all week, she had discovered a moment of silence and rushed upstairs to open her new book. Unfortunately, that was the moment her mother had discovered her lack of dish towels.

“Hermione! The pitcher!” While she had been pondering the little of the book she had been able to read before the interruption, Hermione had accidentally bumped the pitcher of punch that sat next to her cutting board. As she reached for it however, it righted itself, and all of the spilled pink liquid jumped back into the pitcher.

She heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced at her mother. Mrs. Granger’s face was pinched, and her voice was forcefully cheerful as she said, “Well, at least I don’t have to remake the punch.”

She then abruptly turned on her heal and left the kitchen. Hermione simply sat, staring at the pitcher and its colorful contents. Could that have been magic? Without taking her eyes off the container in front of her, she reached down and pulled the book out from under her and laid it open on the cutting board. As she was flipping through it slowly, studying the title names and wondering if this could be real, she heard a knock on the door. It was probably the mailman. Not knowing where her mother was, she headed for the door, tucking a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear as she went.

The man at the door was indeed a post man, but he must have been new because he was not the usual one who came by this time of day. He was wearing the normal mail workers uniform but there was something odd about him that she couldn’t place. He almost looked uncomfortable in the clothes he wore, as if they were strange or new for him. He handed her the stack of envelopes in his hand, except for a large one that seemed to be made out of some kind of old fashioned parchment. She held out her hand expectantly, waiting for him to give her the last letter.

“Are you a Miss Hermione Granger?”

“Yes I am. Is that letter for me?”

“Why yes it is, but I have to speak to your parents first.”

Confused and a little irritated, Hermione told him to wait a moment and then went to go find her mother. Why couldn’t he just give her the envelope? He had said it was for her . . .

“Mother? Mum! The mailman wants to talk to you!”

“Don’t yell Hermione, I’m right here.”

Mrs. Granger opened the door wider and inquired as to what he wanted.

“Well ma’am, I am a representative from the Ministry of Magic here to explain to you about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It’s tradition that we send someone to Muggle homes with the acceptance letter-”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Granger stood with her hand on the door, looking affronted. “Is this some sort of practical joke? The Ministry of Magic?”

The man sighed and said that no, it wasn’t a practical joke, and that many Muggles are just as shocked as she to find out that they have been living alongside wizards for centuries.

“Muggles? Wizards? I don’t think - ”

“Let me explain it all to you. May I come in?”

“Well, I - this isn’t the best time . . .” Her refusals sputtered to a halt as he just continued to stand there with the large parchment envelope in his hand. “I suppose . . . for a minute or two . . . Would you like, er, some coffee? . . .” Her voice trailed off meekly.

“Very much so, thank you.” He marched in and settled himself on the freshly vacuumed sofa in the living room.
Hermione continued to stand in the same place she had been when he had said the word ‘magic’. Could this really be happening? Her logical side wouldn’t allow her to believe that this man had any answers, or that there were any answers at all. Magic was impossible. It was something that had been made up by fiction writers with their heads in the clouds. But still . . . there was a small chance. She thought back to her book, lying open on the cutting board.

When her mother returned, balancing a tray laden with coffee, a small pitcher of milk and a stack of mugs, he held out the thick parchment envelope to her. “Welcome to the wizarding world, Mrs. Granger.”

They spent the next two hours listening to him describe a hidden world filled to the brim and overflowing with magic. At first she was skeptical, but then part of Hermione’s brain dared to hope that maybe this was real. She became completely convinced of its authenticity after he explained about the strange occurrences of random magic that young wizards are prone to. It made enough sense that her logical side accepted it, and the rest of her latched onto the idea that she was a witch. She was special. She had never realized how much she needed this explanation. She had always felt like there was something more to her than just book smarts. She accepted the whole story of Hogwarts School, and how they taught young witches and wizards like herself to hone their magical skills, without a single doubt in her mind. It made obvious sense to her that this was the reason why she hadn’t ever fit in at any of the schools that her parents had sent her to, no matter how expensive.

Her mother, however, sat there for a long time after he had left, just staring at the official-looking letter in her hand, party preparations completely forgotten. In her other hand she held the written note of instructions of how to get to a place Diagon Alley, where apparently they had to go to buy her spell books and other school things. And a wand. A wand.

Mrs. Granger shook her head then looked up at her daughter. And suddenly she wanted it all to be true, no matter how fanciful it seemed. The look of pure joy and excitement on Hermione’s face was so unfamiliar, so new on the usually serious face. Mrs. Granger wanted this all to be real just so she could see that look there forever.