The woman's gaze was as sharp and unyielding as her posture. It was an assessing look, one that seemed to see past the simple facade of a suburban home and its inhabitants.
"Miss Hermione Granger?" she asked, her voice crisp, with a faint Scottish burr.
Hermione gave a small, polite nod. Before any more could be said, her parents arrived in the hall behind her, their conversation fading as they took in the severe-looking stranger at their door.
"Can we help you?" her father asked, his tone cautious.
"Perhaps it would be best if we spoke inside," the woman replied, her gaze sweeping over them before settling back on Hermione.
The scene shifted to the living room, the atmosphere thick with a tense, uncertain silence. The woman sat perfectly straight in an armchair, a stark, emerald-robed figure against the comfortable, mundane backdrop of the Granger household.
"My name is Minerva McGonagall," she began, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I am the Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to offer Miss Granger a place at our institution."
The words dropped into the quiet room like stones into a still pond. Her parents stared, their faces a perfect, comical portrait of dumbfounded disbelief. Hermione, for her part, allowed her own expression to mirror theirs, letting her jaw go slack and her eyes widen in a flawless performance of shock.
Professor McGonagall observed their reactions with a practiced, weary patience. "I can see you don't believe me," she said with a thin, humourless smile. "I find that a practical demonstration is often the most efficient way to proceed."
She drew her wand, gestured towards the solid oak coffee table that sat between them.
The change was instantaneous and impossible, at least for the Granger parents. The wood did not crack or splinter; it seemed to melt, its form flowing with a liquid grace. Legs shortened and thickened, the flat top humped and rounded, and in the space of a single, silent second, a large, snorting pig stood where the table had been, blinking its small, confused eyes. Before her parents could even scream, another gesture had the pig dissolving, its form stretching and flattening into a large, ornate mirror that reflected their own stunned faces. A final, sharp flick of McGonagall's wrist, and the mirror collapsed back into the familiar, solid shape of their coffee table, not a single coaster out of place.
The silence that followed was broken by her mother's sharp, terrified gasp. Her father looked as if he might faint. Hermione watched them, her feigned shock still perfectly in place, nothing but a facade.
Her parents began to stammer, a flood of panicked, overlapping questions. McGonagall held up a hand, and the sheer force of her authority commanded silence.
"Magic is real," she stated simply. "And your daughter possesses it. For centuries, our world has remained hidden from the non-magical populace, for the safety of both our communities. The history of the witch hunts taught us the necessity of secrecy."
She calmly explained the existence of their hidden world, of the Ministry of Magic, and of Hogwarts itself. When her parents' initial panic had subsided into a state of stunned, grudging acceptance, McGonagall turned her sharp gaze back to Hermione.
"Miss Granger, have you ever experienced anything… unusual? Made things happen when you were angry or frightened, things you couldn't explain?"
Hermione tilted her head, a perfect picture of a child seriously considering a question. She let the silence stretch for a moment before shaking her head. "No, Professor. Nothing that I can recall."
McGonagall's left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch, a flicker of genuine surprise. "Indeed?" she said, her tone laced with a new note of clinical interest. "Well, not to worry. It is not unheard of. You wouldn't be on my list if you weren't magical."
She reached into her robes and produced a thick envelope of yellowish parchment. The address was written in familiar emerald-green ink:
Miss H. Granger,
The Second Largest Bedroom,
12 Heathgate, Hampstead Garden Suburb,London
Hermione took it, her fingers brushing the heavy parchment. As her parents asked the inevitable question of how they could possibly know all of this, McGonagall began to explain the quaint, ancient magic of the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance. Hermione was only half-listening, the details already known to her. Her focus was on the letter in her hands. A genuine, unexpected thrill shot through her, a ghost of the boy she had been, the boy who had dreamed of this very moment while reading late into the night.
She broke the wax seal.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,Deputy Headmistress
The second page contained the familiar list of robes, books, and equipment. Her parents' conversation with the professor faded into a dull background hum as she scanned the requirements. The reality of it was finally sinking in. The mission was beginning.
"…if you'll excuse us for a moment, Professor," her mother was saying, her voice regaining some of its strength. "My husband and I would like to discuss this with our daughter. Privately."
McGonagall gave a curt, understanding nod.
In the kitchen, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Her father paced while her mother wrung her hands.
"Hermione," her mother began, "what do you think of all this? A school for… magic?"
"I know it's a shock," Hermione said softly, reaching out to take her mother's hand. "But I don't think we should say no without at least seeing it for ourselves. She offered to take us to get the supplies. We could go, have a look around, and learn more. If it's not what she says, or if we feel it's dangerous, we can just come home and that will be the end of it. We're not committing to anything. We'd just be… looking. There's no harm in that, is there?"
Her rational, low-risk framing of the situation seemed to soothe their frayed nerves. They looked at each other, and a silent agreement passed between them. They trusted their daughter.
They returned to the living room. "We've discussed it," her father announced, his voice firm. "We will allow Hermione to attend."
A rare, small smile touched Professor McGonagall's lips. "A wise decision. I will return in three days' time to escort you to Diagon Alley to purchase Miss Granger's school supplies."
"Won't you stay for lunch, Professor?" her mother offered, the ingrained politeness a small anchor of normalcy in a sea of madness.
"Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Granger, but I have other business to attend to," McGonagall said, rising to her feet. She gave them a final, sharp nod. "I will see you on Friday."
And with a loud CRACK that made both her parents jump violently, she vanished on the spot.
"What the fuck!?" Her father sweared. Even her mother was too much in shock to reprimand him.