HP Fic: Those Who Favor Fire
Title: Those Who Favor Fire
Author: deianaera
Rating: G
Characters: Hermione Granger, Minerva McGonagall
Warnings: None - no DH spoilers here!
Summary: Hermione discovers an unusual talent as a small child. Three years later, it leads her and her parents to a meeting with Professor McGonagall.
Notes: Written as a gift for kerrymdb for hp_summergen on LJ. I apologize for the lack of links. If you recognize it, I don't own it.
Beta'd by the wonderful and awesome leianora!
~*~*~
The very first time Hermione felt magic coursing through her, she was only seven years old. Earlier that day, she got in trouble at school. Even though the other girl, Anna, had started it by calling her a bushy-headed squirrel, Hermione considered that maybe she shouldn’t have called her a ‘hitherto unknown miraculous feat of prestidigitation.’ While Anna did not understand what she had said, her teacher, Mrs. Keller, did. Coming home with a note from her teacher had earned her a week of no reading. For some reason, her mother blamed her love of reading on incidents like this one that occurred in school.
Hermione, being a clever young girl, had a plan. Surreptitiously (she liked that word, it was so big, so adult, and its syllables just rolled off the tongue), she smuggled a flashlight and the novel she was reading, The Hobbit, upstairs to her room and let herself appear meek and humbled by her punishment. Bilbo was playing the riddle game with Gollum and Hermione was desperate to know if he would be able to keep the special ring he’d found. She simply couldn’t wait a week to find out. That night, after brushing her teeth and climbing into bed, she set her small alarm clock so that she would wake after her parents were asleep.
The quiet chirp of her alarm clock woke her out of her fitful, excited sleep. Carefully, she eased the wand-slender flashlight from under her pillow, followed by the soft, worn paperback copy of The Hobbit. Listening as she all but held her breath, waiting to hear any noise that indicated that she had betrayed her plot, she sighed with relief when she heard nothing. Hermione slid the small switch on the flashlight into the ‘on’ position. Nothing happened. Frowning, she moved the switch back and forth several times, the ridged nub of plastic clicking with each change of position. Still, the flashlight refused to turn on. In frustration, Hermione flipped the flashlight over and unscrewed the base. Inside, two small batteries rattled.
Cautiously, she hid the book and the flashlight back under her pillow and crept downstairs. Sneaking through the dark kitchen, Hermione felt her way over to the “odds and ends” drawer, as her father called it. Slowly, she pulled it open, scanning its contents for batteries to replace the dead ones in the flashlight. The only batteries she could find were either too large or too small. Hermione raised her hand to slap the drawer closed angrily, but managed to stop herself at the last second and ease it shut. She moved back upstairs to her room and finally gave in to her pique by flinging herself on the bed.
Pouting and with her arms crossed across her chest, Hermione fumed in the comforts of her mind about how unfair this situation was for her. She had been picked on. She had been humiliated in front of her classmates! She had been forced to suffer the indignities of snickers and stares and mean-spirited taunts all day! This wasn’t fair! All she wanted to do was read her book, but no, that wouldn’t happen because there were no stupid batteries! All she needed was light!
Hermione was muttering to herself now, her arms no longer folded across her chest but waving wildly, the movement serving as a counterpoint for her petulant muttering. When she came to the realization that all she needed was light, she stopped moving her arms and stared at her right hand. There, cupped in her palm, was a tiny ball of blue fire, flickering cheerfully and casting dim light across her bedroom.
Her eyes widened and she cupped the baby flame in her hand and brought it close to her face so she could examine it better. She turned her hand from side to side to see the flame from every angle, noting how it hovered a hair’s width above her palm and not actually touching it. Hermione stuck one finger directly into the flame and felt nothing but a tickling sensation. She placed a strand of her hair in the flame and watched it shrivel in scant seconds.
Hermione giggled and carefully retrieved her book from under her pillow. She could read with one hand and she really did want to know what was going to happen with Bilbo.
~*~*~
Since then, Hermione occasionally summoned pretty blue fire to her hands. It almost always happened when she was upset or angry, but the sight of the flickering blue flame in her hands was enough to calm her. She never told anyone about what she could do, not even her parents. For one, it wasn’t under her control. For another, all of the books she read taught her that being able to call a fire to her hands would mark her as someone dangerous. It was bad enough they called her a bushy haired squirrel!
At ten years old, Hermione knew well how to keep a secret, even from her parents. So, after (yet another) day of being teased and picked on at school, Hermione went straight upstairs to her bedroom, tossed her bag into a corner by her desk, and flung herself across her bed. Alone in her room, she let herself be hurt and angry and waited for the fire to come to her cupped palms. She didn’t have to wait long.
Soon enough, she had her blue flame in her hands. Hermione laughed as she played with it, moving it from hand to hand, spinning it on her fingertips. In the midst of shifting it from her right hand to her left, she heard a knock on the door. Frozen, she could only watch in horror as her mother opened it on the heels of her knock, blue flame suspended between the palms of her hands.
“Hermione, you have a visitor,” Jane said as she stepped into the room. Seeing the blue fire in her daughter’s hands, her steps faltered and she whispered, “Oh my.”
Hermione stared at the fire in her hands and then looked up at her mother’s shocked face. Squishing her palms together, she smothered the flame before looking at her mom again. “Mum, this isn’t…”
“No, no, Hermione, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m…just surprised, that’s all. Come on downstairs, honey, you have a guest.” Jane said, though her voice betrayed her shock. As Hermione walked out of the room, Jane made sure she wrapped an arm around her daughter.
Side by side, they walked downstairs where they found Hermione’s father, David, and older woman who was dressed in a strange green robe and pointed witches hat. Hermione looked at her mom, puzzled.
Jane smiled tremulously and said, “Hermione, this is Professor McGonagall. She’s come to talk to us about a special school for you.”
Hermione nodded to the older woman and said, “Hello.”
McGonagall gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Hello, Miss Granger,” she replied in a stern, precise voice.
Hermione looked at her mother. “You said she was here to talk to me about a special school?”
Jane moved her daughter to sit down. “Yes, she says that you, well, that you’re…”
“A Witch, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall finished.
“I’m a what?” Hermione shrieked and started to stand.
Jane grabbed her daughter’s arm to keep her seated. “It’s true,” she whispered. “It must be. I saw blue fire in your hands and I watched you make it vanish. Hermione, please, listen to what Professor McGonagall has to say.”
Hermione settled on the couch again and looked at - through, really - this ‘Professor.’ “So what’s this about a school?” Hermione asked suspiciously.
McGonagall looked at Hermione’s parents and said, “Forgive me, Mr., Mrs. Granger, but I think this may be a bit easier for Hermione if I could speak to her directly. Would you mind if I spoke to her privately?”
Jane looked at her husband and nodded. “You can go out back. It should be fairly private this time of day.”
“Thank you. That shall do nicely. Miss Granger, would you come with me, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said. She stood up and showed Professor McGonagall the way to the backyard.
The small plot of land behind the house was barely large enough for her mother’s garden, but there was a small scrolled bench to the right of the kitchen door where they could sit. Once seated, Hermione looked expectantly at Professor McGonagall.
“Yes, well, Miss Granger, let me begin by asking you some questions. Now, have you ever had something unusual or unexpected happen around you? Something that happened without explanation or cause?”
“Not that I can think of,” Hermione replied after a moment.
“Really, Miss Granger? Then what was it your mother mentioned about fire?” McGonagall replied.
“Oh, well, I…” Hermione fell silent for a moment, then continued, “That comes from me. I mean, from within me. Whenever I get upset, I can make this small blue fire. I never mentioned it to anyone, because I thought they would think I was strange or weird.”
“Only when you’re upset?” Professor McGonagall pressed.
“Yes, it only seems to happen then,” Hermione confirmed.
“Here, child, give me your hands.”
Hermione complied, holding out her hands as though she was ready to receive a gift.
“Now, close your eyes and feel the fire in your hands. Picture it there, just how it is when you call it.”
As she spoke, McGonagall wrapped her hands around Hermione’s, and focused on the empty palms. After a moment’s intense silence, a tiny bead of blue fire appeared in Hermione’s hands. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at Professor McGonagall in awe.
“But, how…”
Professor McGonagall smiled fully, giving her normally stern face a deep kindness. “This is magic, Hermione. Your ability to call this fire is what makes you one of us: a Witch.”
Hermione looked at her, blue fire still flickering in the heart of her hand. “So, why am I a Witch? What about my family? Are they all Witches too? And how is it that I’ve never heard of this school before? And what about-“
Professor McGonagall raised her hand and Hermione fell silent in mid-question. “One question at a time, Miss Granger! I assure you, I will answer as much of your questions as I am able. Now what would you like to know first?”
“Well, you said I am one of you. What does that mean, exactly?” Hermione asked.
“Witches and Wizards are different than non-magical people, who we usually refer to as ‘Muggles’. Someone like you, a Witch born into a family of Muggles, is somewhat unusual, though not as rare as it used to be…” Professor McGonagall began, explaining to Hermione the basics of the magical world.
~*~*~
An hour later, the sun was beginning to set and blue flame no longer glowed in Hermione’s hand. She showed Professor McGonagall back into the living room and sat down beside her anxious parents.
“Oh, Mum, Dad, I have to go to Hogwarts!” Hermione exclaimed after she sat down. “It’s the only school for me!”
Jane smiled tremulously; David Granger, on the other hand, frowned. “Now, wait a second, Hermione. Let your mother and me hear what Professor McGonagall has to say.”
Hermione’s face fell. “But, Daddy-“
“No buts, Hermione. We have some questions for Professor McGonagall.”
“Of course, Mr. Granger. Most parents in this situation do,” McGonagall replied, her stern expression intact once more.
“Now, what is it exactly you teach at this Hogwarts?”
“Hogwarts, or Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, teaches just that: Witchcraft and Wizardry. We teach children who have evidenced magical abilities how to harness and control their abilities as well as how to apply them in a variety of fields, including Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration.”
“Charms? Potions? Transfiguration? What about math or science, or history?”
Professor McGonagall blinked for a minute. Usually, in these meetings, they first question was usually, “What’s Transfiguration?” not “What about math?” Thinking for a moment, Professor McGonagall drew her wand from her sleeve and pointed at the Granger’s coffee table. “Wingardium Leviosa,” she said with quiet authority.
The coffee table - a heavy, wooden, and solid affair with plenty of book and magazines resting upon it - rose smoothly into the air until it hovered a foot shy of the ceiling. Hermione and her mother stared at the floating furniture; David sputtered at the site. McGonagall’s lips twitched and she had the coffee table spin and move about the room before she ended the spell and had it settle back upon the carpet without disturbing a single page in any of the books resting atop it.
“Non-magical, or Muggle as we call it, science does not have much of a place in the Wizarding world,” Professor McGonagall said after her demonstration, sheathing her wand inside her sleeve once more.
“What…what about math?”
“As our students are between the ages of eleven and eighteen, we do not teach arithmetic. Higher level Muggle mathematics are not taught; they are designed to be applied toward science, after all. However, a branch of math designed to apply to the Wizarding world, Arithmancy, is available to students from their third year onward.”
“And history?”
Professor McGonagall, who answered the last question smoothly, hesitated for a moment. This, in her opinion, was one of the hardest moments in these discussions. “Mr. Granger, please understand, children like Hermione, who are from the Muggle - non-magical - world, upon becoming adults, often choose to stay within the magical world. Few maintain lives in both and fewer still reject the Wizarding world out of hand. Hogwarts prepares its students to function within Wizarding society. We teach our history, we teach our ways, we teach our skills. While I understand that hearing that we do not offer Muggle history or science or math or literature can be very upsetting for you, please consider this: we are offering your daughter an unparalleled opportunity to develop into the person she was meant to be.
“Hermione is a Witch. Not sending her to Hogwarts will do her more harm than good, I assure you. Her abilities have been ‘leaking’ out for quite some time. For years now, she has been able to conjure fires when upset. Without teaching in an environment like Hogwarts, these slips of magic will only continue in frequency and intensity. The results are universally poor. It is for this reason that Hogwarts seeks out children like Hermione to teach them.”
Professor McGonagall rose and drew a slip of folded parchment from her wand sleeve. “Here, Mr. Granger. If you are interested in learning more about Hogwarts or have any questions, please, follow the instructions on this parchment to contact me directly. I look forward to hearing from you.”
She turned to leave. As she reached the front door, she saw Hermione coming after her. Motioning to the young girl, she let them both outside on the front stoop.
“Oh, Professor McGonagall, can’t I come with you?”
“Hermione, that is not my decision to make. That is for your parents to decide. I will tell you this, though: this is a shock to them. Be patient and understanding and I am sure that they will see what is best for you.”
“But…but…“ Hermione stammered.
“I will tell you one other thing: when I was young, not much younger than you are now, I also could call a fire to me. Like yours, it was blue. I called it Bluebell Flame, because it reminded me of the bluebells that grew near my home. It took time, though for me to learn to call them when I wanted them, not only when I was upset. Think on that, child.”
Professor McGonagall looked right and left, like she was about to cross the street, then with a loud noise, she vanished. Staring at the spot where Professor McGonagall had stood, Hermione set her chin. She was going to Hogwarts.
Author: deianaera
Rating: G
Characters: Hermione Granger, Minerva McGonagall
Warnings: None - no DH spoilers here!
Summary: Hermione discovers an unusual talent as a small child. Three years later, it leads her and her parents to a meeting with Professor McGonagall.
Notes: Written as a gift for kerrymdb for hp_summergen on LJ. I apologize for the lack of links. If you recognize it, I don't own it.
Beta'd by the wonderful and awesome leianora!
~*~*~
The very first time Hermione felt magic coursing through her, she was only seven years old. Earlier that day, she got in trouble at school. Even though the other girl, Anna, had started it by calling her a bushy-headed squirrel, Hermione considered that maybe she shouldn’t have called her a ‘hitherto unknown miraculous feat of prestidigitation.’ While Anna did not understand what she had said, her teacher, Mrs. Keller, did. Coming home with a note from her teacher had earned her a week of no reading. For some reason, her mother blamed her love of reading on incidents like this one that occurred in school.
Hermione, being a clever young girl, had a plan. Surreptitiously (she liked that word, it was so big, so adult, and its syllables just rolled off the tongue), she smuggled a flashlight and the novel she was reading, The Hobbit, upstairs to her room and let herself appear meek and humbled by her punishment. Bilbo was playing the riddle game with Gollum and Hermione was desperate to know if he would be able to keep the special ring he’d found. She simply couldn’t wait a week to find out. That night, after brushing her teeth and climbing into bed, she set her small alarm clock so that she would wake after her parents were asleep.
The quiet chirp of her alarm clock woke her out of her fitful, excited sleep. Carefully, she eased the wand-slender flashlight from under her pillow, followed by the soft, worn paperback copy of The Hobbit. Listening as she all but held her breath, waiting to hear any noise that indicated that she had betrayed her plot, she sighed with relief when she heard nothing. Hermione slid the small switch on the flashlight into the ‘on’ position. Nothing happened. Frowning, she moved the switch back and forth several times, the ridged nub of plastic clicking with each change of position. Still, the flashlight refused to turn on. In frustration, Hermione flipped the flashlight over and unscrewed the base. Inside, two small batteries rattled.
Cautiously, she hid the book and the flashlight back under her pillow and crept downstairs. Sneaking through the dark kitchen, Hermione felt her way over to the “odds and ends” drawer, as her father called it. Slowly, she pulled it open, scanning its contents for batteries to replace the dead ones in the flashlight. The only batteries she could find were either too large or too small. Hermione raised her hand to slap the drawer closed angrily, but managed to stop herself at the last second and ease it shut. She moved back upstairs to her room and finally gave in to her pique by flinging herself on the bed.
Pouting and with her arms crossed across her chest, Hermione fumed in the comforts of her mind about how unfair this situation was for her. She had been picked on. She had been humiliated in front of her classmates! She had been forced to suffer the indignities of snickers and stares and mean-spirited taunts all day! This wasn’t fair! All she wanted to do was read her book, but no, that wouldn’t happen because there were no stupid batteries! All she needed was light!
Hermione was muttering to herself now, her arms no longer folded across her chest but waving wildly, the movement serving as a counterpoint for her petulant muttering. When she came to the realization that all she needed was light, she stopped moving her arms and stared at her right hand. There, cupped in her palm, was a tiny ball of blue fire, flickering cheerfully and casting dim light across her bedroom.
Her eyes widened and she cupped the baby flame in her hand and brought it close to her face so she could examine it better. She turned her hand from side to side to see the flame from every angle, noting how it hovered a hair’s width above her palm and not actually touching it. Hermione stuck one finger directly into the flame and felt nothing but a tickling sensation. She placed a strand of her hair in the flame and watched it shrivel in scant seconds.
Hermione giggled and carefully retrieved her book from under her pillow. She could read with one hand and she really did want to know what was going to happen with Bilbo.
~*~*~
Since then, Hermione occasionally summoned pretty blue fire to her hands. It almost always happened when she was upset or angry, but the sight of the flickering blue flame in her hands was enough to calm her. She never told anyone about what she could do, not even her parents. For one, it wasn’t under her control. For another, all of the books she read taught her that being able to call a fire to her hands would mark her as someone dangerous. It was bad enough they called her a bushy haired squirrel!
At ten years old, Hermione knew well how to keep a secret, even from her parents. So, after (yet another) day of being teased and picked on at school, Hermione went straight upstairs to her bedroom, tossed her bag into a corner by her desk, and flung herself across her bed. Alone in her room, she let herself be hurt and angry and waited for the fire to come to her cupped palms. She didn’t have to wait long.
Soon enough, she had her blue flame in her hands. Hermione laughed as she played with it, moving it from hand to hand, spinning it on her fingertips. In the midst of shifting it from her right hand to her left, she heard a knock on the door. Frozen, she could only watch in horror as her mother opened it on the heels of her knock, blue flame suspended between the palms of her hands.
“Hermione, you have a visitor,” Jane said as she stepped into the room. Seeing the blue fire in her daughter’s hands, her steps faltered and she whispered, “Oh my.”
Hermione stared at the fire in her hands and then looked up at her mother’s shocked face. Squishing her palms together, she smothered the flame before looking at her mom again. “Mum, this isn’t…”
“No, no, Hermione, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m…just surprised, that’s all. Come on downstairs, honey, you have a guest.” Jane said, though her voice betrayed her shock. As Hermione walked out of the room, Jane made sure she wrapped an arm around her daughter.
Side by side, they walked downstairs where they found Hermione’s father, David, and older woman who was dressed in a strange green robe and pointed witches hat. Hermione looked at her mom, puzzled.
Jane smiled tremulously and said, “Hermione, this is Professor McGonagall. She’s come to talk to us about a special school for you.”
Hermione nodded to the older woman and said, “Hello.”
McGonagall gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Hello, Miss Granger,” she replied in a stern, precise voice.
Hermione looked at her mother. “You said she was here to talk to me about a special school?”
Jane moved her daughter to sit down. “Yes, she says that you, well, that you’re…”
“A Witch, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall finished.
“I’m a what?” Hermione shrieked and started to stand.
Jane grabbed her daughter’s arm to keep her seated. “It’s true,” she whispered. “It must be. I saw blue fire in your hands and I watched you make it vanish. Hermione, please, listen to what Professor McGonagall has to say.”
Hermione settled on the couch again and looked at - through, really - this ‘Professor.’ “So what’s this about a school?” Hermione asked suspiciously.
McGonagall looked at Hermione’s parents and said, “Forgive me, Mr., Mrs. Granger, but I think this may be a bit easier for Hermione if I could speak to her directly. Would you mind if I spoke to her privately?”
Jane looked at her husband and nodded. “You can go out back. It should be fairly private this time of day.”
“Thank you. That shall do nicely. Miss Granger, would you come with me, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said. She stood up and showed Professor McGonagall the way to the backyard.
The small plot of land behind the house was barely large enough for her mother’s garden, but there was a small scrolled bench to the right of the kitchen door where they could sit. Once seated, Hermione looked expectantly at Professor McGonagall.
“Yes, well, Miss Granger, let me begin by asking you some questions. Now, have you ever had something unusual or unexpected happen around you? Something that happened without explanation or cause?”
“Not that I can think of,” Hermione replied after a moment.
“Really, Miss Granger? Then what was it your mother mentioned about fire?” McGonagall replied.
“Oh, well, I…” Hermione fell silent for a moment, then continued, “That comes from me. I mean, from within me. Whenever I get upset, I can make this small blue fire. I never mentioned it to anyone, because I thought they would think I was strange or weird.”
“Only when you’re upset?” Professor McGonagall pressed.
“Yes, it only seems to happen then,” Hermione confirmed.
“Here, child, give me your hands.”
Hermione complied, holding out her hands as though she was ready to receive a gift.
“Now, close your eyes and feel the fire in your hands. Picture it there, just how it is when you call it.”
As she spoke, McGonagall wrapped her hands around Hermione’s, and focused on the empty palms. After a moment’s intense silence, a tiny bead of blue fire appeared in Hermione’s hands. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at Professor McGonagall in awe.
“But, how…”
Professor McGonagall smiled fully, giving her normally stern face a deep kindness. “This is magic, Hermione. Your ability to call this fire is what makes you one of us: a Witch.”
Hermione looked at her, blue fire still flickering in the heart of her hand. “So, why am I a Witch? What about my family? Are they all Witches too? And how is it that I’ve never heard of this school before? And what about-“
Professor McGonagall raised her hand and Hermione fell silent in mid-question. “One question at a time, Miss Granger! I assure you, I will answer as much of your questions as I am able. Now what would you like to know first?”
“Well, you said I am one of you. What does that mean, exactly?” Hermione asked.
“Witches and Wizards are different than non-magical people, who we usually refer to as ‘Muggles’. Someone like you, a Witch born into a family of Muggles, is somewhat unusual, though not as rare as it used to be…” Professor McGonagall began, explaining to Hermione the basics of the magical world.
~*~*~
An hour later, the sun was beginning to set and blue flame no longer glowed in Hermione’s hand. She showed Professor McGonagall back into the living room and sat down beside her anxious parents.
“Oh, Mum, Dad, I have to go to Hogwarts!” Hermione exclaimed after she sat down. “It’s the only school for me!”
Jane smiled tremulously; David Granger, on the other hand, frowned. “Now, wait a second, Hermione. Let your mother and me hear what Professor McGonagall has to say.”
Hermione’s face fell. “But, Daddy-“
“No buts, Hermione. We have some questions for Professor McGonagall.”
“Of course, Mr. Granger. Most parents in this situation do,” McGonagall replied, her stern expression intact once more.
“Now, what is it exactly you teach at this Hogwarts?”
“Hogwarts, or Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, teaches just that: Witchcraft and Wizardry. We teach children who have evidenced magical abilities how to harness and control their abilities as well as how to apply them in a variety of fields, including Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration.”
“Charms? Potions? Transfiguration? What about math or science, or history?”
Professor McGonagall blinked for a minute. Usually, in these meetings, they first question was usually, “What’s Transfiguration?” not “What about math?” Thinking for a moment, Professor McGonagall drew her wand from her sleeve and pointed at the Granger’s coffee table. “Wingardium Leviosa,” she said with quiet authority.
The coffee table - a heavy, wooden, and solid affair with plenty of book and magazines resting upon it - rose smoothly into the air until it hovered a foot shy of the ceiling. Hermione and her mother stared at the floating furniture; David sputtered at the site. McGonagall’s lips twitched and she had the coffee table spin and move about the room before she ended the spell and had it settle back upon the carpet without disturbing a single page in any of the books resting atop it.
“Non-magical, or Muggle as we call it, science does not have much of a place in the Wizarding world,” Professor McGonagall said after her demonstration, sheathing her wand inside her sleeve once more.
“What…what about math?”
“As our students are between the ages of eleven and eighteen, we do not teach arithmetic. Higher level Muggle mathematics are not taught; they are designed to be applied toward science, after all. However, a branch of math designed to apply to the Wizarding world, Arithmancy, is available to students from their third year onward.”
“And history?”
Professor McGonagall, who answered the last question smoothly, hesitated for a moment. This, in her opinion, was one of the hardest moments in these discussions. “Mr. Granger, please understand, children like Hermione, who are from the Muggle - non-magical - world, upon becoming adults, often choose to stay within the magical world. Few maintain lives in both and fewer still reject the Wizarding world out of hand. Hogwarts prepares its students to function within Wizarding society. We teach our history, we teach our ways, we teach our skills. While I understand that hearing that we do not offer Muggle history or science or math or literature can be very upsetting for you, please consider this: we are offering your daughter an unparalleled opportunity to develop into the person she was meant to be.
“Hermione is a Witch. Not sending her to Hogwarts will do her more harm than good, I assure you. Her abilities have been ‘leaking’ out for quite some time. For years now, she has been able to conjure fires when upset. Without teaching in an environment like Hogwarts, these slips of magic will only continue in frequency and intensity. The results are universally poor. It is for this reason that Hogwarts seeks out children like Hermione to teach them.”
Professor McGonagall rose and drew a slip of folded parchment from her wand sleeve. “Here, Mr. Granger. If you are interested in learning more about Hogwarts or have any questions, please, follow the instructions on this parchment to contact me directly. I look forward to hearing from you.”
She turned to leave. As she reached the front door, she saw Hermione coming after her. Motioning to the young girl, she let them both outside on the front stoop.
“Oh, Professor McGonagall, can’t I come with you?”
“Hermione, that is not my decision to make. That is for your parents to decide. I will tell you this, though: this is a shock to them. Be patient and understanding and I am sure that they will see what is best for you.”
“But…but…“ Hermione stammered.
“I will tell you one other thing: when I was young, not much younger than you are now, I also could call a fire to me. Like yours, it was blue. I called it Bluebell Flame, because it reminded me of the bluebells that grew near my home. It took time, though for me to learn to call them when I wanted them, not only when I was upset. Think on that, child.”
Professor McGonagall looked right and left, like she was about to cross the street, then with a loud noise, she vanished. Staring at the spot where Professor McGonagall had stood, Hermione set her chin. She was going to Hogwarts.