Scribbles from Gift of Darkness
When Hermione was nine years old, she believed that she had read all of the interesting books that existed in her local library. Her father took the opportunity to educate her on nonfiction, on footnotes and introductions and afterwords and the way that he described these literary extras was something that she never forgot. "It's all words, Poppy," he told her. "It's all words that someone poured their heart into, and while there's such a thing as a boring book, there's no such thing as a boring person. And if you look closely, if you take to time to read all the extra bits that were put there for a reason, you'll find that they're sometimes even more interesting than the main text."
Hermione had been an incredulous nine-year-old, but she idolised her father, for so many reasons, including because she saw elements of him in all of her favourite literary characters, and so she made it her mission to imbibe a significant chunk of the nonfiction section. At first she stuck to history books, because they were very close to the storybooks she was used to, but after her first foray into cross-referencing, her afternoons became filled with tables unseen beneath the sprawling pages, an hour spent learning about bicycle repair and two on hippopotamuses and then fifteen-century fashion and architecture. When Hermione was nine years old, she discovered that she loved words, and not just stories, and everything had changed.
---
Hermione's toes curled inside her Mary Janes as the full force of her discovery hit home. She read over pertinent passage again. "If the potion turns pink, congratulations - you're pregnant! If the potion remains clear, there's nothing to keep you from trying again!" Hermione slipped the vial from her pocket. The last step in the brewing process was to add a drop of blood; perhaps she had added an extra drop. That would make it appear pink, wouldn't it? In fact, it was more of a light red than a true pink, and who could trust books like this anyway? She slammed the cover of Two-Hundred and Three Common Ailments and Their Solutions and shoved it away.
"Is now a bad time?"
Hermione started, and turned to see Neville standing at the end of the sofa. "No, not at all, just a bit of homework. What's up?"
"I was just wondering if you had anything for a headache." He tried to smile, and grimaced.
"Yeah, of course." She reached under her shirt collar, and pulled a chain over her head. "Just get it out of my bathroom cabinet; it's the little blue one." When she handed the chain to Neville he saw that there was a small key on the end.
"Thanks, I'll get this right back to you."
Hermione smiled, and glanced back at the book that was the object of her frustrations. "Of course. Anytime, Neville."
Hermione had been an incredulous nine-year-old, but she idolised her father, for so many reasons, including because she saw elements of him in all of her favourite literary characters, and so she made it her mission to imbibe a significant chunk of the nonfiction section. At first she stuck to history books, because they were very close to the storybooks she was used to, but after her first foray into cross-referencing, her afternoons became filled with tables unseen beneath the sprawling pages, an hour spent learning about bicycle repair and two on hippopotamuses and then fifteen-century fashion and architecture. When Hermione was nine years old, she discovered that she loved words, and not just stories, and everything had changed.
---
Hermione's toes curled inside her Mary Janes as the full force of her discovery hit home. She read over pertinent passage again. "If the potion turns pink, congratulations - you're pregnant! If the potion remains clear, there's nothing to keep you from trying again!" Hermione slipped the vial from her pocket. The last step in the brewing process was to add a drop of blood; perhaps she had added an extra drop. That would make it appear pink, wouldn't it? In fact, it was more of a light red than a true pink, and who could trust books like this anyway? She slammed the cover of Two-Hundred and Three Common Ailments and Their Solutions and shoved it away.
"Is now a bad time?"
Hermione started, and turned to see Neville standing at the end of the sofa. "No, not at all, just a bit of homework. What's up?"
"I was just wondering if you had anything for a headache." He tried to smile, and grimaced.
"Yeah, of course." She reached under her shirt collar, and pulled a chain over her head. "Just get it out of my bathroom cabinet; it's the little blue one." When she handed the chain to Neville he saw that there was a small key on the end.
"Thanks, I'll get this right back to you."
Hermione smiled, and glanced back at the book that was the object of her frustrations. "Of course. Anytime, Neville."