Chapter Text
Unreasonable
①
Late August
“Are you certain these are the only resources you have regarding schools in the Highlands?” Hermione asked Rita, the librarian’s assistant situated at the front desk. Rita was a small woman in size and stature with auburn hair curling behind her ears. A lovely set of pink reading glasses perched on the nose of the forty-something year old woman.
“Yes, Hermione. Are you certain you are okay, darling? There are not any 'Hogwarts' schools that I can find anywhere.” Rita cut her eyes to Tom, the media clerk. Tom was a balding man in his fifties with a hankering for Dungeons and Dragons. There was an air of apprehension. Not too long ago, Hermione had made quite a fuss about a missing book in relation to Hellenic times. Nobody likes to deal with Hermione, especially when she is in a rush. The huff of air that Hermione blew out also allowed Rita and Tom to take one. Hermione must have expected the lack of reading materials.
“Fine. Perhaps I’ll need to triple check the Whitley Library…” Hermione continued muttering to herself as she made her way through the library doors onto Kings road to get to the bus stop. Behind her stood the red brick Reading Central Library, a semi-recent replacement to the previous Reading library. Though the project manager utilized the old Reading Abbey stables, which made the venue quite large at four storeys high, the building was still not enough room for books and learning, in Hermione’s eyes.
Hermione didn’t hear Rita and Tom talking about the strange girl. Almost twelve and yet so reserved. The most you will hear from Hermione is a request for a book. Perhaps she would like to be invited to a library event, Rita suggests. Tom thinks she may just like her space.
The sound of the wet pavement being trodden on by rubber became a metronome for Hermione. No answers here, either. What could that letter possibly mean? Certainly not that Hermione should go through a thoroughway that simply doesn’t exist? Of course, she had already checked this platform Nine and… what was it? Three Quarters. Just a slab of bricks! Perhaps, though, a facade? And what of the lack of information on the school just as a whole? Certainly this isn’t normal. A very exclusive private academy, perhaps? But, why?
Possibilities flitter through Hermione’s mind as she makes her way back towards her home in upper Reading. Her eyes travel to the window as the river Thames passes beneath. The sun is in hiding, clouds and fog fill the horizon. It’s nearly Midday. Perhaps, Hermione thinks, it’s just time to take a leap.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
As the bus squeals to a stop on Caversham Park road, Hermione gathers her book and journal into her dusty purple messenger bag. It’s time to talk to the parents again. After that strange woman came to visit two days ago, the Granger family has been in a tizzy. Hermione has been searching all over Reading for any information regarding this “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” to no avail. Sure, the woman showed us her tricks with a glint in her glasses. Hermione didn’t trust her. Hermione didn’t trust many people.
“Helen, I know it is far-fetched, but just listen. That girl used to…” Richard Granger’s muted voice echoed through Caversham, but the sound bounced off Hermione’s earbuds. Head Over Heels by the Cocteau Twins soothed her anxious mind. Her thoughts whirled with the sound of shoegaze, twisting and turning Hermione into a mass of dark brown curls and angst. Sure, Hermione used to be a bit more… expressive with her feelings, but well, what good has that done her?
The Granger home was a sight to behold for any lover of solitude and books. Perhaps, when you add in the Secret Garden-esque surround with the picturesque whitewash brick, the only option is to end up with a child so in love with books that they forget to look up. The ivy crawled up the side of the facade of the home, creeping around the windows and gripping the lip of the roof. Malus Sylvestris, otherwise known as the Crab Apple tree, perch around the yard like precious gifts from Dionysus. Mountain Ash trees speckled throughout, with berries surrounding the crown of the branches in little clusters. The occupants of the home enjoy the sounds of the birds making feasts of the small crimson fruit. Out from underneath the canopy, it will please guests (were there any) to see Ribes Rubrum, or Red Currant, growing near the weathered wooden gate at the front of the lot. The Granger Garden is abundant with gifts for all those in need of them, it would seem.
Hermione trudged under her favorite tree, the Torminalis Glaberrima, better known as the checker tree. The path to the home wasn’t very long, but it did wind a bit. All the better to see the fruit of our labor, Helen would say. Hermione huffed and adjusted the strap of her bag. It is time to talk, now.
As she turned the corner past one of the Crab Apple trees that had been picked a bit clean by an overzealous Richard Granger, the door to the home came into view. It was a bit wonky, as another version of the overzealous Richard decided to take on woodworking with a felled Hazel tree from the park. Helen and Hermione put up with a lot, for you see Richard tends to jump from project to project. At the moment his vex seems to be painting miniature horses. Why, you ask? Well, you would need to speak to the man yourself, for the Granger women find it best to just leave him to it.
“Richard, for the final time, I do not believe that our child was capable of..” Helen’s voice cut off quickly as the front door swooshed open. A swift, unspoken interaction occurred between the adults. Helen gesticulated quite wildly using the universal sign for “lose the evidence,” pointing at the incriminating letter clutched in between Richard’s fingers and throwing her hands in any direction away. Richard, being the loving father and caring husband he is, misses the point entirely. Scratching his occipital bone with his jaw a little loose, Richard doesn’t quite get the memo before his too observant child does.
“I thought I would have had a few minutes to gather my thoughts, but alas; it seems you two thought otherwise. Please, share with the class, Father. What do you believe me to be capable of?” The air around Hermione’s slight frame trembled as she stood before her front door. Her parents were inside by the foyer table, arguing apparently. Hermione ripped her earbuds out, Elizabeth Fraser’s soprano voice cutting off suddenly. Her long curls coiled more tightly, giving the appearance that the cloud of mahogany would erupt shortly, Mount Vesuvius style. Watch out, Malus Sylvestris, the child is due for an eruption.
Richard gave his wife an apologetic glance. Richard Granger was a tall man with a nice mustache and to missus Granger’s constant frustration, unkempt dark and wavy hair. If the man would simply put a brush to it, Helen used to say. But, the Grangers rarely make jokes about messy hair since the incident at Caversham Park Primary. Helen and Hermione believe Hermione to be quite fine, thank you very much; however, Richard argues that she is not doing better. In fact, Richard believes Hermione is so upset that soon she might just combust! He swore he saw the fringes of the letter sizzle slightly in his hand. Oh, the joys of being a unique child.
“Deary, we don’t mean anything by it. We are just concerned for our baby! It’s not really, well, normal–” Richard did in fact catch the point this time, his jaw snapping closed. Too late, again, though.
The letter burst into flames.
“Oh, fiddlesticks, Richard! Now, look at this. Now, how do we even call that.. what was her name? Professor….” Helen flitted through the room, putting out literal fires while tackling the figurative ones as well. The letter was set in the sink to sputter out, while Hermione was gathered into a mostly unwelcome hug by her father.
“I didn’t mean it like that , my dear. It just isn’t common for a girl your age to be able to set paper alight, wouldn’t you agree?” Mister Granger’s placating tone and logical argument reached the young child’s ears.
To be reasonable, one must see reason! Richard Granger would always tell Hermione. Well, it is not very reasonable to suggest that it is common to be able to turn a letter alight, true; However, that does not make what the Professor said factual or reasonable. Though, if Hermione were to ignore her flame-producing tendencies, that may also be unreasonable. Alas.
With a huff, Hermione trods through the entryway of their classical style abode. The ceilings in the home aren’t too terribly high in the entrance, giving a warm, encapsulating feeling. The home almost feels alive and ready to claim the young girl back as she crosses the threshold. Hermione breathes deep. In her mind's eye, she pictures an empty campfire.
Breathe in.
Whoosh.
The flame grows with her breath, but flickers out as she exhales. This technique was taught to Hermione using a lovely written work suggested by Rita at Central on Mindfulness and Meditation for the Troubled Youths. It was a quick, yet somehow dense read. What does it mean to clear one’s mind, anyway?
The air settles around Hermione’s four foot six stature. Her heart rate slows and with it brings calm to the picture frames that had begun to shake a bit. It’s not that Hermione is causing this. No, it is more like the house itself has tried to shake a little sense into Richard Granger.
“Yes, I suppose that is true. I don’t believe that woman is any kind of reasonable professor, though, dad. She probably had some sort of intricate pulley system to levitate that feather, I’m certain of it. Perhaps if I just headed to the Whitley Library, I could find an answ–” Hermione was cut off by an exasperated mother.
“Absolutely not! Darling, I need you to come sit down.” If there was one person who embodied reasonable, it would be Helen Granger. Standing at a deceptive five foot three, Helen seemed slight. Until, that is, she opened her mouth. And what a sight to behold. The woman could debate! Her hair was the same dark mahogany as Hermione’s, though the mother’s was a bit more ringlets and less… well, tangled mass of curls.
Hermione’s eyes rolled their way to the pitch in the ceiling, towards the second floor landing. Oh, how she wished she could just walk up the stairs and flop onto her bed and call the whole thing a wash. But, judging by the look on the matriarch’s face, that was not in the cards on this day. So, using her brain, she walked through the main hallway into the living room. The space did really embody the words living and room.
An arched, white doorway leads into a sanctuary. To the right you will see wrought iron windows creating a lovely view of the garden in the posterior of the home. On the left, there is a smaller bay window with threadbare earthen-home style pillows in warm tones of scarlet and ochre mixed with some lovely shades of sage. Surrounding the window are a couple of velvet Judy chairs with matching dark sage ottomans. Between the two bits of heaven is a warm and inviting fireplace, where a log is already placed in preparation for the cool air that will surely be coming to Reading in the coming weeks. Situated across from the fireplace is a lovely and spacious couch, big enough for three, were one of the Granger’s not so full of angst at the time.
Hermione chooses the Judy chair in the corner of the room, slinging her messenger bag onto the antique hand knotted rug. She props her feet up on the ottoman, crosses her arms across her chest and closes her eyes.
“Proceed.” Hermione intones.
The adults give each other a long suffering glance. The matriarch takes the lead.
“I think we should just try and see what were to happen if we were to follow the woman’s instructions. We can go through this platform Nine and a Half or some such at the correct time supplied on the letter. It would perhaps be a bit foolish to leave open a gate to a magical private school for any such hooligans to access, wouldn’t you agree, darling dear?”
Hermione’s speculative gaze flits between the missus and mister, before settling on the log in the fireplace.
“Acceptable.”
The log in the fireplace catches on fire.