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The two days that followed Professor McGonagall's explosive departure were a study in managed chaos. The Granger household, once a bastion of quiet, suburban normalcy, was now thick with a low-humming current of anxiety and disbelief. Her parents moved through the house like ghosts, starting conversations that trailed off into silence, picking up objects only to put them down again. They were adrift in a new, unbelievable reality, and Hermione was their only anchor.
She played the part of the calm, curious child flawlessly, managing their fears with a strategic patience that belied her years. She answered their endless, looping questions with logical reassurances and steered their panicked speculations toward practical considerations.
In the solitude of her room, however, with the door locked and the curtains drawn, her mind focused on the upcoming mission. In the center of the room, a faint, shimmering hologram hung in the air: a three-dimensional map constructed from the vivid memories of a story she had read a lifetime ago. The winding cobblestone street glowed with a soft, indigo light.
She mentally walked through the plan, her will causing different parts of the light illusion to brighten in sequence. First, Gringotts. The priority was a simple, clean currency exchange. Nothing more for now. Then, Flourish and Blotts. She cataloged the required first-year textbooks in her mind. She'd keep an eye out for any interesting foundational texts on magical theory, but there was no need to go overboard; the Hogwarts library would be a far more comprehensive resource. After that, the Apothecary for the standard potion kit, and then the other required equipment. It was a simple, logical progression.
The hologram was less a battle plan and more a simple, visual checklist. It allowed her to organize the day in her head, ensuring a smooth, efficient trip that would minimize stress on her already frayed parents.
On Friday morning, the tension in the house was a palpable thing. Her mother had made a full English breakfast, a classic comfort food offensive against the encroaching madness. Her father was triple-checking his wallet, as if the amount of cash inside could somehow prepare him for what was to come.
Hermione sat at the table with only a small bowl of porridge and a glass of water.
"Is that all you're having, sweetie?" her mother asked, her voice tight with concern. "You need your strength today."
Hermione looked up from her bowl, offering a small, reassuring smile. "It's fine, Mum. I was just thinking about how Professor McGonagall left." She tapped her fork against the table. "That was some form of spatial displacement, like folding space to create a temporary wormhole. The kind of intense pressure and squeezing that would involve… it certainly wouldn't be pleasant on the inner ear, let alone a full stomach. Besides," she added with a shrug, "I doubt we're travelling by normal means today."
Her father nodded slowly, the logic, however strange, cutting through his anxiety. In a bizarre way, hearing his daughter calmly dissect the physics of teleportation was a comfort. It was her being her normal self, and in this profoundly abnormal situation, that was the most reassuring thing in the world.
"She has a point, Jean," he said, pushing his own plate of sausages and eggs away. "Toast and tea will be fine for me."
Her mother looked from Hermione's calm face to her husband's, and a small, grateful smile touched her lips. She followed suit, opting for a much lighter breakfast.
The sharp ringing of the doorbell snapped her parents out their worry induced pacing around the house. Before she could start moving, her father had already reached the door. And there, on the other side, stood Professor McGonagall, looking as strict and authoritative as the last time.
Polite words were exchanged before they decided to get a move on. As they all reached the driveway, her mother asked. "Professor, how are we getting to this 'Diagon Alley'? I doubt we would be using normal means to get there, wherever that is?"
McGonagall gave a small smile as she nodded. "Indeed, we would be using a magical transport service known as the Knight Bus."
She raised a single, authoritative hand. "If you would all stand back at the curb."
They complied, watching as she drew her wand and pointed it straight up into the air. With a deafening BANG that seemed to shake the very foundations of the quiet suburban street, a violently purple, triple-decker bus roared into existence from thin air, screeching to a halt just inches from them. Letters of gold spelled out The Knight Bus above the windscreen.
The doors hissed open and a lanky, pimply young man in a conductor's uniform of the same violent purple leaned out. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this morning." Stan, apparently the conductor said, reading from a piece of paper.
Hermione couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. He'sbeen reading that for that at least 3 years, and still can't remember? Hermione thought incredulously, thinking about the familiar scene from year 3 in the books.
"Eleven Sickles per person to the Leaky Cauldron, please," he said in a bored tone.
Professor McGonagall simply dropped a handful of silver Sickles into his outstretched hand. "Four, if you please, Stan."
"Right then," he said, pocketing the coins and gesturing them aboard. Inside, they could see an elderly wizard with thick glasses, Ernie Prang, hunched over the massive steering wheel.
The journey was a chaotic, bone-rattling experience. Inside, mismatched chairs and brass bedsteads slid across the floor with every lurch of the vehicle. Her parents were pale and gripping a brass pole for dear life, their faces a shade of green that clashed horribly with the bus's purple interior as it squeezed through impossible gaps in traffic and jumped between streets with gut-wrenching lurches.
Hermione, however, found it utterly exhilarating. The physics-defying acceleration, the way buildings melted and reformed around them—it was the closest thing to a roller coaster she had ever experienced. All those people who said it was nauseating, clearly don't know what they are missing. This is so much fun.Maybe I am a secret adrenaline junkie, Hermione thought. A flicker of genuine, simple fun, a ghost of a life less complicated, sparked within her.
They disembarked into the grimy normality of Charing Cross Road, her parents really glad to be finally on stationary ground. They were led into the Leaky Cauldron; Hermione had to hold their hand and pull them in, as she felt the muggle repelling ward trying to influence them and send them away. The place smelled of old beer, and dust. As McGonagall tapped the bricks in the back alley and the wall ground open to reveal the bustling street beyond, Hermione felt it.
A sharp, undeniable thrill shot through her, a powerful echo of the boy who had read about this very moment, who had dreamed of this world as his only escape. The emotion was real, a warm current beneath the ice of her analytical mind. It didn't manifest in a gasp or a wide-eyed stare. Instead, it settled into a quiet, humming excitement as her eyes took in the glorious, chaotic reality of Diagon Alley. She saw the crooked shops, the colourful robes, the owls, the sheer, unapologetic magic of it all, and a part of her soul she thought long dormant simply felt… happy.
Her parents were wide-eyed as they took in the bustling market of the Diagon Alley as Professor McGonagall led them to a slanting white marble building, the Gringotts; the Goblin territory. She saw how the guards at the door bowed as they entered, yet she could see the contempt in their eyes. She saw how their eyes narrowed even more as she barely glanced at the threatening little poem they had written.
Inside, the great marble hall was just as she remembered. A goblin teller, perched on a high stool, looked down at them with an air of professional disdain. Her father, looking understandably nervous, approached the counter. The exchange rate was steep – ten pounds to a Galleon, a rate that would have been ruinous in his old life. But now, it was nothing. After he converted an amount of cash that left even Professor McGonagall with a single, sharply raised eyebrow, they emerged back into the sunlight, a heavy bag of wizarding currency clinking in her father's hand.
With their finances secured, the rest of the morning became a blur of activity. Their first stop was Madam Malkin's for robes, a surprisingly quick affair of self-fitting fabrics and magical measuring tapes. Next was the Apothecary, a shop that smelled of bitter herbs and formaldehyde, where they purchased a pristine set of cauldrons, scales, and shimmering crystal vials, all much better than the ones they were supposed to get. After a quick stop for a high end telescope, they finally arrived at Flourish and Blotts.
Even as the cashier was gathering the standard first-year book set, Hermione was already wandering the towering aisles. She moved with quiet purpose, her eyes scanning the spines. She picked up a basic text on Ancient Runes and another on Arithmancy. She flipped through the latter, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. It was just calculus, dressed up in mystical language with different terms for familiar concepts. She added a few dense-looking books on magical theory to her growing pile. She paused by a display of advanced spellbooks, her fingers tracing the title of a book on household charms, before consciously pulling her hand away. The habits of a lifetime spent watching every penny died hard. Why waste money on something she could access for free in the Hogwarts library?
As she placed her stack on the counter next to the first-year set, Professor McGonagall looked at the collection. "With a collection like that, I'm beginning to think the Sorting Hat might place you in Ravenclaw, Miss Granger," she commented, a rare hint of approval in her voice.
Hermione merely hummed in response, not bothering to correct the professor's logical, yet entirely wrong, assumption.
With their shopping complete, only one stop remained. Professor McGonagall led them down the street, past the colourful displays of the pet emporium and the chattering crowds, to a narrow, dusty storefront. The paint was peeling, and a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the window. The sign above read, in flaking gold letters: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
This was it. Not the most critical acquisition, as McGonagall likely believed, but a necessary piece of social camouflage. She didn't need a wand to cast magic, but walking into Hogwarts performing complex spells without one would be like painting a massive target on her back. It would invite scrutiny from Dumbledore, fear from her peers, and unwanted attention from everyone.
She was curious, though. Would it make her casting more efficient? Act as an amplifier?
And, if she was being entirely honest with herself, a part of her thought it would be cool to use one. Over the years, she had found herself to having a taste for certain flair, a quiet theatricality that she'd readily admit had been shaped by a lifetime of consuming stories in her formative years. Her mind's eye briefly conjured an image—not of a movie character, but of herself—casting a spell with a sharp, elegant flourish, the wand an extension of a practiced, dramatic grace.
"Every new student gets their wand from Mr. Ollivander," Professor McGonagall said, her tone indicating the gravity of the stop. "He is the best there is." She gestured towards the entrance. "After you, Miss Granger."
Maybe in Britain, that is. Hermione thought silently but didn't comment.
Hermione gave a small nod and pushed the door open. A faint bell chimed somewhere in the dusty depths of the shop as she stepped across the threshold.