11This is a story on how Hermione might have first started to do... odd things. Just a note: the idea for this is not mine, I found it on the web. So it is not mine. All rights to the person who came up with it. However, it was such a cool headcanon that I borrowed it, and wrote a little story. Please review!
Disclaimer: None of the books or characters referenced in this story belong to me.
On Friday afternoon after school, Hermione Granger and her mother visited the library, just as they did every Friday afternoon. For while Hermione had an extensive collection of books at home, she always loved borrowing new stories to take home and read.
Her mother was always mildly concerned when Hermione insisted in borrowing from the adult's section, instead of the childrens (but mommy, the adults books are so much more thought-provoking!). However, she reassured herself by doing a severe check for inappropriate content in Hermione's books of choice – not that there ever was a lot wrong in Dickens, Austen, and Tolstoy.
For the past week, Hermione's mother and her husband had been seriously discussing Hermione's reading habit. They had come to the conclusion that whilst reading heavy classics was a brilliant hobby, it would perhaps be best if Hermione would read some books that other eight year old girls were reading. This was also slightly influenced by Hermione's latest school report: "A brilliant, diligent student with great potential. She is, however, sadly lacking in social skills."
On this particular Friday afternoon, Hermione was just about to race off towards the classics section, when her mother stopped her. "Sweetie, don't you think it would be nice to borrow some books from the childrens section this week?"
"But mommy, I was going to read Nickolas Nickleby this week!" protested Hermione. "I've been waiting three weeks for Mrs Hudgerson to bring it in!"
"Yes, you can borrow that one too," said her mother, "But your father and I have been talking, and we think it would be best if you could read a few more... modern books."
Hermione considered. "I suppose it would be good to read some more modern works... Perhaps an Agatha Christie?"
"Childrens section, now," instructed her mother, firmly leading her daughter towards the lower shelves.
Hermione sat on a bright pink beanbag, holding her bushy hair out of her face as she leaned over a large copy of Aesop's Fables. Her mother was searching through the shelves, occasionally adding to the growing pile in the trolley. Finally she returned to The Reading Corner, and began to take out the books one by one.
"How about this one?" she said, holding up a Secret Seven.
"I read that when I was four, mommy," Hermione said matter of factly. "And besides, Enid Blyton writes books that are very childish. I am not really sure that I like her writing style. And her boy characters always bully the girls."
Hermione's mother raised her eyebrows, but put the book to the side. "How about this?" She held up The Polar Express.
"Read it," said Hermione shortly.
"Charlotte's Web?"
"Read it."
"Ballet Shoes?"
"Read it."
"The Horse and His Boy?"
"Mommy, I've read that entire series at least ten times," protested Hermione.
"Come on, there's got to be something here that you haven't read," said her mother, exasperatedly.
Hermione searched through the large pile. Then she pulled Matilda, by Roald Dahl. "I haven't read this one," she said triumphantly. Then she turned it over, and read the back.
"Good, we'll get that one then," said her mother, quite relieved. Hermione nodded, and added the book to the pile, before skipping off to the adult's section.
As soon as the two arrived home, Hermione dragged her heavy library bag upstairs. Then she sat down, and sorted through her books. She stopped at Matilda. It looked quite childish, but she knew her mother would insist that she read it. Might as well get it over with.
Hermione plonked down in her blue reading beanbag, and began to read Matilda.
She was enthralled immediately. How could she not be – it felt like it was made for her. A small, bookish, smart young girl, who also had a cheeky streak in her, ready to fight for her rights. Hermione was called for tea three times before she noticed, and even then delayed in dragging herself from the book. Her mother had to actually come upstairs to get her.
Straight after tea, Hermione was back in her room, with a mug of cocoa, gobbling up Matilda. When she came to the part where The Trunchbull was having a class inspection, Hermione was so angry that she had to put the book down and run around her room several times to calm down.
When she came back to the book, Matilda was focusing very hard on the cup that Lavender had set out for the headmistress. Suddenly, it had tipped over, without anyone touching it.
Now, this was ridiculous, thought Hermione. Cups don't just fall over like that. What a spoiling of a good book. However, such a huge plot hole did not stop Hermione from continuing to read the story. When Matilda tipped the cup over again for her teacher, Miss Honey, Hermione was less annoyed than she had been before, as she was so enthralled in the story. Soon she was not even thinking about the problems with the book; she was simply reading.
When Matilda came home and began to practice her cup-tipping-over-skills, Hermione was thoughtful. She was remembering the time, last year, where her cup had fallen over at the table, and yet she had been sure she had not been touching it. Her mother had thought otherwise.
Just as Matilda lay back on her bed, exhausted from all of the practicing she had done, on impulse Hermione looked away from the book, and focused very hard on her now empty mug of cocoa. She pushed with all her might, and there, suddenly, it was lying on its side.
Hermione did not dare to breathe.
It had happened as suddenly as she had thought about it.
Was it true? Could she really control things with her mind, just like Matilda?
She tried to move the mug again, but this time, nothing happened. Perhaps she had imagined it. But there was the mug, on its side. She couldn't have imagined it.
Hermione shook her head vigorously, then looked at the mug again. It was still on its side.
Hermione took a deep breath, then prodded the mug with one finger. It rolled over to its other side. With another deep breath, she picked it up and put it upright. She tried to push it over with her eyes, but yet again, nothing happened.
Hermione was thoughtful. Looking at it logically, such a thing was impossible. She picked up the mug and looked hard at it. It was a simple white mug, with no markings, except a small chip on the bottom. It was perfectly ordinary. Logically, and practically, it was impossible to move a mug without the use of one's hands.
She carefully carried the mug downstairs to the kitchen, and set it on the kitchen bench. "How are you enjoying Matilda?" called her mother from the living room.
"I just finished it," lied Hermione. "It was an... interesting book."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," smiled her mother, quite pleased. "Would you like to read another by Roald Dahl?"
"No," called Hermione, as she hurried back up the stairs. "It's complicating my life. Don't get me any more."
The book was not read again. Hermione put it back in her library bag, and it was not taken out until she returned it back to the library the next Friday. She always remembered what that book had caused her to do. But borrow it from the library she would not, and though her mother made her read at least one modern book a week, Hermione refused to read any more Roald Dahl's.
But even with the avoidance of Roald Dahl's books, Hermione still occasionally did strange things. Like the time she was swinging too hard on the swing set, and flew straight off, but instead of falling hard on the ground, she slowly floated down in a wide arc. Or the other time, when the neighbour's cat turned bright pink after Hermione had patted it. Or the time when she had accidentally pushed the entire shopping bag, which was full of egg cartons, over the balcony railing – but miraculously, all of the eggs had stayed intact. None of these odd circumstances had anything to do with Matilda, or Roald Dahl. But Hermione still avoided his books. They had, after all, begun all of her strange doings.
As much as she found her strange doings... rather strange, Hermione chose to keep them to herself. She explained them away by accidents, or once in a lifetime occurrences. She seemed to have a lot of those. But she didn't think about it often, and simply continued her normal, everyday, ordinary life.
Until the day an owl flew in their front window.