'Maybe it's Greg Wilson bringing back the lawnmower?' thought John as he headed for the door. 'Or those missionaries again…' He couldn't stand them; their beliefs clashed too sharply with his reliance on facts and logic. Today, feeling low, he was even less willing to see them. 'If it's them again, I'll tell them straight out what I think of their stupid faith,' he decided, already braced for a fight, as he threw the door open.
But the words he had prepared to unleash stuck in his throat. A woman in a dark coat and black hat stood before him. A strong wind whipped the edges of her coat, and she held her hat with one hand so it wouldn't fly off. She looked nothing like a missionary, and there was nothing of Greg Wilson about her either.
"Good evening, Mr Granger," the woman said dryly, adjusting her glasses. Her stern look made John feel, for an instant, like a guilty schoolboy called into the headmaster's office. "I came to talk about your daughter, Hermione. May I come in?"
Thrown off by the unexpected turn, John stepped aside to let the stranger into the house. She walked confidently straight into the living room, leaving him no choice but to follow. In his head, questions lit up one after another: 'Who is she? How does she know his name – and his daughter's? What does she want from them?'
When Emma Granger saw the woman enter, she set her book aside and looked at the visitor in puzzlement. In the bright light, John got a clearer view of their unexpected guest: a middle-aged woman with stern features, dressed in a dark robe he had at first taken for an ordinary coat. On her head was a hat of unusual design, more like a pointed cap with wide brim.
The woman stepped inside without hesitation, took off her hat, pulled off her gloves, and said:
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Professor McGonagall."
She paused briefly, looking at Hermione's parents as she smoothed back her dark hair, which was pulled into a tight bun.
"Professor?" John narrowed his eyes slightly. "And… from what you're saying, you've come to talk about Hermione? Did I understand that correctly?"
"That's exactly right, Mr Granger. I've come to discuss her further education." McGonagall inclined her head a little. "May I sit down?"
She raised her eyebrows in question, and John quickly stepped aside, pointing to the nearest armchair.
"Yes, yes, of course!" The words tumbled out faster than usual. "Something hot? Tea? Maybe coffee? The weather outside is…" he glanced at the window, "not the friendliest today."
"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea," the professor replied as she settled into the armchair, placing her gloves neatly on the armrest.
John quickly went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. In truth, he needed the brief pause to get his thoughts in order. A professor, turning up in the evening to discuss Hermione's education. Why? He could not get his last meeting with the Mayor of Oakridge out of his mind: that spiteful stare, those tightly pressed lips. 'It would be just like him to arrange some sort of nasty trick,' John thought, already bracing himself for a fight. With a cup of tea in his hand, he returned to the living room. Emma was sitting in silence, and the look on her face told him she was thinking the same thing. He handed the cup to McGonagall and sat down on the sofa opposite her.
"So, Professor McGonagall," John Granger began, trying to keep his voice calm, "as I understand it, you want to discuss Hermione's studies at Oakridge School. Honestly, I didn't even know our local school had a professor."
"And you were right, Mr Granger," said McGonagall. "I do not teach at the local school."
John blinked in confusion and leant forward slightly.
"So you're not from Oakridge School?" he said, frowning. "Then what exactly do you have to do with Hermione?"
Professor McGonagall adjusted the edge of her robes and looked from one of Hermione's parents to the other.
"I am afraid the school your daughter has moved to is quite unsuitable for her," she replied.
John and Emma froze, exchanged a glance, then both stared at their visitor.
"But why?" Emma was the first to break the silence.
"What are you talking about?" John demanded at once. "Hermione meets every requirement of that school, I'm absolutely sure of it." There was a challenge in his voice now. "And no tricks from the mayor are going to keep her out."
He was ready to reel off dozens of arguments in Hermione's defence, certain that this woman's claims were utterly groundless and that she had a nerve even making them. Expecting dirty tricks from the mayor, John had already gone over the legal side, consulted a lawyer, and was now ready to lay it all out with full confidence that he was right.
"Calm down, Mr Granger," McGonagall's voice stayed even. "Nothing serious has happened. And the mayor of your town, I assure you, has nothing at all to do with our talk."
Then, to everyone's surprise, she turned towards the bedroom door and said, clearly and loudly:
"Miss Granger, there's no need to hide behind the door. I'll be glad if you join us in the living room. This conversation, above all, concerns you."
John and Emma looked at their guest in surprise, then, no less astonished, turned to Hermione, who had appeared in the doorway, looking embarrassed.
A minute earlier she had been sitting at the table, flipping through her new textbooks. At first the voices from the living room had sounded like ordinary adult talk, but then they grew louder, clearer, and she caught her own name. Curiosity getting the better of her, she got up and crept quietly over to the door, listening. Her father had just said something about the mayor.
The mayor? Barbara? The blown-up textbook?
Before she had had time to make proper sense of what she had heard, she was invited in. Hermione froze for a second, unsure what to do, but then pulled herself together and stepped into the living room.
"Miss Granger, I believe you do not yet know my name," said the unfamiliar woman sitting in the armchair. "Minerva McGonagall. Professor McGonagall. Please, take a seat. We have a serious conversation ahead of us."
Hermione sat next to her mother. Emma gripped her hand hard, not taking her eyes off their guest.
"If the mayor has nothing to do with this, then what is this about?" John asked, no longer hiding his impatience. "Please explain yourself. Why, in your opinion, is Hermione unsuitable for the local school?"
"I did not say that Hermione was unsuitable for the local school," McGonagall answered calmly. "Your daughter is, without question, an excellent pupil. What I said was that this school is unsuitable for her."
"What? What could that possibly mean?" John asked, bewildered.
A faint smile crossed McGonagall's lips.
"Before I explain what I meant, I would like to ask you a rather unusual question about your daughter. Have you ever noticed anything strange happening around Hermione, anything difficult to explain?"
"Strange things?" John fell silent for a moment, then admitted, almost reluctantly, "Yes, I suppose so..."
Hermione's eyes moved from her parents to the professor. McGonagall's question made her flinch. She still had not recovered from the incident with the flower, and now, hearing this unfamiliar woman speak of 'strange things', she felt a weight settle in her chest again, as though she were about to hear something terrible about herself.
"And what explanation do you have?" John asked, fixing his eyes on the guest.
"A very simple one," McGonagall replied evenly. "Though it may not be easy for you to accept."
She paused briefly. Hermione's heart began to pound; she waited tensely for this strange woman's answer, while McGonagall looked straight at her. At last, she said,
"Hermione is no ordinary girl. She is a witch."
For a few moments everyone just stared at the professor, stunned, saying nothing and not fully grasping what she meant.
"Ha… ha…" Emma gave a nervous laugh. "A witch? Are you serious?"
"Is this some kind of joke?!" John shot back, his fighting spirit snapping right back. "What is this, a circus? And what are you supposed to be? A clown in that ridiculous outfit?" He cast a scornful glance at her robe.
A flicker of a smile crossed McGonagall's lips. Without a word, she slowly pulled a slender wand from the folds of her robe and aimed it at a mug on the coffee table. She spoke a strange word and… the mug meowed. In its place sat a fluffy cat. It stretched lazily, arching its back and flexing its paws, then, tail twitching, padded to the edge of the table and hopped lightly to the floor.
All of it happened in dead silence. Emma, mouth open, stared at the animal. John choked on the cutting remark he had lined up for McGonagall and watched wide-eyed as the former mug rubbed against his leg, purring! His right cheek twitched uncontrollably. Hermione, too, couldn't take her eyes off the cat. But in her eyes there was no fear – only delight, a child's wonder, and the urge to reach out and touch this miracle.
McGonagall looked over them all with a calm gaze. The corners of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. She raised her wand again, murmured the spell, and the cat vanished, turning back into a mug. She picked it up from the floor, set it on the table, then slipped her wand into her robes and leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of tea.
"But... but..." John broke the silence after a few seconds. "This... this is... No! Magic doesn't exist! There has to be a logical explanation," he said firmly, narrowing his eyes at the woman in robes. "You must have... wait, it's hypnosis!" he burst out suddenly. "Yes! That's it! You hypnotised us!" His eyes flashed with triumph.
Emma, at last closing her mouth, shifted her gaze from her husband to their guest.
"Mr Granger," McGonagall said, "of course you can try to explain this away as hypnosis. Muggles are always quick to invent the most elaborate explanations, just so they don't have to admit there are things in the world they can't understand –"
"Muggles?" John cut in.
"Yes. Muggles are people without magical abilities," the professor explained. "But then how do you explain the odd things that happened around your daughter? Was that hypnosis too? Do you think she hypnotised you as well?"
John had no answer to that. At that moment Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and said quietly:
"But I don't know how to do… er… things like that…"
"Of course you don't, at least not yet," McGonagall replied evenly. "Skills don't appear all at once. They take time and training. The right training."
She paused briefly, then added:
"That's why we're inviting you, Miss Granger, to become a student at our school of witchcraft and wizardry – Hogwarts."
The professor reached into the folds of her robes again, and this time drew out not her wand, but an envelope. The thick yellowish paper looked as though it belonged to another century, and it was sealed with a round wax seal. Hermione took the letter. For a few seconds she simply stared at it, trying to gather her courage. At last, drawing a deep breath, she broke the seal. The smell of wax mingled with the faint scent of parchment.
She unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore,
Headmaster
Hermione held the letter in trembling hands. Her heart was beating as if it might burst out of her chest. The words blurred before her eyes, and it took her a moment to realise it was because of the tears. Fear and dizzying joy struggled inside her, pulling her in opposite directions. Her mind was still trying to resist, still searching for a rational explanation, but somewhere deep down she already knew: this was the answer to all the strange things that had happened to her.
She let out a breath, calmed a little, and whispered:
"I always thought magic was nothing more than stories for children…"
"And now you, Miss Granger, will be able to become part of those stories yourself," McGonagall replied with an encouraging smile. Then she turned to Hermione's parents. "I understand this may seem strange and unfamiliar to you. But Hogwarts is the best place for your daughter's education. We can assure you that she will be in safe hands there."
"But… magic…" Emma's gaze moved from her daughter to the professor, as if still hoping she would smile, call it a joke, and reveal the trick behind some clever sleight of hand.
"We've always been more inclined to trust science," John added, sounding uncertain.
"Let me show you how striking the world of magic can be," McGonagall continued. "There are places where young witches and wizards learn to control their power and use it for good. Hogwarts is one of those places. There we teach students how to work with magic, to value it, and to understand its nature."
John Granger weighed her words. A school for wizards was certainly not the sort of place he would ever have imagined sending his daughter. But since Silverleaf was already out of the question...
"All right, suppose…" he began slowly. "Given your title of professor, I take it the level of education at your school… er…"
"Hogwarts," McGonagall prompted, raising her chin slightly.
"…yes, at Hogwarts," John confirmed, as if tasting the word, "is high enough? Correct?"
"Absolutely," she answered. "As I said, Hogwarts is the best school of witchcraft and wizardry in Britain."
"So there are other schools?" John leaned forward a little.
"Yes, there are small private schools for young witches and wizards in Britain. But their academic standards are considerably lower."
"Then why do they exist at all, if the level is lower?" A hint of distrust appeared in John's eyes. "Usually, private schools aim for higher standards."
"Hogwarts is different in that we take students only by invitation," McGonagall explained patiently. "Like the one your daughter has just received. Private schools exist for those who never got such an invitation."
"Excuse me," Emma cut in, "but you haven't said what your own speciality is. What subject do you teach?"
John raised his eyebrows slightly and turned to their visitor as well.
"Yes, actually. We seem to have missed that detail."
"Oh…" McGonagall hesitated for a moment. "I teach Transfiguration."
Emma blinked and tilted her head, trying to make sense of what she'd just heard.
"Configuration?" she repeated at last. "What sort of configuration is that? I don't think I heard you right."
"Transfiguration," the professor said again, clearly.
Emma gave John a brief, bewildered look, but he only shrugged.
"That is... something from the magical world, I take it?" he asked after a moment, leaning back slightly in his chair and folding his arms, like a man who did not much like what he had just heard.
"Exactly," McGonagall confirmed. "Turning a mug into a cat, as you saw a few minutes ago, belongs to my subject."
"And what other subjects do they study at Hogwarts?" John asked warily. "I hope your mathematics is at a decent level?"
"Oh, the range of subjects is wide," McGonagall answered evenly. "From Transfiguration and Potions to the History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and many more. Each is important for the full development of a young wizard."
With every new subject McGonagall mentioned, Hermione's eyes grew wider with excitement. John, meanwhile, seemed to turn to stone: his lips pressed into a thin line, and something hard and unusually sharp appeared in his eyes.
"History of Magic? Potions?" he said, as if the word potions were something sticky and unpleasant. "And what about mathematics?" he almost shouted.
"I'm afraid mathematics isn't taught at our school," McGonagall replied.
"But without mathematics, how will they –" John began.
"Wait, John," Emma interrupted him, then turned to their guest. "If I heard you correctly, you mentioned some sort of Defence Against the Dark Arts. What exactly are these 'arts'? Does that mean our daughter could be in danger?"
Her voice shook, and she instinctively laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder.
"Unfortunately, there are wizards in the world who use their powers for evil," McGonagall explained quietly. "That subject is meant to prepare for such threats."
Emma's grip on her daughter's shoulder tightened.
"Then maybe she's better off not getting involved with magic at all?" she asked, her eyes locked on the professor.
"Dark magic exists whether you choose it or not," McGonagall answered after a brief pause. "You simply fail to notice its signs, taking them for accidents. It is far better to recognize it and defend against it than to leave everything to chance."
She was silent for another moment, then added:
"And most importantly, I'm sure there's no safer place in Britain for a young witch or wizard than Hogwarts."
While John and Emma were still trying to take it all in, Hermione hurried to make use of the pause:
"And where is your school?"
"In the north of Britain," McGonagall replied. "But you won't find it on any map – it's well hidden."
"But how will I be able to see my parents?" Hermione glanced at her mum and dad, the corners of her mouth sinking a little.
"During the holidays you'll be able to come home. And the rest of the time you'll keep in touch by owls."
"Owls?" Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and a doubtful yet eager smile crossed her face.
"Yes, postal owls," the professor explained. "They'll bring your letters to your parents, and theirs back to you."
Hermione imagined a large owl flying through their window with an envelope in its beak and let out a laugh. Emma, watching her daughter, smiled faintly in return, though worry still shone in her eyes. John, still fixed on McGonagall, absently adjusted his glasses.
"May I ask one more question?" Hermione said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye.
"Of course, Miss Granger," McGonagall replied with a friendly smile.
"Recently my parents and I visited a very beautiful and strange nature reserve. Could that be connected to magic?"
"Tell me more," the professor said.
Hermione eagerly described their walk, the tall, almost fairy-tale trees, and, after a short pause, added the part about her mother's 'bite'.
"A bite?" McGonagall's eyebrows rose slightly, and her voice took on a note of concern. "From your description, Miss Granger, you were clearly in a place thick with magic. And bites from magical creatures or plants can be quite dangerous."
"Bites from plants?" John frowned, as if trying to decide whether this was a joke or not.
"Yes," McGonagall nodded. "But as I can see, your mother is fine." Her eyes rested on Emma for a moment. "In any case, in such places it's always wise to be cautious."
"And unicorns are real too?" Hermione suddenly blurted out, struck by the thought.
"Of course," McGonagall answered, a bit puzzled. "You… saw them there?"
"Yes!" Hermione cried with excitement. "There were two unicorns tied to a tree –"
"Tied?" McGonagall burst out, her voice stripped of its usual restraint. "You're certain?"
Startled by her reaction, Hermione gave an uncertain nod.
"Y-yes… that's what it looked like."
"That is unacceptable!" McGonagall exclaimed sharply, genuine alarm in her voice. She paused for a moment, then turned back to Hermione. "Could you show me the place on a map?"
"Well…" Hermione hesitated, "…yes."
She pulled out a map of the Oakridge area and pointed to the spot. The professor bent over it, narrowed her eyes, then flicked her wand. In the air appeared a sheet of parchment with an exact copy of the marked place.
"My apologies," McGonagall said, her tone now official and businesslike. "I must leave immediately." She turned to Hermione:
"Tomorrow morning a Ministry of Magic official will come to you. He'll help with the school purchases and explain the next steps. I'll see you at Hogwarts, Miss Granger."
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Granger," she added, inclining her head slightly. "Please forgive my sudden departure."
She set her odd hat on her head and vanished with a loud crack. The trick with the cat had impressed the Grangers, but the disappearance of their guest right in the middle of the living room left them in shock.
Hermione was the first to pull herself together. With a barely restrained smile, she got up and went to her room, wishing her parents goodnight. Lying in bed, she could still hear their voices from the living room – they were clearly arguing about her future. But for her, it was already decided: she would go to Hogwarts. And as her thoughts drifted into dreams, ever more fantastic images came to life – unknown places, strange creatures, and the adventures she had long wished for.