Journal of Mrs. Granger

Oh little Hermione Jean Granger. I remember the day you were born. It was sunny and warm, which is unusual for us Londoners. I remember your father holding my hand as I was wheeled down the hospital pastel linoleum hallway to the emergency room. He asked me if I would like anesthetic, but I said no. I wanted to be sure that you would be a healthy little girl. An image of the blood stained sheets of my previous miscarriage made me squeeze your father’s hand so tight his skin turned white. “Nurse!” he called. He returned his concerned face to my sweating brow. 

As I felt the sharp stabbing pains of your birth I remembered all of our excitement and preparation for this day. I remembered the endless salads, a refrigerator full of organic milk, eggs, and Ezekiel bread. My favorite was my morning swims at recreational center and the light Mozart and Bach I would play on my mother’s record player. You would always kick for Symphony no. 9 and make me crave chocolate and pickles.  September 19, 1979 was so long ago, but feels like only last week. As you grew you were always this cute little mess of brown curls, your eyes glimmering with enthusiasm and curiosity. As our only daughter, we tried to provide the best of everything for you. We hoped that one day you would also become a dentist like us. You were always so interested in animals, science, and you loved to read. We had a private tutor for you where you learned French, Spanish, and Latin at the age of five. You loved your piano lessons with Mrs. Wellington, even though she was in her upper seventies and was a little overbearing sometimes. 

We would take you to the office sometimes. I remember catching you sniffing the toothpaste samples we had in the back closet. All of the assistants and hygienists loved to hear you sing “All I want for Christmas is my two Front Teeth.” I would tuck you in your sleigh bed, read a passage of encyclopedia Britannica, answer your daily question as best I could and kiss the top of your head when you fell asleep. You slept so peaceful in your little room with glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. 

On your seventh birthday, we had a big party at our flat. We invited all of our associates, their kids and a few of your cousins. I remember spreading the last bit of the cream cheese icing on your carrot cake (which was your favorite). It was a knight and princess theme party and you tugged my apron. I looked down and saw you were wearing the beautiful pink chiffon dress and glittering plastic tiara I had set out on your bed earlier. “Mum, can I taste it?” You reached for the spatula I had in my hand. I said, “No. Wait till everyone comes to the party.” You waved your silver star-shaped wand and said “Please!” Next thing I remember was Grandma coming into the kitchen saying, “I cannot belive you let our little Hermione have her cake before her guests!” She scornfully shook her finger at me and rejoined the party. Sure enough there was a missing piece out of the cake and you had pink frosting smudge on your cheek. What came over me? How did I miss that? 

Later your father and I walked you and some of the little girls to the park. I watched you from the wood bench underneath the shade of a big tree. They were playing with their dolls and did not say much to you at all. You walked behind them and tried asking them about the constellations or their favorite Bach symphony. They just laughed and left you behind. They ran off to the slide and you got on the swing set alone, frustrated. Then the bossy little blonde one came by, Callie I think, and she told you to move. I was about to get up and scold her, but your father tugged my arm. He told me to, “Wait and see.”  You told her to sit on the other swing, but she would not have it she wanted yours. You told her no again and she grabbed the chain. Then I saw my seven year little girl turn and glare at this little blond brat and all of a sudden she was hanging upside down from the tree above our heads. Immediately she screamed and I climbed up to pull her down from the branch. I could not understand what happened, but I knew we had to get home. 

I told everyone to leave and that we had a family emergency. After everyone left, and I convinced Callie’s parents she was just playing a game and got stuck in the tree, I turned to you. “Hermione, do you know what you did today?” I was exasperated, tired, worried, and concerned. You are my baby girl. 

You looked down. You were still wearing that ridiculous dress and you tugged on it nervously, twisting the tulle. 

Your father tried. “Hermione… Muffin? Listen, you need to tell us what happened.”

Now you looked up, teary eyed. “I’m sorry mum. I’m sorry Dad. It won’t happen again.”

But what happened? 

I finished packing up and cleaned the kitchen. I came up the stair s and I heard your father reading you a story, Cinderella this time. At the end I heard you ask him, “Dad, am I a fairy godmother?” as I reached the landing. I paused and listened.

“No honey, you are normal like mommy and I.”

“But Dad I can do magic. I don’t even need a wand.”

“Today was just an accident. You are not a fairy godmother. You’re too young for that. You are just my special, smart little Hermione.”

Your father called one of his pals from University, Harold Finnigan, and told him what happened. He had a little boy that also got a letter informing him his son was a wizard. Apparently, if your child was a witch or wizard they would get a letter when they turned 11. He told us to give him a call if you did. 

I could not believe it. A witch? No, that’s not possible. You were going to be a dentist like your dad and I. I began researching preparatory schools.  St. Vincent’s Academy came up. They ensured you a spot after an interview. They were impressed with your French, Latin, piano, and your essay on how the government should not ban books. We got you a blanket with their crest and we started to set money aside for your tuition. 

I remember when you got the letter. I remember holding the parchment envelope in denial and handing it to you as you ate your oatmeal and fruit. You were 11 when we found out that you were accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I immediately called Harold Finnigan. He assured me it was the best school for you and that he would help you get the supplies for school before the semester started. The next day he took you into town to get your books. I gave him the check with the tuition money we were going to use for St. Vincent’s Preparatory School for Girls. I pushed your bangs out of your face. “I gave Mr. Finnigan plenty of money so you get as many books as you can carry, but be sure to get everything on the list first.” Your eyes twinkled with joy. “Thanks mum.” You were so excited that you read all of the books until you memorized most of the spells. You would show me pictures of the dorm rooms, the great hall, and the castle in your copy of Hogwarts: A History. 

I would get annoyed and frustrated about how excited you were about Hogwarts and how quickly you forgot about St. Vincent’s. I would snap at you and tell you to put your books away. But your father would pull me aside and remind me of the opportunity you had and how we would not see you for awhile. 

I knew I would miss you. I just wanted the best for you. I had never heard of a witch, and I could not explain the things in your books. I could have helped you in anatomy, chemistry, and physics, but there was not a tip I could give you for transfiguration. I remember waving goodbye to you on September 1, 1991 as you took off on the train. You would write to us often, telling us you were sorted into Gryffindor House, you were having trouble making friends, but you were very prepared for all of the classes due to your intensive summer reading. You were always a brilliant academic and a gifted student. You kept mentioning Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley and a poor boy with an unfortunate surname: Longbottom. I was so happy to hear that you were finally making friends, something you always had difficulty with here in London. I never thought any of this would happen, sometimes I have to look at the letter to make sure it really happened, but I was always proud of you.  

I wanted you to go to homecoming, to prom, to bring me your book reports and ask me for help in biology. I wanted you to be a better me and get accepted into Oxford or Harvard, or Yale. I wanted you to take over our practice one day and win a Nobel prize. As I gaze at this picture of you on your fourth birthday, I remember you are still just as human as I am. You are my special little girl who is brilliant and memorizes entire books. Just because you did not become the dentist-researcher-doctor of the century, but that does not mean that are not the witch-of-the-century. I wiped my tears. Hermione, you will always be my little girl. Your magic has transformed me into a better mother.