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The loophole in the Ministry's Trace was, Hermione thought, a perfect encapsulation of the wizarding world itself: ancient, powerful, and riddled with charmingly idiotic security flaws. It was this flaw that allowed her, in the crisp, early morning air of the Weasley's backyard, to finally practice her craft without restraint. She moved through the complex somatic components of a dozen new spells, her wand a blur, the air crackling with silent, controlled power.
"Absolutely beautiful spellwork, my dear!"
Molly Weasley's warm, proud voice made her start. The older witch was standing by the back door, a basket of laundry on her hip, a beaming smile on her face.
"Silent casting!" Molly continued, her eyes wide with admiration. "You're a true prodigy, Hermione. To have such mastery at your age, and to be so diligent with your practice… it's no wonder you're at the top of your class."
Hermione felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through her chest. Praise from a teacher was one thing; it was a grade, a metric of success. But this felt different. It was genuine, maternal pride, and it was deeply disarming.
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," she said, a little flustered. She was, of course, holding back. If Molly was impressed by silent spells, a technique many skilled adult wizards could manage, she would have a full-blown conniption if she witnessed true wandless casting. That, however, was a trump card Hermione intended to keep very close to her chest.
"Sister Hermione!" A small, red-headed blur shot out of the back door. Ginny, who had been shy and star-struck just days before, had, after a single night of sharing a room and talking late into the night, officially adopted Hermione as her new personal hero.
Later that morning, at the chaotic breakfast table, Ron was complaining. "Hermione, can you please do something about your cat?" he grumbled. "He's been camped outside Scabbers' cage all morning, just staring at him. Poor Scabbers is terrified. He won't even come out to eat."
Hermione glanced into the corner. Goose was sitting in a perfect, loaf-like position, his unblinking feline eyes fixed on the rat cage. Scabbers, a fat, mangy-looking rat with a missing toe, was huddled in the furthest corner of his cage, shivering violently, an expression of what looked like pure, intelligent terror in his beady black eyes.
Hermione had to suppress a smirk. You should be scared, Peter, she thought. A normal Animagus wouldn't be so terrified of a simple cat. But Goose wasn't a cat. He was a Flerken. A walking, purring pocket dimension. Peter Pettigrew, the traitor who had spent twelve years hiding as a rat, was now face-to-face with a creature that could literally swallow him, cage and all, and deposit him in a dimension at the ass-end of the universe. The irony was delicious.
"Goose," she called out sternly.
The orange cat turned, gave the cage one last, reluctant look, and then hopped gracefully onto Hermione's shoulder, purring as if nothing had happened.
After a few more days of the warm, chaotic bliss of life at the Burrow, it was finally time to go to Diagon Alley for school supplies.
"Right then," Molly announced cheerfully, holding up a flowerpot filled with a fine, glittering gray powder. "Who's first for the Floo?"
Hermione looked at the dark, soot-stained fireplace and felt a surge of deep, profound reluctance. "Are we absolutely certain," she asked, her voice laced with trepidation, "that there are no other viable modes of transport?" The sheer, uncontrolled, and frankly, filthy nature of the Floo Network offended her every modern sensibility.
"Nonsense, dear," Molly said with a smile. "It's the fastest way to get there! Now, Ron, you first. Speak clearly!"
Ron stepped confidently into the fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and, with a clear, loud shout of "DIAGON ALLEY!", threw the powder down. With a roar of emerald-green flames, he was gone.
"Alright, Harry dear, you're next," Molly said.
Harry stepped into the fireplace, looking nervous. He grabbed a handful of the powder, took a deep breath, and shouted a choked, panicked, soot-filled word that sounded distinctly like:
"Diagonally!"
With another roar of green fire, he vanished. The Weasleys stared at the empty fireplace in stunned, bewildered silence.
"…What did he just say?" Fred asked.
"I think," George replied, a slow grin spreading across his face, "he said 'diagonally'."
Hermione just buried her face in her hands. Honestly, she thought, leaving a terrified, magically-inexperienced child to use a transportation system with a zero-margin-for-error voice command. What could possibly go wrong?
After a brief, panicked discussion, the Weasleys decided to go on ahead and try to find Harry. Hermione, however, had no intention of waiting. The experience of Floo travel was a violent, disorienting, and deeply unpleasant cyclone of spinning green fire and fleeting, nauseating glimpses of other people's living rooms. As she tumbled out of the fireplace into the Leaky Cauldron, she took a moment to steady herself, her mind already working. Harry mispronounced the name. A diagonal path from the Leaky Cauldron… there's only one place he could have ended up.
Ignoring the Weasleys, she strode out into the bright, bustling Diagon Alley and took a sharp left, heading straight for the dark, twisted entrance to Knockturn Alley.
The moment she stepped into the narrow, shadowed street, the atmosphere changed. The cheerful, magical energy of Diagon Alley was replaced by a cold, oppressive gloom. The air was thick with the smell of dark potions, decay, and desperation. Hunched figures in dark, hooded cloaks watched her from shadowed doorways, their eyes glinting with a predatory light. She could feel their gazes on her—a slimy mixture of greed, malice, and cruel curiosity.
Right, she thought. Time to establish some boundaries.
"Serpensortia," she whispered. A massive, fiery serpent erupted from the tip of her wand. It coiled around her, its body a river of living flame, its head rising a full ten feet in the air. It let out a deafening, echoing hiss, its burning eyes sweeping over the denizens of the alley.
The effect was immediate. The lurking figures recoiled, melting back into the shadows, their predatory gazes now filled with a healthy dose of fear. That's better, she thought.
With her fiery bodyguard slithering beside her, she walked down the street until she saw a familiar, stooped figure and a flash of platinum-blond hair exiting a dark, grimy shop: Borgin and Burkes. Lucius and Draco Malfoy. She waited until they had disappeared around a corner, then dismissed her fiery serpent and walked inside.
The shop was filled with a fascinating and horrifying collection of Dark Arts artifacts. A withered, severed hand sat on a cushion, a cursed necklace glinted from within a glass case. The proprietor, Mr. Borgin, a man with a hunched back and a greasy, sycophantic smile, looked up as she entered.
"Can I help you, little miss?" he asked, his eyes gleaming.
Hermione walked directly to the counter. "The man who was just in here," she said, her voice cold and even. "Lucius Malfoy. What did he sell you?"
Borgin's smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. "That is a private matter between myself and my clients," he rasped. "It is none of your concern. Now, if you are not here to buy, I suggest you leave."
"Oh, I think it is my concern," Hermione replied, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "You see, the Ministry of Magic has a very strict, and very tedious, prohibition on the private sale of unregistered Dark Magic artifacts. And I happen to know that Mr. Malfoy's collection is full of them. Now, you can either tell me what he was doing here, or I can walk out that door and have a very interesting conversation with the Auror office. Your choice."
The man's face went pale. He stared at the small, terrifyingly confident girl in front of him and realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was not dealing with a child, but with a player far more dangerous than he could have imagined.
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