This is my first-ever fanfic, and truthfully, I haven't read it through myself! Well, please let me know what you think.

The Making of the Brightest Witch of Her AgeOnce, when she was still a very small girl, Hermione Jane Granger donned a black bed sheet and placed a pointed cone-of-a-hat on her unruly brown hair. She skipped around the house and prodded a stick at a family houseplant. “Mommy! Mommy!” the little girl shrieked with delight as the African violet swelled ominously, “Mommy, I can do magic!” Mrs. Granger smiled indulgently and patted her precocious five-year-old on the head. So imaginative, she thought, chortling to herself…
* * * * *
Six years later…
On a sultry summer day, a small, bushy-haired eleven-year-old girl perched comfortably on the broad branch of an ancient oak tree. She didn’t look at all like her parents, sitting together at a table by the picture room window. Mr. Granger was tall and long-limbed with thinning gray hair, whilst Mrs. Granger was short and matronly with doleful gray eyes. Hermione, on the other hand, was small and nimble, with thick brown curls and large amber eyes. She felt estranged from them in every possible way. In fact, the only person Hermione had ever found solace with was an elderly neighbor, a wizened old man with a crown of woolly white hair.

“We’re more alike than you know, Hermione,” he would always sigh, “…someday…”

“Someday what? Someday what?” Hermione would beg, but he would just shake his head and slip her a caramel nougat that promptly cemented her teeth together.

Hermione’s parents looked down on the old man with the knobbly knees and the round green eyes, and did everything in their power to discourage Hermione from going to see him. He died shortly after Hermione’s eighth birthday, and, although the mortician swore up and down that no one had come to claim the man’s body, it had vanished before he could inter it in the ground.

Over the next several years, Hermione’s restless mind often came to dwell on the old man’s wistful last words. Someday…what?

She wasn’t thinking about some long-lost secret that summer day though. She was focused on much more practical matters, namely avoiding the loatheable neighbor lady who liked to drop by and take Hermione’s abnormalities to task. Taking refuge in the branches of her favorite oak tree, Hermione had wiled away the day reading. Now, facing the prospect of yet another long evening with the neighbors, Hermione slowly eased herself out of the tree. Just as the tips of her toes brushed the grass, she spied an owl perched on her bedroom windowsill. It looked like the owl was clutching an envelope in his beak…but it couldn’t be. . A more gullible child might have trusted their own two eyes, but Hermione was much too logical for that sort of thing.

Curious nonetheless, Hermione snuck around the back of the house (past the window where her mother and Mrs. Orner sat) and scampered up the trellis into her parents’ miniscule bathroom. She hurried to her bedroom and gently coaxed the owl over and eased the letter - she hadn’t been imagining it after all! - out of his beak. Hermione traced the seal with her finger. The letter came from a place Hermione had never heard of, which was unusual for a girl who spent hours pouring over atlases and globes.

Hermione opened the letter cautiously, half-hoping for a miracle – anything to make the evening with Mrs. Orner more bearable. She squinted her brown eyes shut and slit open the envelope. The letter fell softly into her waiting hand. With bated breath, she unfolded it and read;

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. On the afternoon of August 15, a representative from the school will arrive to escort you to Diagon Alley and will explain the terms of your admittance.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.

Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress


Hermione swallowed hard; witchcraft and wizardry? But it was all beginning to make sense…she felt as though her elderly neighbor had whispered in her ear - “Someday, Hermione.”

She chanced a glance at the owl perched regally on her bedside table, carefully preening his feathers. For the owl, at least, this day was not at all out of the ordinary. Quite suddenly, he fluttered down to the bed beside her and began nipping gently at her knuckles. We await your owl no later than July 31. Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, Hermione simply penned the word “Yes.” The owl snatched the piece of parchment out of her hands and swept away through the open window.

* * * * *

Hermione was quieter than usual the next week. She lay on her bed, folding and unfolding the letter, wondering desperately how she could break the news to her parents. Every day, the fifteenth of August loomed nearer.

Swiftly, the day was upon them. Hermione sat at the top of the staircase, waiting. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon, and her father sat in his favorite wing-backed chair in the parlor, reading the London Times. The rain droned on outside, pattering comfortingly on the rooftop one moment and hurling up against the windows the next. Hermione gnawed her fingernails down to the quick. Questions of who would come and how morphed into doubts…would anyone come? She had willed herself to believe the letter was true, but what if it was all a lie? Hermione didn’t think she could bear it if this mysterious Hogwarts didn’t exist.

Finally, at half past three in the afternoon, just when Mrs. Granger had called for tea, there came a loud crack. At first, Hermione mistook it for a crash of thunder, but moments later, there came an insistent rapping at the door. Hermione froze on the top step.

Mr. Granger trumped over to the door and opened it. Hermione peered down the stairs for a glimpse of the visitor - a tall, severe-looking woman. Despite the incessant rain, the woman was perfectly dry. She was unlike anyone Hermione had ever seen. She wore tartan robes and a pointed black hat with a shock of feathers around the brim. “Good afternoon,” she said in a crisp voice. “Mr. Granger, I presume?” She held out her hand and Mr. Granger shook it slowly, giving the woman a sweeping glance.

“Minerva McGonagall,” the woman said sharply. “Of course, you must know who I am.”

Mr. Granger looked entirely befuddled. Mrs. Granger chose that moment to give another call for tea.

Minerva McGonagall’s thin eyebrows arched. “Minerva McGonagall,” she repeated, “—Deputy Headmistress from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

No sign of dawning comprehension.

“Oh, dear,” McGonagall said fretfully. “Perhaps we’d better sit down.”

“Yes, yes. Tea?” he asked blankly, leading McGonagall out of sight.

Hermione paused for a moment, then scurried down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“There you are, my dear. It’s about time!” Mrs. Granger said. “We have a guest, you know!”

McGonagall stared pointedly at Hermione. “Ah, Miss Granger,” she reached out and shook Hermione’s hand. “How nice to meet you at last.”

Mr. and Mrs. Granger’s eyes darted between McGonagall and Hermione.

McGonagall looked very awkwardly at the pair of them, “Of course, you must have known when you adopted Hermione…the letter…from Dumbledore…” her voice trailed off at their blank faces. Hermione felt as though a blindly light had switched on inside her head. The room swam before her eyes – adopted?

“Letter?” Mrs. Granger asked airily, jumping suddenly to her feet. She carefully avoided Hermione’s eyes as she came back to the table and began pouring tea. She missed Mr. Granger’s cup and a rich brown stain spread across the tablecloth. Without thinking, McGonagall whipped out her wand and waved it at the spilt tea, it vanished without a trace. Seemingly unaware of the Grangers’ stunned faces, she helped herself to another lemon biscuit.

“Excuse me, but what is this funny business?!” Mr. Granger demanded, sliding his chair away from the table and moving to shield his wife and daughter.

McGonagall looked up.

“Mr. Granger, as it seems that we have failed you – there is no other way to say this – your daughter is a witch.”

Silence.

“Our Hermione? Never.” Mrs. Granger said dismissively. Mr. Granger just gaped at McGonagall.

“I assure you she is. She may not have any magical powers when it comes to communicating with her parents about certain correspondence she may have received,” McGonagall’s eyes flashed in Hermione’s direction, “but she most certainly is a witch.”

“Hermione! Surely you haven’t received anything, er, unusual! What is this woman talking about?!”

Wordlessly, Hermione slipped the Hogwarts letter out of her pocket and laid it open-faced on the table.

“Very good,” McGonagall said shortly. “As you can clearly see, today is August 15, and, as stated in the letter, I am here to escort Miss Granger to Diagon Alley.” McGonagall stood up and pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders. “Miss Granger, we must be leaving soon. It is getting late.”


* * * * *

Please let me know what you think - my email is sarahbeth_green_eyes@yahoo.com
I also post on the MuggleNet Forums, where my user name is Herminia.

Well, for the one person who's read and posted, I guess I'll keep putting up installments.

I also have a fan fiction website that I just opened TODAY! And it has this work in it's entirety and my Year Seven (beware of spoilers) fan fiction as well. Here's the link http://my.execpc.com/12/E2/mitt124/mitt124...ven%20Index.htm
It's a very basic site, methinks.


Chapter Two
McGonagall led Hermione outside, leaving the stunned Grangers sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly into their cups of tea.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this, Miss Granger…Albus swore he’d explained it all…but never you mind…” McGonagall looked distracted. When she spoke again, her voice was notably softer than before. “There is no easy way to tell you this…your parents were wizards, Hermione. They were among the best wizards of their day, but they are no more.”

“No more?” Hermione echoed weakly.

McGonagall shook her head. “Your parents were killed by Lord Voldemort ten years ago – but, of course, you wouldn’t know about him.” She massaged her temples, then said slowly, “There’s one more thing you must know – you have a brother. The whole wizarding world knows him as the boy who lived, but he does not yet know this himself. This is where you come in, Hermione. You need to be there for him – be his confidant, his closest friend…but he mustn’t know.”

“Mustn’t know what?” Hermione’s head was swimming.

“Mustn’t know that you’re his sister, or else you will be in grave danger. It is all very complicated. All you must know is that you are his protection, Hermione. No one knows who you are, or who your parents are. It must stay that way, no matter what happens.”

Months ago, Hermione would have given anything for a brother or sister. Now she had one, but he could never know she was his sister. She longed to draw more information from McGonagall, but McGonagall was now steering Hermione forcefully away from the Grangers’ quiet country home and the quiet life Hermione had known heretofore.

* * * * *

When they reached the end of the lane, McGonagall groped around in her pocket, and pulled out a small cigar box. She instructed Hermione to touch the cigar box as well. As soon as Hermione’s fingers grasped ahold, she felt an almighty lurch. She and McGonagall were spiraling through a blur of color, wind whipping at their faces. Within moments, they came to a halt on a gleaming London street. Hermione let go of the box and staggered a few feet to the left.

McGonagall, looking supremely unaffected by their whirlwind journey, stuck out a hand to steady Hermione. “Here we are – the Leaky Cauldron,” she said and strode inside; Hermione trailed close behind her, gaping at the dingy little pub. She saw sere old men winding long silver beards around their fingers as they played Chess and stout matronly witches gossiping over tea and mulled mead.

“Ah, Profesh’r McGonagall!” a toothless old man hobbled towards them from behind the bar. “How may I be of shervice?” He stooped into an unmistakable bow.

“Just showing a new student around, Tom,” McGonagall said coolly. Tom seemed wholly uninterested by the prospect of new students and shuffled over to an ancient door at the back of the pub. “Right thish way, m’lady.” He bowed again as McGonagall and Hermione stepped out into the narrow alley.

“That’s Tom for you,” McGonagall said, casting a small smile in Hermione’s direction. Hermione was relieved to see McGonagall do anything as kind as smile; so far, her moods had only vacillated between lofty indifference and well-guarded concern.

“Now watch closely,” she said, and tapped a sequence of bricks on the alley wall. Hermione watched in awe as the bricks scrambled sideways to form a gallant archway.

McGonagall smiled more widely this time. “Welcome to Diagon Alley, Miss Granger.”

* * * * *

Diagon Alley was positively crawling with life. Hermione walked forward in a daze, trying to take everything in. Bats swooped overhead and wizards pushed past jabbering in foreign tongues. The shops were just as interesting as the wizard browsing them – Hermione spotted stores selling broomsticks, feather quills, dancing rats, and she even spied an aged witch pawning frog eggs to passers-by.

McGonagall carried herself regally, pausing occasionally to greet other witches and wizards. She introduced Hermione to a short wizard with a high voice (“Professor Filius Flitwick,” he squeaked) and to a plump, frizzy-haired witch named Pomona Sprout.

“Ollivander’s first,” McGonagall said tartly, guiding Hermione into a dark, shabby little shop. There was no sign of a shopkeeper nor any of the usual comforts of the stores Hermione was used to. Not one to waste time waiting around, McGonagall rapped her knuckles on the front desk, and, instantaneously, it seemed, an ancient-looking wizard appeared. His gray eyes bored into Hermione, and she instinctively shrank back behind McGonagall.

“Nonsense, little girl. Come forward,” he said, and seized Hermione’s hand. He pulled her over to a spindly chair. “Buying your first wand, then?” he asked, but before Hermione could respond, he had already presented her with a long thin box.

Gingerly, Hermione lifted the lid and pulled out a long wand. She felt rather stupid, sitting there holding the wand while Mr. Ollivander and Professor McGonagall stood watching her keenly.

“Come on, wave it around,” Mr. Ollivander said impatiently. “We haven’t got all day.”
Feeling very foolish, Hermione waggled the wand back and forth, but nothing happened. If she had expected fireworks, she was sadly mistaken.

“No, no, no,” Mr. Ollivander snatched the wand out of her hand and crammed it back into its box. “Try this one.”

This time, Hermione tested a shorter, thicker wand – again, nothing.

At this point, McGonagall whispered something in Mr. Ollivander’s ear. Hermione caught only snippets of what they were saying.

“You still have –”

“Why, yes – yes, of course –”

“You don’t think, maybe –”

“– worth a try, I’d say –”

Mr. Ollivander scurried off to the back of the store and returned carrying a long, thin wand on a dusty velvet pillow. Both adults watched with anticipation as Hermione carefully picked up the wand.

“Just give it a go, nice and easy,” Mr. Ollivander breathed.

Hermione swished the wand through the air, and – to her great amazement – a trail of a gold and silver sparks danced through the air.

“Beautiful.” McGonagall whispered, momentarily overtaken with emotion.

Mr. Ollivander fingered the wand, examining it from end to end. “Still in marvelous condition, I’d say.”

* * * * *

Four hours later, heavy-laden with books, robes, ink, and quills, McGonagall and Hermione stumbled out of Diagon Alley and back into the surging crowds of downtown London. Hermione’s mind reeled with questions, but the sounds of the city drowned out any possible conversation.

“This way, Hermione,” McGonagall said, leading Hermione down a side street to a gleaming restaurant. “Yes,” she mumbled, looking the restaurant up and down, “it will be better this way, we won’t be overheard.”

McGonagall took off her pointed hat, and, with a flick of her wand, transformed her long tartan robes into a smart business suit. With another jab of the wand, Hermione’s school things disguised themselves in bulging Harrod’s bags. McGonagall picked up two of the bags, strolled into the restaurant, and requested a table “near the back.”

Once they had placed their orders (steak tartar for McGonagall and cream of mushroom soup for Hermione), McGonagall turned again to Hermione.

“There is more,” she said heavily, indicating that Hermione should slide her chair closer. Hermione eyebrows cricked upwards in concern.

For the next half-an-hour, McGonagall told Hermione all about the rise and fall of Lord Voldemort, and the death of her parents.

“Your brother, Harry, has also been living with a Muggle family all these years. He will not remember you – nor you him. You were sent to live with Mr. and Mrs. Granger just a few short months after you and Harry were born. It was safer that way. We already knew what was coming –” McGonagall stopped abruptly. Hermione stared down at her untouched bowl of soup. She had been living a lie. Her parents, her brother, her magical abilities – everything had been hidden from her. Even her birthdate, the nineteenth of September, was a lie.

McGonagall regained her resolve. “His mother, your mother, died to protect him, for only he can defeat Lord Voldemort. You’re a part of his protection as well. You’re probably wondering just what went on in Ollivander’s, and you have a right to know. Your wand…it belonged to your mother once. It was her second wand – it was found after her death. Dumbledore requested that Mr. Ollivander keep for you.” McGonagall’s voice changed suddenly, “We must be getting you home.” She stood up.

“You must, you must, promise me that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.” McGonagall said finally. Hermione nodded, her heart sinking.

* * * * *

Standing on the Granger’s doorstep, McGonagall gave Hermione a few last words of advice, “The train leaves on September first. When you arrive, no matter what, the Hat will sort you into Gryffindor – for that is where Harry, your brother, is destined to be. Here is your ticket.” With that, McGonagall turned on her heel, tipped her hat to Hermione, and vanished into thin air.

Her mind felt numbed. What “Hat?”

I've already finished this fan fiction and I was just posting chapters, you in installments. Here's a link to the finished work - glad you like it

http://www.cosforums.com/showthread.php?t=58975




Please leave a review in this thread here. Thanks.