***
Three years go by fast when you don't have much control over them.
Now I'm eight. Hermione is too.
My body doesn't feel like a borrowed suit that's too small anymore. There are still weird days, sure, but at least everything responds when I want it to. That's already a win. Primary school is still… exhausting, but manageable.
Hermione.
She's curious to the point of being dangerous. If she doesn't understand something, she asks. She investigates. And if that still isn't enough, she asks again. Most of the time she comes straight to me. Not because I'm some genius or anything like that, but because she figured out something very simple: I tend to know things. Or at least I know where to look.
She likes praise. A lot. And it shows. She always tries in class, pays attention, participates. Teachers love her. And to my misfortune—or so she thinks—she's better than me at math. Not by much, but enough to remind me with a proud smile every time she gets a higher grade.
She usually sits near me when she studies or when I'm reading one of my books. She especially likes the science ones. She'll go quiet, watching, like she's absorbing everything without making a sound… until, inevitably, she asks something. Then the interrogation starts.
Most of the time, I'm the one encouraging her. The one explaining. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Watching her understand something new, watching her eyes light up when she connects the pieces, is… satisfying. Too satisfying, even.
I think it's time to introduce her to magic.
I've kept practicing without a wand and, for the first time, I can call it a win. Telekinesis. Nothing spectacular: not moving a car with my mind or anything like that. Pushing small objects, pulling them closer, and on rare occasions, keeping them floating for a few seconds.
Every attempt leaves me exhausted, like someone wrung my brain out with an old sponge. Even so, it's worth it. I can feel what I call my magical core growing slowly, like a muscle that finally understands what it's for.
After practicing, I usually meditate. Sitting or lying down. It helps with the headache and, more importantly, it stabilizes emotions. Wandless magic doesn't work well when you're a mental disaster.
And that's exactly what I'm doing right now, sitting at my desk, when I hear Hermione shouting my name.
"Hadrien! Hadrien!"
The door flies open like someone kicked it.
I sigh.
"Mione, calm down. What happened?"
I turn to look at her. She's agitated, breathing fast, gesturing like her body is trying to explain itself before her mouth can.
"I-I don't understand what happened," she says. "I was watching a squirrel in a tree when I heard someone shout at me. I turned around and… it was a ball. It was coming straight at me."
She swallows.
"I closed my eyes. I covered my face. I was sure it was going to hit me. But… nothing happened."
She raises her hands, like she can still see it.
"The ball was there. Still. Really close. For a second. And then… it fell."
She exhales at the end, like her body is only now realizing she's not in danger anymore.
I don't need to think much.
Accidental magic.
That's the first phrase that crosses my mind.
It was her.
I watch her for another moment.
Yeah.
It's definitely time.
I see her pull in on herself, shrink down.
Fear. Insecurity.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, steady but gentle. I don't squeeze. Just enough so she knows she's not alone.
"You didn't do anything wrong," I tell her quietly. "I'm here."
It takes her a few seconds to respond.
"But… I didn't do anything," she murmurs. "I just thought it was going to hit me."
I nod slowly.
"That's exactly what happened."
She pulls back a little to look at me, confused.
"I don't understand," she says.
"Sometimes, when you get really scared… when you want something not to happen with everything you've got… weird things happen."
She frowns.
"Weird like the ball?"
I don't answer right away. I look around and reach toward the desk. I focus. I don't push, I don't force. I just let it flow.
The pencil slides a few centimeters and falls to the floor.
Hermione's eyes go wide.
"Did you… touch it?"
"No."
"Then how—?"
"That," I say. "What happened to you. Just… I've been practicing for a while."
She goes quiet. I can see her brain working at full speed.
"So… am I weird?" she asks in a very small voice.
I shake my head immediately.
"No. You're fine. More than fine."
She hugs herself.
"It scared me."
"I know," I say. "It scared me too at first."
A lie to comfort her.
She looks up.
"Really?"
"Yeah. And it still scares me sometimes."
That seems to calm her more than any explanation.
"Can I… do it again?" she asks, hesitant. "Or is it dangerous?"
I smile a little.
"Not today. First we have to understand it. And learn not to freak out."
"Are you going to help me?"
I look at her. Not like someone who knows more. Like someone who protects.
"Of course."
Magic can wait.
"Let's go eat something," I say quietly.
Hermione opens her mouth, like she wants to say something, like she's afraid if she doesn't say it right now it'll disappear. Then she closes it. She nods, not fully convinced.
She's still tense.
I take her hand and we leave my room. We go down the stairs from the second floor slowly. She doesn't run. She doesn't ask questions. That tells me more than I'd like.
In the dining room, Mum has her back to us, moving something around in the kitchen.
"Mum?" I say. She already knows what I'm going to ask. She always knows.
I could do it myself. I've done it before. But she insists. I think, deep down, she feels her baby is way too independent for her taste.
Emma turns around, looks at us over her shoulder, and smiles a little.
"Are my babies hungry?" she says in a voice full of love and care.
I nod.
I see Hermione let out a bit of air when the routine stays intact.
I help her sit down. She settles into the chair, legs barely dangling. She places her hands on the table like she needs something solid.
I look at her and make an exaggerated face.
"A hot chocolate?" I say. I know Mum hears me and gets to work.
Hermione looks at me. For a second she doesn't react. Then the invisible tension holding her up slides off her shoulders. She sighs.
"Mum… just one with sugar and barely any chocolate," she says, voice dragging.
I stare at her like she just betrayed me. I exaggerate a gasp, hand to my chest.
"Brutal," I mutter. "Straight to the heart."
Mum laughs while she prepares the mug.
"Of course, sweetheart. I know you don't like it as sweet as your brother," she says, smug, amused that Hermione thinks she can forget what she likes.
Hermione smiles a little.
We talk about what she likes. Science, almost always. I tell her some random fact here and there, like why the sky is that color, or I toss out a light joke that isn't always funny, but it helps. Little by little, I notice her relax as we eat. The TV plays in the background, a documentary about otters Emma left on. Hermione pays attention for a while, like she's memorizing every movement.
I tell her about the fiction books I've been reading too. She loves mystery. It seems to stimulate her brain in an active, almost restless way. She always tries to predict what's going to happen. I suspect it's a habit I gave her when we watched movies together and I ruined them by pointing out twists ahead of time.
I stopped watching modern movies. Before all this. Too many weak stories, mediocre acting, or poorly disguised hidden messages. Still, there are exceptions.
God, I love Star Wars.
It's a shame the prequels still haven't come out so I can watch them again.
The downsides of going back in time, I guess.
The documentary keeps playing, but nobody's paying attention anymore. The sound of water, distant voices, everything fades into the background.
Hermione stares at her mug. She doesn't touch it. She's thinking. Always thinking.
I let her.
But not for too long.
"It wasn't your fault," I say, almost casually, like it doesn't matter.
She looks up.
"You didn't do anything wrong," I repeat. "You didn't break anything. You didn't scare anyone."
Her shoulders drop a little. Subtle, but I notice.
"It just… happened."
Hermione presses her lips together and frowns slightly.
"But I didn't want to do anything," she says. "I just… didn't want to get hurt."
I nod.
"That's usually enough."
She goes quiet again. This time I don't feel that weird knot growing between us. Good. She's on the right track.
"Does that mean we're… weird?" she asks at last.
There it is. The insecurity, barely peeking out.
"No," I answer without hesitation. "Just different, and that doesn't have to be weird or bad."
She watches me, checking if I'm telling the truth. I am.
"And you're… curious, stubborn, and way too smart for your own good," I add. "None of that is bad or weird."
One corner of her mouth twitches.
"Stubborn?"
"Very," I say.
She allows herself a small smile.
"Then… you'll teach me?"
"Yes," I say simply. "But you're not alone. And there's nothing wrong with us. We just have to understand it. Like everything. And I'm always by your side."
Hermione nods slowly. She leans a little closer to me until our shoulders touch.
The shared weight calms her down.
"Together?" she asks.
"Always."
No big dramatic promises. No need.
She takes a deep breath for the first time since earlier.
And the silence between us is trust and calm.
***
The ticking of the bedroom clock marks the change.
We're sitting side by side on Hermione's bed, legs crossed, surrounded by paper, pencils, pens, and a half-solved Rubik's cube. The room is spacious, a perfect square, and yet there's no need to divide spaces: the door opens straight into the second-floor hallway, with no physical barrier, blending our play and study zones.
To my left, her bed; to my right, mine. In the upper-middle area, under a piece of furniture, there's a box, animal figures, and toys we haven't touched in years, all mixed together like old memories. Star Wars posters, band posters, wild animals on the walls, books on shelves.
The room smells like wood and books, with a faint scent of hot chocolate spilled a little while ago. Everything feels perfect for wasting time, thinking, inventing, or just being together without anyone interrupting.
I lean a little over the bed, elbows on my thighs, and watch Hermione play with the Rubik's cube.
"You know," I say slowly, "some fantasy and sci-fi books aren't that different from what we can do."
She looks at me, curious. She doesn't say anything, but she tilts her head. That's enough to keep going.
I grab a random piece of paper from the pile in front of us and place it on my palm.
"Watch this."
I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and focus. It feels like there's something inside me, a small core of energy that's neither muscle nor air. It just… exists. And when I focus it, I can use it.
The paper trembles a little and, suddenly, it lifts smoothly. It floats a few centimeters above my hand, turning in the air like it's responding to my thoughts.
"This," I say, pointing at the paper, "is telekinesis. That same force that moves things, that can push or pull, even stop something going too fast, like the ball earlier. It's what I call magic."
Hermione watches with her mouth open, but she isn't scared. She sees the paper floating and smiles.
***
The sheet is floating in front of Hadrien and I can't look away. My eyes follow every tiny turn, every soft movement. It's… it's like watching something impossible become real right in front of you.
I look at the pencil on the bed. If he can, why can't I? I take it between my fingers, place it in front of me, and close my eyes. I take a deep breath, extend my arms. I try to focus, to feel something inside me that can move it, that can… that can make it lift.
Minutes go by. My breathing speeds up, my fingers tremble a little. But the pencil stays there, still on the sheet. It doesn't move even a centimeter.
I hear a laugh.
I open one eye quickly and look at Hadrien.
"Don't laugh at me…" I say, pouting in reproach.
He smiles, trying not to tease too much, but he can't help it.
"I'm not laughing at you," he answers softly. "I just… like watching you try."
I close my eyes again. I breathe, I try to forget the laugh. It isn't mocking. Not really. But I keep focusing, feeling that strange tingling in my chest, the warmth in my hands. Something wants to move, but it doesn't.
"Why isn't it working?" I murmur, almost to myself.
"Because it's hard," Hadrien replies from the side, calm. "Magic doesn't always obey right away. It moves when your mind and your heart are aligned. That's it."
I didn't fully understand what he meant, but he's almost always right.
***
It's been about three days since I first showed her magic. I've guided her as best as I can. She still can't levitate anything, but she can make a sheet of paper move slightly. I expected nothing less from her. I thought maybe she'd get angry about it. But she's more excited than frustrated.
I think she can't go further because it's simply an age issue: it requires a certain mindset and the right focus of feelings, intention, visualization, and will.
I've taught her to meditate, or the closest thing to it she can manage, to get used to the sensation of raw magical manipulation.
I've tried to cast some spells I've seen in movies like Reparo and Alohomora, simple ones with a lot of practical use. Well… Reparo. No matter how much I try, it doesn't work and I feel horrible afterward. It usually takes me between 10 and 15 minutes to be ready to try magic again. Conclusion: wait until my magical core develops enough. On the other hand, Alohomora works. I think it's simple enough in magical requirements—like a level 2 spell in some video games—so for the same reason I'd categorize Reparo as level 5 or higher. One definitely requires more magic, concentration, and visualization than the other. I plan to show and teach Alohomora to Hermione once she can at least levitate and pull objects.
***
I stare at the ceiling. The moon is shining brightly, its light slipping through the curtains in a pleasant way.
I watch Hermione sleep from my bed. I think and I don't. The way she frowns, the way she hugs the pillow. The idea attacks my restless mind again: am I guiding her like a mentor, or shaping her into a version I want? I frown and shake my head.
I'm not really a kid. But I also can't take an adult role.
I don't want to be the reason Hermione Granger is different. I want to be the reason she's safe.
Great. Eight years old and I'm already having ethical crises. At this rate, by eleven I'm going to need therapy… I look at the clock. 02:36 A.M. Shit. I close my eyes and try to sleep.
Tic-TackTic-TackTic-TackTic-TackTic-TackTic-TackTic-Tack
Beep! / Beep beep!Beep! / Beep beep!
I wake up fast exactly when the alarm starts, not a second before or after. 7:00 A.M. The sound irritates me, but I let it go on for a few seconds—for Hermione more than anything—before I get up with half-closed eyes to turn it off. I yawn and stretch. All my drive evaporates, but I walk slowly over to Hermione.
"Mione… Mione," I say softly as I shake her a little.
No response…
"I know you're awake, come on…" My voice comes out lazy, drained.
I really don't want to talk as soon as I wake up. I hate doing it before I wash up.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," she mutters.
She frees herself from the blankets at a snail's pace but still doesn't open her eyes.
I gently tuck her hair behind her ear and rub her head.
She smiles with her eyes closed. Heh. I know you love it because I used to love it too as a kid. My mood lifts just from looking at her.
"I'm going downstairs without you," I say in a sing-song voice.
I step away and turn my back. I hear fabric rustle and I hear her yawn loudly.
Hermione and I wash up side by side, elbow to elbow. I finish brushing my teeth and step out to give her privacy. I wait my turn and she does the same.
I lead the way downstairs for breakfast. I can already smell it: toast and eggs.
The kitchen is lit by morning light. It isn't harsh, it's soft, filtered through the window that looks out onto the garden. Mum has her back to us, leaning on the counter, moving with the calm efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times and still doesn't hate it. That says a lot about her.
Dad is sitting at the table with the newspaper spread out in front of him, a cup of coffee off to the side. He has his glasses on, but he still squints like the world is slightly out of focus by default.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning, sweetheart," Mum answers without turning around. "The toast is almost done."
Dad lowers the paper just enough to look at me over the edge.
"Sleep well?"
"Yeah."
Automatic lie. Not big, not important. Socially acceptable.
He nods like I told him the truth. Maybe he believes it. Maybe he doesn't. He doesn't push.
Hermione comes down behind me, dragging her feet a little. She sits in her usual chair and drops her head onto the table, arms crossed. Mum finally turns around and looks at her over her glasses.
"Morning, sleepyhead."
"Morning…" Hermione murmurs, her voice still halfway between sleep and waking.
Mum fixes her hair without asking and goes back to what she's doing. Dad folds the paper and sets it aside.
"I'm starting early today," he comments. "I've got patients from eight, and a root canal at nine that'll probably run long."
"So I might be a bit late for lunch, don't wait for me," he says. "Sweetheart, do you want me to take your shift?" he adds.
Mum barely looks up, not stopping the spatula in the pan.
"No need," she replies. "I open again at four-thirty."
Dad nods, satisfied.
"Perfect then. I'll handle the morning and you take the afternoon."
"Like always," Mum says with a slight smile.
"Are you both going to be late?" Hermione asks without lifting her head from the table.
"I'll be here for lunch," Mum answers. "Your dad might get here a bit later."
"Depends on how much the patient complains," he adds, amused.
"They always exaggerate," Mum says. "You included."
Dad shrugs.
"Tooth pain doesn't discriminate."
I let out a small laugh, more awake now but not fully. And I grab a piece of toast.
Mum serves the eggs straight from the pan with confident movements and sets plates in front of everyone before sitting down at last. The sound of metal against ceramic is soft, domestic. Familiar.
Hermione is still hunched over the table, still fighting sleep.
"Straight back," Mum says, not raising her voice. "Wake up a little."
She doesn't sound annoyed. She doesn't have to.
Hermione moves slowly, like each vertebra needs permission. She straightens up just enough, rubs her eyes with both hands, and blinks a couple of times before picking up her fork.
Dad already left the newspaper aside. He eats calmly, alternating bites with sips of coffee, flipping through a loose page without much interest. He's awake. Functional. We aren't, really.
I look at the orange juice jug in the middle of the table.
Fresh juice. Just squeezed. No sugar.
It still feels like an absurd luxury to drink it like this every day. In my other life it was occasional, almost special. Here… it's just there. And I love it.
I grab the jug and pour for Hermione first. Half a glass. Not a drop more. She never finishes it.
She doesn't say anything. She just nods, still in energy-saving mode.
Then I pour for myself. Almost to the brim. Mum glances at me, but she doesn't comment. She already knows I won't waste it. Ha. Like I could insult an orange like that.
Breakfast moves slowly. Hermione and I eat in silence, synced in a kind of shared lethargy. Chew, swallow, breathe. Repeat.
I don't hear what our parents are talking about. Or maybe I do, but I don't process it. The world hasn't fully started yet.
Dad finishes first. He gets up, brings his mug to the sink, and heads to the sofa. He turns on the TV; a news channel murmurs in the background.
"Kids, get ready for school," he says. "I'll see you when you come down."
Mum is already gathering plates, cleaning her stuff and his with the efficiency of someone who doesn't waste time.
"You heard him," she says. "Finish quickly and get dressed."
Hermione snaps her head up.
"Today we have science," she says, more awake than she's been all morning.
There's no trace of lethargy left. Her eyes shine with that particular energy that only appears when something genuinely interests her. She sits up on her own without being told and takes one last sip of juice.
"We're going to look at plants," she adds. "Miss Cooper said we're starting with how they grow."
Dad nods from the sofa.
"That sounds important."
"It is," Hermione replies, very serious. "Everything starts by growing."
She looks at me from the corner of her eye, like she wants confirmation.
"She's right," I say. "Even the weirdest things."
She smiles.
Hermione doesn't hate school. She loves learning. What she doesn't like as much are the other kids. Not by choice, not because she thinks she's better. She's just different. She moves a bit faster. Asks more. Keeps thinking when everyone else already moved on.
They aren't evil. They're just kids. Some still don't know. Others weren't taught better at home.
She accepts it… more or less.
Mum finishes cleaning and dries her hands.
"Upstairs then," she says. "I don't want last-minute sprints."
Hermione hops off the chair and shoots toward the stairs. Halfway up she stops and comes back.
"Hadrien!" she says.
"I'm coming!" I answer. "I'll catch up in seconds."
That reassures her. She goes back up, humming something I don't recognize.
I pick up the plates and take them to the sink.
I go upstairs slowly. I hear Hermione talking to herself in her room, rehearsing something in a low voice. Probably what she wants to say in class.
I watch her from the doorway for a second.
Curious. Intense. Brilliant.
And yeah… sometimes the distance shows.
Not because she's alone. Not really. Hermione has warmth, support, room to be who she is. I make sure of that. Always.
But still, there are things you can't force. Connecting with other kids takes time. They aren't cruel; they just move at a different pace. They still don't know how to look the way she looks.
I'm there. I'm always there. Between her and anything that might hurt her. Not like a wall, but like a shield.
Even so, I see it. The way she pauses half a second longer than she needs to. The way she thinks before she speaks. The way she keeps ideas no one asked to hear.
They don't shove her aside. They don't push her. They don't break her.
***
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