***
After a while, once we'd all calmed down enough and Hermione stopped sniffling, we ended up sitting on the couch.
The coffee table is gone. Mom moved it to make space.
Hermione is pressed against her. Mom hugs her just enough. She whispers things I can't quite hear—soft words, repeated. Every now and then she glances at me from the corner of her eye.
Like she's waiting for something.
Dad is leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He stares at the floor. Then he looks at me. But not all the way. He's thinking.
I'm still standing in front of them.
Dad breaks the silence.
"So…"
He stops for a second, like he's testing the weight of the words in his mouth.
"So you kept this from us."
In the end he lowers his voice almost to a whisper. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds tired. Confused.
He makes a strange face. Something that could be a smile, but doesn't quite become one—like he's talking more to himself than to us.
"My kids are special…"
He says it with a weird kind of surprise. Almost pleasant. Like a kid seeing something impossible for the first time.
He lifts his eyes and looks at me.
"How do you do it?"
There's no accusation in the question. Just curiosity.
"Is it like… the Force?" he adds. "Like in Star Wars?"
I want to laugh.
I hold it in.
"No, Dad," I say. "Your kids aren't Jedi."
I breathe.
"And trust me… you don't want to see us fighting with lightsabers," I add, trying to keep it light.
Dad lets out a short sound. Not quite a laugh, but not silence either.
"Hah… no."
He thinks again, frowning like he's trying to fit a piece that doesn't exist.
"Then… what is it?"
"Magic," I tell him.
Nothing else.
I don't know if he believes me. From the way the line between his eyebrows deepens, I'd say not completely.
"Like a wizard?" he asks, and suddenly his eyes light up. "Can you make fireballs?"
He sounds excited. Almost ecstatic.
And I can't help thinking it: I reacted the same way when I understood what universe I was in… and what I could do.
"Maybe," I answer. "Or I think so."
I shrug a little.
"For now I can do what you saw. Same as Hermione. Pull things. Lift them."
I pause.
"And a little trick to unlock doors."
Dad nods slowly.
"Does anyone else know?"
His tone shifts. He's not thinking about the impossible anymore.
He's thinking about our safety.
"No," I say. "No one else."
"Good…" he says.
Mom cuts in.
"Since when have you been able to do this?"
Hermione moves a little against her chest.
"Since we were eight," she answers softly.
Mom tenses.
"You kept this secret from us for that long!"
Dad puts a hand on her arm.
"Easy, sweetheart," he says. "They were scared. It's understandable."
They look at each other.
Then they look at us.
"But you won't do it again… right?"
He watches us carefully. Hermione first. Then me.
"Yes, Dad," we answer at the same time.
"Good," he says. "From now on, no more secrets. Understood?"
He pauses.
"Never do your magic outside the house. Not in front of other people. If you learn something new or try something new, you tell us."
His voice drops a little.
"We don't want you getting hurt."
Mom nods.
"Did you hear that, my kids?" she says. "No more secrets and no more lies, okay?"
"Yes, Mom," Hermione answers.
The seriousness sits too heavy on me. I try to lighten the mood.
"Yes, sir!" I say.
Mistake.
"This is not a game, Hadrien!" Dad snaps, raising his voice.
I flinch.
"Your safety—and your sister's—is at risk," he continues. "We don't know what could happen to you… or what could happen to us if anyone else finds out."
Silence drops all at once.
I swallow.
"Yes, Dad," I say.
My voice comes out flat.
And this time I don't make any more jokes.
***
A normal year (more or less)
After that afternoon, nothing was ever exactly the same again.
But it didn't become weird, either.
Magic didn't blow up the house or tear the family apart. It just stayed there, between us—like a new word we still didn't quite know how to use.
The first attempts were… clumsy.
Out in the yard, Hermione and I would stand facing each other, dead serious, arms stretched out. The air would barely move. A shy little breeze that lifted a few dry leaves—and nothing else.
"That was wind," I'd say, convinced.
"That was a draft," Mom would correct from the lounge chair, without even looking up from her book.
Hermione would laugh, and I'd pretend it didn't bother me.
It didn't work.
Light was easier.
Small flashes. Soft sparks that appeared at our fingertips when we concentrated too hard. Mom allowed that.
Always carefully.
Always during the day.
Always with her watching.
Fire, though?
No.
"No," Mom would say, firm. "Absolutely not."
"But it's just a tiny flame," I'd try.
"No."
"What if it's really small?"
"No."
"What if Dad's nearby?"
"No."
Dad would nod in silence, like he also knew that argument was unwinnable. Not now. Not ever.
Hermione didn't push it. She liked the wind more. She liked seeing things move without touching them—like the world was finally listening.
Sometimes we practiced in the living room. Sometimes in the yard. Never outside the house. Never when there were visitors.
Almost never.
Sleepovers started that year.
Hermione began bringing friends over. First two. Then three. Laughter, whispers, the same movies over and over. I'd pretend not to hear from my room.
But I heard.
"Your brother is really cute," they'd say.
Hermione would go completely still. Like someone had turned the volume off inside her head.
"He's my brother."
"But still…"
After the second sleepover, Hermione shut the door harder than necessary.
"I don't like them looking at you," she said.
"They're not looking at me," I said. "They're just surviving my beauty."
It did not go over well.
Hermione hit me with a pillow.
With feeling.
Barbecues stayed normal. Dad at the grill. Mom with salads. Hermione running around with our cousins. Me staring at the sky, calculating things nobody else could see.
Family movie nights kept happening too.
Bad movies. Good movies. Popcorn. Hermione asleep before the ending. Mom covering her with a blanket. Dad commenting on the film like the director could hear him.
And in the middle of all of that… magic.
Small. Controlled. Sometimes it failed.
Hermione wasn't in a hurry. She enjoyed the trying. If a feather moved half a centimeter, that was a legitimate victory.
The year slipped by without warning.
One day we were ten.
Then, almost eleven.
I counted the months without saying anything. I knew something was coming. I didn't know when, but I felt it close—like a train you still can't hear… and then suddenly it's already in the station.
No one else knew.
Until one morning, the doorbell rang.
The bell rings, and for a second, nobody moves.
Mom reacts first. She wipes her hands on her apron for no reason—like the motion buys her time to think—and walks to the front door.
Dad stays where he is, but he straightens his back. Hermione presses into the couch. I don't do anything. I just listen.
The door opens.
I don't hear the usual "good morning" or a neighbor's footsteps. Just the creak of wood, the air coming in… and that strange silence that doesn't come from anyone.
Mom comes back holding two envelopes.
They're not like the others.
They're too white. Too clean. Too firm—like rain and dust don't dare touch them. And the writing… the writing is green, elegant, perfect. Like it was written by someone with all the time in the world.
Mom stares at them. Swallows.
Then she reads out loud without realizing she's doing it:
"Hermione Jean Granger."
Hermione goes still.
Mom lowers her eyes to the second envelope.
"Hadrien Julian Granger."
Dad lets out a short exhale—almost a nervous laugh that doesn't quite become a laugh.
"Who…?" he starts, but the sentence dies in his throat.
Mom runs her finger along the edge of the envelope like she's afraid it'll cut her, and she looks at me.
I don't look back for long. I already know.
Hermione does. Hermione stares at them like they might bite.
"Do we open them?" Mom asks, and even though she tries to sound normal, her voice shakes a little.
Dad leans forward.
"Open them," he says. "But… slowly."
Mom nods, and she opens Hermione's first.
The paper inside is thick. Almost heavy. It sounds different when she pulls it out, like it has more body than a normal sheet.
Mom unfolds it. Clears her throat once, and starts to read.
And while she reads, I notice small things—how her shoulders are tense at first… and how, line by line, they loosen without her even noticing.
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HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock; International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Miss Hermione Jean Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Enclosed you will find a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
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Mom goes still with the page in her hands, like the word "Hogwarts" just changed the temperature of the house.
Dad blinks.
"School…?" he says, slow. "Of magic?"
He says it like he's testing the idea. Like it might explode in his mouth.
Hermione is staring at the paper with huge eyes. She isn't breathing hard. She's just… looking.
Mom lowers the letter an inch. Looks at me. Then looks at Hermione.
"So… so they're telling us that…" she murmurs.
Dad stands up from the armchair, slowly, like he doesn't want to startle the air.
"Accepted?" he repeats. "Like… admitted? Like a real school?"
Mom nods once. And the strange thing is, the fear is still there on her face… but it isn't alone anymore.
Something else starts to show.
Surprise.
And under the surprise, a shy kind of joy—like it still doesn't dare to exist.
"It's… a school," Mom says, almost like she's convincing herself. "It has a start date. It has a book list."
Dad looks back at the page, like the signature at the bottom is an anchor.
"'Deputy Headmistress'…" he reads under his breath. "So there are headmasters. Teachers. Rules."
Hermione swallows.
"I'm going to… go to a school… like that?" she asks, and her voice comes out small, like she doesn't want to crack the letter in half.
Mom brings a hand to her chest. It isn't dramatic. It's automatic.
"It looks like it, sweetheart," she says—and her voice breaks a little on sweetheart.
Dad looks at Hermione and, for the first time since the letter came into the house, he smiles.
Not big. Not exaggerated.
But real.
"That… that is incredible," he says.
Mom takes a deep breath. And only then does she remember there's another envelope.
She holds it between her fingers, and for a second she hesitates. Like she's afraid that if she opens it, something will become too real.
I don't say anything.
Hermione sits up straighter.
Dad sits back down, but he does it differently now—he isn't slumped. He's present.
Mom opens my envelope.
And starts reading again.
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HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock; Supreme Mugwump; International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Hadrien Julian Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Enclosed is a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your reply by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Mom finishes, the silence that settles isn't bad.
It's the kind of silence that happens when an entire family is processing the same thing at the same time… and no one wants to be the first to say it wrong.
Dad rubs his face with one hand, like he's trying to wake up.
"So…" he says, looking at Mom. "Both of them."
Mom nods, her eyes shining.
Hermione looks at me.
She doesn't say anything. But I understand what she's asking.
Really?
And I understand her too.
Yes. Really.
Mom looks back at the envelopes, and only then notices there's more paper inside. Enclosures.
"There's… there's a list," she says.
And the way she says it is almost funny. Like it's the only thing her hands know how to do: follow instructions.
She pulls out the attached sheet from Hermione's envelope and starts reading. As she goes, her expression shifts again—from that big, overwhelming emotion to everyday surprise.
The kind of emotion she understands.
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LIST OF BOOKS AND EQUIPMENT
Uniform
First-year students will need:
Three plain work robes (black) One plain pointed hat (black) for daytime wear One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
(Parents or guardians are reminded that all pupils' clothing should carry name tags.)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"A hat?" Dad says, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. "A black hat?"
Mom gives him that look she gets when she wants to laugh, but doesn't want to "disrespect" something important.
"That's what it says," she answers, and there's warmth in her voice now. No more alarm.
Hermione covers her mouth with both hands, like a smile is about to slip out on its own.
I look up at the ceiling for a second.
Inside, I feel… weird. Not surprised. Not that. Just weird.
Because it isn't my secret anymore.
It's everyone's.
Mom keeps reading and moves on to the next section.
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Books
All first-year students will require a copy of:
Book of Spells — Miranda Goshawk History of Magic — Bathilda Bagshot Magic Theory — Adalbert Waffling Beginner's Guide to Transformation — Emeric Switch A Thousand Magic Herbs and Mushrooms — Phyllida Spore Magic Potions — Arsenius Jigger Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them — Newt Scamander The Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection — Quentin Trimble
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dad lets out a quiet "wow."
A real wow.
"Yeah… that sounds…" he says, searching for the word. "Serious."
"Yes," Mom replies. "It sounds like… a real school."
Hermione leans forward, like she wants to climb right into the page.
"A History of Magic…" she murmurs, like she can already feel the book in her hands.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her face is lit in a way I've never seen before. It's not just excitement. It's… belonging. Anticipation.
Mom keeps reading.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Equipment
First-year students will require:
A wand
A cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
A set of glass or crystal phials
A telescope
A set of brass scales
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl, a cat, or a toad.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dad freezes on the word "wand."
"A… wand?" he repeats, like his brain has decided that's the most ridiculous part of all of this.
Mom lets out a nervous laugh that, halfway through, turns into real laughter.
"And an owl," she says, pointing at the page. "We can bring an owl, too."
Dad opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"And… how do we reply?" he asks. "Do we send a letter… with an owl?"
Hermione laughs for the first time since the doorbell rang. A small, contained, happy little laugh.
Mom lowers the page and looks at both of us. Really looks at us.
And there—finally—her full joy slips out.
"My babies…" she says. Her voice trembles, but not from fear this time. "Both… both of you are going."
Dad runs a hand through his hair, messing it up like he doesn't know what to do with his body.
"This is…" he murmurs, and looks at Mom. "This is incredible."
At first his face had been worry. A shield. A what danger is this?
But now…
Now his face is something else.
Pride. Awe. And that kind of happiness that shows up when something huge finally takes the shape of something you can understand.
A school.
Books.
Dates.
Rules.
Mom sits on the edge of the armchair, still holding the pages like she's afraid they might evaporate.
Hermione inches closer. Not to me—to the letter. Like she wants to touch reality with her fingers.
Dad looks at the two letters, then looks at us.
"We're going to do this right," he says, firm. "We're going to reply. We're going to find out everything we need to. We're going to buy what it says here."
Mom nods quickly, tears already there without shame.
"Yes," she says. "Yes. Everything. Whatever it takes."
Hermione stops breathing for a second.
"Really?" she asks. "You're not… angry?"
Dad looks at her like the question hurts a little, and his face softens.
"No, sweetheart," he says. "We just… got scared at first. Because we didn't understand."
Mom reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Hermione's ear, her tenderness almost trembling.
"But this…" she says, looking at the letters. "This isn't something bad."
Hermione's smile wobbles, like part of her has been holding her breath since she was eight.
I look at the three of them.
And for the first time since my absurd death—since the pain, the cold floor, the rain…
I feel something like peace.
Not complete.
Not perfect.
But real.
Mom lifts the pages again, like she wants to read them one more time just to make sure it wasn't a dream.
"'The term begins on the first of September…'" she repeats softly.
Dad lets out a laugh—this time without fear.
"Well," he says, "I guess we've got work to do."
He looks back down at the list.
He traces it with his finger like it's a map.
Wand. Cauldron. Telescope. Scales. Books with impossible names. And, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, the option to bring an owl.
He frowns again, but now it isn't suspicion. It's pure logistics. Dad in full solve it mode.
He looks up.
"And… where do we buy all of this?"
The question hangs in the living room, simple and enormous at the same time.
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Many days later, when we were already starting to assume no one was going to reply at all, another envelope arrived.
It wasn't white like the Hogwarts ones.
This one was rougher. Thicker. The paper smelled a little like smoke and wet soil, like it had been carried around in the pocket of someone who lives outdoors.
Mom stared at it, suspicious. Dad stepped up behind her, trying to read over her shoulder.
On the front, in dark ink and big letters, it said:
The Granger Family
(Hadrien and Hermione)
Mom opened it slowly.
Inside there was a single sheet of paper, carefully folded, handwritten. The letters were huge and uneven, like whoever wrote them pressed the pen too hard.
Mom cleared her throat and started reading out loud.
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Rubeus Hagrid
Hogwarts
Hello, Granger family,
Sorry I didn't stop by sooner. I've had a whole lot on my hands these past few days and I just didn't manage it, but don't you worry, yeah? It's all sorted now.
I'm going to help you buy what you need for Hogwarts. I'll be waiting for you out front of the Leaky Cauldron on:
Sunday, August 4th, 1991, at 11:00 in the morning.
To get there, go to Charing Cross Road in London. The Leaky Cauldron's there, on the street. Non-magic folk usually walk right past it, so look carefully—it's between a bookshop and a shop.
If you get there a little early, even better. I'll be there. Don't worry about a thing—I'll guide you.
See you soon.
Sincerely,
Rubeus Hagrid
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Mom finished, she didn't say anything right away.
Dad didn't either.
Hermione gripped the edge of the paper with her fingertips, like the paper might slip away. Like all of it could still come undone if nobody touched it.
Dad was the first to breathe again.
"'Non-magic folk usually walk right past it'…?" he repeated, slowly.
Mom looked up. This time her face wasn't just worry.
It was that strange mix of fear and relief.
Like, finally, someone had answered the question nobody dared to say out loud.
And there on the page—clear as day—was the date.
Sunday, August 4th. 11:00.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"At last, it's the day," I say, unable to stop myself.
Hermione nods so fast she looks like she's had twenty coffees in a row.
"Yes, yes!" she says. "I can't wait to see the books and learn more…"
Her whole face lights up.
"MY WAND!" she squeals. "WE'RE GOING TO HAVE WANDS! AND POTIONS!"
Mom lets out a little giggle and covers her mouth with her hand in the rearview mirror. Dad drives with a grin from ear to ear, like he's heading to some secret amusement park too.
Hermione keeps talking. A lot. Too much. She bounces from topic to topic, asks Dad things, asks Mom things, asks both of them at the same time. I nod. I answer when I need to.
The rest of the drive, I stare out the window. The sky moves slowly, like it knows where we're going, too.
When we arrive, I notice it right away.
Wizards.
Weird hats. Cloaks. Clothes that don't even try to look modern. Everything is a little out of place… and at the same time, it isn't.
Hermione steps in and freezes, like the air feels different.
We get out of the car. Mom takes both our hands.
"Mom," I whisper, "do you see it now? The pub? Between the buildings."
"Yes…" she answers. "It's incredible. A moment ago there was nothing there."
"I still don't see anything," Dad says at my side.
I take his hand and make him look at the exact same spot.
His eyes go wide so dramatically I almost laugh.
"It's fantastic!" he says. "Ha!"
He looks forward again.
"Let's go in. Maybe our guide is inside. Hagrid, right?"
The Leaky Cauldron is… particular.
It's a bit dirty. Dark. Gloomy. No electric lights—just a few torches stuck into the walls, casting uneven light. The place smells like old wood, smoke, and something else I can't quite identify.
It's not exactly pretty.
We approach the bar. Dad clears his throat.
"Hello, good morning. I'm Dan," he says. "And this is my family."
The man behind the counter smiles.
"Ahh… Muggle parents," he says. "Here to shop for your children, are you?"
He leans forward a little.
"Name's Tom."
"Yes," Dad answers. "We're looking for someone named Rubeus Hagrid. He sent us a letter saying he'd guide us from here."
"Right you are," Tom says.
He points toward a corner.
Hermione and I are already looking.
How could we not?
The man is huge. Literally huge. He's sitting across from a skinny, small boy who looks almost swallowed by his chair. Next to him, he looks like a flea.
Harry Potter, I think.
Hagrid sees us first.
"Right on time!" he says in a deep voice. "You must be the Grangers."
He stands up and somehow takes up even more space.
"I'm Rubeus Hagrid."
He looks at Hermione.
"And you must be Hermione."
Then at me.
"And you must be Hadrien."
We both nod.
"Follow me," he says. "Not a place to hang around long."
We head out to the back courtyard. A narrow space, boxed in by old brick walls. A dead end.
Hagrid pulls out a pink umbrella.
He taps one brick.
Then another.
The bricks begin to move.
They slide. They turn. They shift aside.
The wall opens.
And on the other side—Diagon Alley.
Shops. Color. People. Magic everywhere.
Hermione loses her breath.
Mom brings a hand to her chest.
Dad says something I don't catch.
I don't say anything.
I just watch everything, trying not to miss a single detail.
Hagrid smiles, like this is normal.
For him, it's just another day.
For us…
it's the beginning of everything
***
4112 Words
I forgot to post—I've been busy.
This one ends on a cliffhanger, but it was necessary. At the time, I wasn't sure how to continue the scene, so I took a step back to clear my head and move into the next chapter properly.
I'm going to update the tags as well and confirm something: yes, there will be romance.
That said, I won't be writing explicit R-18 content in this story—it doesn't fit the tone. At most, there may be mild sensual/erotic moments, but nothing beyond that.
And yeah, I know an R-18 version would probably get more attention… but I'd rather keep this story true to what I want to tell.
Thanks for the continued support! ❤️