Be Wary of Clear Skies

3: Welcome to Diagon Alley!

Hermione had read the acceptance letter so many times she was certain she could recite it by heart. The letter, written on thick, yellowed parchment in dark green ink, lay on her pillow, perfectly still despite her best efforts to move it with her mind. She knew it was silly, but ever since she'd left Matron Brooke's office, doubt had been eating away at her insides. She'd spent days poring over the letter, hoping to find some hidden proof that she was indeed capable of magic. However, when no other option had presented itself, she'd returned to good old trial and error.

She narrowed her eyes on the letter in front of her, feeling the tension build in her eyebrows as she silently willed the parchment to move. It didn't. Instead, the words stared back at her, unwavering:

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.

Term begins on 1 September.

Yours sincerely, Headmaster McGonagall

Perhaps the Professor had been mistaken. Hermione had tried and tried for two days– she'd silently commanded the ugly vase in the living room to fall off its shelf, attempted to undo Ellie's shoelaces with her thoughts, tried to change the television channel without touching the remote, and of course, she had repeatedly attempted to make that blasted letter shift. But nothing. Not a single thing had even budged.

With a heavy sigh, she picked up the letter and the accompanying list. Today, the Matron was taking her shopping, and she knew she ought to get ready. The other girls were stirring, about to wake up, and Hermione did not want to queue for the mirror on an important day like this.

She got up, carefully tucked the letter and list into her satchel, dressed, and made her way to the mirror. Her hair was its usual wild self, and she grimaced as she struggled with the brush. Around her, the other girls were emerging from their beds, chattering sleepily. Hermione tugged a stubborn strand of hair into place and secured it with a hairpin, only to watch it coil back up, defiantly bulky against her head.

Frowning in frustration, she glared at her reflection. Surely, if she were truly a witch, she could straighten her hair with magic, couldn't she? Knowing it was probably hopeless, she fixed her gaze on the unruly lock and wished it smooth. Nothing happened. She stared harder. Still nothing. She clenched the brush in her hand, forcing herself to envision her hair lying perfectly straight and sleek. Yet the untidy curls remained, as infuriating as ever.

A sudden tap on her shoulder made her jump.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Ellie stood behind her, eyebrows raised in judgement.

Hermione didn't dare admit she'd been attempting to fix her hair with telepathy, so she simply stepped aside. Ellie eyed her as if debating whether to tease her, but then seemed to decide that the mirror was more pressing. The other girls were up and about by now as well, so Hermione returned to her bed, waiting for everyone to get ready to head down for breakfast.

After they had eaten, while the other girls dispersed for their day's activities, Hermione and Matron Brooke set off. A black cab picked them up outside the Home, and as the vehicle rumbled through the streets, Hermione felt the nerves flutter in her chest. She watched buildings glide past, growing taller and more narrow as they went through the city centre. They'd gone a lot farther from the Home than Hermione had ever traversed, and the tall buildings cast long shadows that made the streets feel colder, as if they were trying to hide secrets in the dark corners.

As they journeyed deeper into this peculiar part of town, the crowds thinned, and the shops seemed more and more abandoned—an old souvenir shop with dusty windows, a tea and coffee shop that looked as though it hadn't been redecorated in decades, and a quaint beauty salon with a sign so faded Hermione couldn't make out the name.