Hermione Granger and the Philosopher's Stone

Letters from Burbage

Bbbbbbbbuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz.  The doorbell rang insistantly, breaking through Hermione's concentration like an annoying swarm of wasps.  She readjusted her position, refocusing on the book she was reading.  She was stretched out, panther-like, on her double bed, one arm resting on the book, the other tangled up in her hair.  She had a lot of hair - thick, bushy brown locks that spiralled out of her scalp.  "Lucky girl"  her father would chuckle under his breath when she was younger, and her mother broke yet another brush trying to calm the mass of brown hair.  Mr Granger - a man who had started balding early and lost more hair every year - grew increasingly jealous of her hair the more he lost.  Mrs Granger was tall and thin, with straight, mousy blonde hair and pale skin.  She was a pretty woman, although some of her beauty seemed to Hermione to have been lost through lack of attention.  Hermione often wondered where she got her hair; some long-forgotten gene, she supposed, that resurfaced just in time to give her the hair she had.

Bbbbbbbbuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz.  The doorbell rang again, and Hermione sighed in frustration, slamming the book shut.  She sat up, slipped off the bed, and padded over to her bedroom door.

"SHALL I GET THAT?" she called down the stairs.  She heard her father drop a few more things downstairs in the kitchen, and start swearing loudly.

"YES PLEASE, DEAR" her mother yelled back.  Hermione leapt down the stairs two at a time, swinging round the banister with one hand as she always did.

"Honey, I've told you not to do that" her mother sighed reprovingly, emerging from the cellar with her hands ladened in food, and turning to go into the kitchen.  "It's bad for the banisters."  Since the heating broke, whenever they needed something kept reasonably cool they would store it in the cellar.  Hermione's dad had been promising for month's to fix it himself, and wouldn't let his wife call someone in, but somehow it hadn't seemed to happen yet.

Hermione ran to the door before the mysterious visitor could ring again, and pulled it open.  Standing in the porch was a short, stout, middle-aged lady with straw coloured hair and a weathered face.  She was wearing a smart pleated skirt and white blouse, with a thick, woolen overcoat.  What surprised Hermione though, was that she wasnt wet.  She knew it was raining - the rain was pounding far too heavily on the roof of the porch for her to miss it - and yet the woman wasnt wet.  Nor, could Hermione see an umbrella.  'She must just have one that folds up really small' Hermione thought to herself.

"Good Morning" the old woman said, smiling kindly.  "Im Professor Charity Burbage.  Is this the residence of Hermione Granger?"

"Yes, that's me." Hermione said,then cursed herself inwardly.  Perhaps she ought not to have said that - after all, she didnt know this woman, even though the old woman appeared to know her.

"May I come in?" Professor Burbage asked.  "I'd like to speak to you and your parents, if thats okay."  Hermione nodded, and stepped back from the door.

"Mum!" she called.  "There's a Professor Burbage to see you!"  Professor Burbage nodded, and smiled encouragingly.  Mrs Granger walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Good morning.  Im sorry, but if your selling anything then we're not interested" she said by way of greeting.

"Oh no, no, no" said Professor Burbage, still smiling, holding out a hand to Mrs Granger.  "My name's Professor Charity Burbage."

"Professor -" Mrs Granger repeated, "Professor of what, may I ask?"  At last, the professor's smile faultered slightly, and she looked around awkwardly.

"I - well, I think its best if we come to that later.  If you dont mind, Mrs Granger, I'd very much like to speak to you and your daughter, and your husband too, if he's available."