'Maybe it's Greg Wilson bringing back the lawnmower?' thought John as he headed for the door. 'Or those missionaries again…' He couldn't stand them; their beliefs clashed too sharply with his reliance on facts and logic. Today, feeling low, he was even less willing to see them. 'If it's them again, I'll tell them straight out what I think of their stupid faith,' he decided, already braced for a fight, as he threw the door open.
But the words he had prepared to unleash stuck in his throat. A woman in a dark coat and black hat stood before him. A strong wind whipped the edges of her coat, and she held her hat with one hand so it wouldn't fly off. She looked nothing like a missionary, and there was nothing of Greg Wilson about her either.
"Good evening, Mr. Granger," the woman said dryly, adjusting her glasses. Her stern look made John feel, for an instant, like a guilty schoolboy called into the headmaster's office. "I came to talk about your daughter, Hermione. May I come in?"
Thrown off by the unexpected turn, John stepped aside to let the stranger into the house. She walked confidently straight into the living room, leaving him no choice but to follow. In his head, questions lit up one after another: 'Who is she? How does she know his name—and his daughter's? What does she want from them?'
When Emma Granger saw the woman enter, she set her book aside and looked at the visitor in puzzlement. In the bright light, John got a clearer view of their unexpected guest: a middle-aged woman with stern features, dressed in a dark robe he had at first taken for an ordinary coat. On her head was a hat of unusual design, more like a pointed cap with wide brims.
The woman stepped inside without hesitation, took off her hat, pulled off her gloves, and said:
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Professor McGonagall."
She paused briefly, looking at Hermione's parents as she smoothed back her black hair, which was pulled into a tight bun.
"Professor?" John leaned forward slightly, his eyebrows raised. "And… from what you're saying, you've come to talk about Hermione? Did I understand that correctly?"
"That's exactly right, Mr. Granger. I've come to discuss her further education." McGonagall inclined her head a little. "May I sit down?"
She raised her eyebrows in question, and John quickly stepped aside, pointing to the nearest armchair.
"Yes, yes, of course!" The words tumbled out a little faster than usual. "Something hot? Tea? Maybe coffee? The weather outside is…" he glanced at the window, "not the friendliest today."
"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea," the professor replied evenly as she settled into the armchair, placing her gloves neatly on the armrest.
John hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on. What he really needed was this brief pause to pull his thoughts together. A professor, showing up in the evening to talk about Hermione's schooling… Why?
He couldn't shake the memory of his last meeting with the mayor — his angry stare, his lips pressed tight.
'He's just the sort who'd cook up some dirty trick,' John thought, bracing himself for a fight.
When the tea was ready, he went back into the living room. Emma sat in silence, and from her look it was clear she was thinking the same thing.
"So, Professor McGonagall," John Granger began as he sat down in the armchair, trying to keep his voice steady, "as I understand it, you want to discuss Hermione's studies at Oakridge School. Honestly, I didn't even know our local school had a professor…"
"That's not quite the case," McGonagall cut him off. "I don't teach at the local school."
John blinked, not understanding, and leaned forward slightly.
"So you're not from Oakridge?" he frowned. "Then what do you have to do with Hermione?"
"I'm afraid the school your daughter transferred to isn't right for her," the professor answered shortly once again.
The room went quiet. John and Emma froze, exchanged a glance, then both fixed their eyes on the visitor. John no longer had any doubt — this had the mayor's hand in it.
"But why?" Emma was the first to break the silence, her voice sharper than she intended.
"What are you talking about?" John jumped in at once. "I'm absolutely sure Hermione meets every requirement of this school!" His voice turned firm, defiant. "And no tricks from our mayor can change that."
He was ready to fire off dozens of arguments in Hermione's defense, convinced that the accusations of this woman, whom he considered brazen, were groundless. Expecting dirty tricks from the mayor, John had already gone over the legal side, consulted a lawyer, and now was ready to lay it all out with full confidence in his rightness.
"Calm down, Mr. Granger," McGonagall's voice stayed even. "Nothing serious has happened. And the mayor of your town, I assure you, has nothing at all to do with our talk."
Then she turned toward the bedroom door and, to everyone's surprise, said clearly:
"Miss Granger, there's no need to hide behind the door. I'll be glad if you join us in the living room. This conversation, above all, concerns you."
John and Emma looked at their guest in surprise, then, no less astonished, turned to Hermione, who had appeared in the doorway, looking embarrassed.
A minute earlier she had been sitting at the table, flipping through her new textbooks. At first the voices from the living room had sounded like ordinary adult talk, but then they grew louder, clearer, and she caught her own name. A sharp pang of worry hit her. She stood up and quietly went to the door, listening. Her father was just saying something about the mayor.
The mayor? Barbara? The blown-up textbook?
She didn't have time to think it through, because at that moment she heard the invitation to come in.
Hermione froze, her fingers gripping the doorknob tighter. How did this woman know she was standing there? But pulling herself together, she stepped into the living room. The stranger, who until then had stayed completely restrained, suddenly smiled. It was the first sign of emotion she had shown all evening.
"Miss Granger, I suppose you don't know my name," she said. "I am Minerva McGonagall, Professor Minerva McGonagall." She motioned toward the sofa. "Please, sit down. We have a serious matter to discuss."
Hermione sat next to her mother. Emma gripped her hand hard, not taking her eyes off their guest.
"So what's the reason then?" John asked, his impatience showing. "Explain yourself, please: why isn't Hermione suited for the local school?"
"I never said Hermione wasn't suited for the local school," McGonagall answered calmly. "Your daughter is without question an excellent student. What I said was that the school is not suited for her."
She paused, letting the words hang. The room went quiet, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock. John frowned, his eyes shifting from his wife to his daughter.
"What? What could that possibly mean?" he finally said, turning back to their guest.
A faint smile crossed McGonagall's lips.
"Before I explain what I meant," she said, "I want to ask you an unusual question about your daughter. Have you ever noticed strange things happening around Hermione that are hard to explain?"
"Strange things?.." John raised his brows slightly, then, after a pause, added, "Y-yes, I suppose…"
Hermione's eyes moved from her parents to the professor. McGonagall's words echoed in her mind — reminding her of everything she had always tried to dismiss as mere accidents. But now it was a stranger saying it. She felt a weight in her chest, as if she were about to hear something dreadful about herself.
"And what explanation do you have?" John asked, fixing his eyes on the guest.
"A very simple one," McGonagall replied evenly. "Though it may not be easy for you to accept."
She paused, looked at Hermione, and said:
"Hermione is a witch."
For a few moments everyone just stared at the professor, stunned, saying nothing and not fully grasping what she meant.
"Ha… ha…" Emma gave a nervous laugh. "A witch? Are you serious?"
"Is this some kind of joke?!" John shot back, his fighting spirit snapping right back. "What is this, a circus? And you — a clown in that ridiculous outfit?" He cast a scornful glance at her robe.
A flicker of a smile crossed McGonagall's lips. Without a word, she slowly pulled a slender wand from the folds of her robe and aimed it at a mug on the coffee table. She spoke a strange word and… the mug meowed.
In its place sat a fluffy cat. It stretched lazily, arching its back and flexing its paws, then, tail twitching, padded to the edge of the table and hopped lightly to the floor.
All of it happened in dead silence. Emma, mouth open, stared at the animal. John choked on the cutting remark he had lined up for McGonagall and watched wide-eyed as the former mug rubbed against his leg, purring! His right cheek twitched uncontrollably. Hermione, too, couldn't take her eyes off the cat. But in her eyes there was no fear — only delight, a child's wonder, and the urge to reach out and touch this miracle.
McGonagall looked over them all with a calm gaze. The corners of her mouth twitched in a faint, satisfied smile. She lifted her wand again, spoke a spell — and the cat was gone, replaced by the mug. She picked it up from the floor and set it back where it had been.
The room fell silent again.
"But…" after a few seconds John broke the silence, "that's… I mean… er… magic doesn't exist," he finished flatly, narrowing his eyes at the woman in robes. "You… it must be… hypnosis!" he blurted suddenly. "Yes! That's it! You hypnotized us!" His eyes flashed — he seized on what seemed like a reasonable explanation.
Emma, at last closing her mouth, shifted her gaze from her husband to their guest.
"Mr. Granger," McGonagall said with a faint smirk, her voice steady but edged with certainty, "of course you can try to explain this away as hypnosis. Muggles are always quick to invent the most elaborate explanations, just so they don't have to admit there are things in the world they can't understand…"
"Muggles?" John cut in, frowning.
"Yes. Muggles are people without magical abilities," the professor explained, leaning forward slightly. "But then how do you explain the odd things that happened around your daughter? Was that hypnosis too? Do you think she hypnotized you as well?"
John had nothing to say to that. He frowned, lost in thought, clearly running through every possible logical explanation in his mind. At that moment Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and said quietly:
"But I don't know how to do… uh… things like that…"
"Of course you don't, at least not yet," McGonagall replied evenly. "Skills don't appear all at once. They take time and… training. The right training."
She paused briefly, then added:
"That's why we're inviting you, Miss Granger, to become a student at our school of witchcraft and wizardry — Hogwarts."
The professor slowly reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out an envelope. The thick, yellowed paper looked like it came from another century, sealed with a round wax stamp.
Hermione took the letter with trembling hands. For a few seconds she stared at it, as if afraid that once she opened it — everything would change. Finally, taking a deep breath, she broke the seal. The smell of wax mixed with the faint scent of parchment.
She unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place 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,
Albus Dumbledore,
Headmaster
Hermione held the letter in her shaking hands. Her heart was beating as if it wanted to burst out of her chest. The letters blurred before her eyes, and only now did she realize it was because of tears. Inside, everything had mixed together: cold fear and warm, almost dizzying joy. Her mind tried to resist, to find explanations, but her heart already knew — this was it, the answer to all the strange things that had happened to her.
'Magic. Just magic! Ha! Who would have thought?!' flashed through her head.
She let out a breath, calmed a little, and whispered:
"I always thought magic was nothing more than stories for children…"
"And now you can be part of those stories yourself," McGonagall said with a slight smile, then turned to Hermione's parents. "I understand this may seem strange and unfamiliar to you. But Hogwarts is the best place for your daughter. We guarantee Hermione will be in safe hands."
"But… magic…" Emma said quietly, glancing from her daughter to the professor, as if still hoping she would smile, call it a joke, and reveal the trick behind some clever sleight of hand.
"We've always been more inclined to trust science," John added, sounding uncertain.
"Let me show you how striking the world of magic can be," McGonagall continued. "There are places where young witches and wizards learn to control their power and use it for good. Hogwarts is one of those places. There we teach how to work with magic, to value it, and to understand its nature."
John Granger frowned, weighing her words. A school for wizards — certainly not the kind of place he would have ever considered suitable for his daughter. But since they had already ruled out Silverleaf…
"All right, suppose…" he began slowly. "Given your title of professor, I take it the level of education at your school… er…"
"Hogwarts," McGonagall prompted softly, raising her chin slightly.
"…yes, at Hogwarts," John confirmed, as if tasting the word, "is high enough? Correct?"
"Absolutely," she answered. "As I said, Hogwarts is the best school of witchcraft and wizardry in Britain."
"So there are other schools?" John leaned forward a little.
"Yes, there are private schools for wizards in Britain. But their level is much lower."
"Then why do they exist at all, if the level is lower?" John's frown deepened, a trace of distrust in his eyes. "Usually, private schools aim for higher standards."
"Hogwarts is different in that we take students only by invitation," McGonagall explained patiently. "Like the one your daughter received. Private schools exist for those who never got such an invitation."
"Excuse me," Emma interrupted, "but you didn't mention your specialization. What subject do you teach?"
John lifted his brows slightly, also turning to the guest.
"Oh…" McGonagall hesitated for a moment. "I teach Transfiguration."
Emma blinked and tilted her head, as if trying to make sense of what she'd just heard.
"Configuration?" She repeated at last, frowning. "What sort of configuration is that? I don't think I heard you right."
"Transfiguration," the professor said again, clearly.
John and Emma exchanged a look. He gave a shrug, and Emma answered with the faintest lift of her brows — neither of them had the slightest idea what she meant.
"That's… something from the world of magic, I take it?" John said after a pause, leaning back a little in his chair and pressing his lips together like someone who doesn't like what he's hearing.
"Exactly," McGonagall confirmed. "Turning a mug into a cat, as you saw a few minutes ago, belongs to my subject."
"And what other subjects do they study at Hogwarts?" John asked warily. "I hope your mathematics is at a decent level?"
"Oh, the range of subjects is wide," McGonagall answered evenly. "From Transfiguration and Potions to the History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and many more. Each is important for the full development of a young wizard."
With every new subject McGonagall mentioned, Hermione's eyes grew wider with excitement. John, meanwhile, seemed to turn to stone: his lips pressed into a thin line, and something hard and unusually sharp appeared in his eyes.
"History of Magic? Potions?" he said, as if the word potions were something sticky and unpleasant. "And what about mathematics?" he almost shouted.
"I'm afraid mathematics isn't taught at our school," McGonagall replied in the same even tone.
"But without mathematics, how will they…" John began, but Emma cut him off:
"Wait, John," she said, leaning forward and turning to their guest. "If I'm not mistaken, you mentioned something about Defense Against the Dark Arts. What exactly are these dark arts? Does that mean… our daughter is in danger?"
Her voice shook, and she instinctively laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder.
"Unfortunately, there are wizards in the world who use their powers for evil," McGonagall explained quietly. "That subject is meant to prepare for such threats."
Emma's grip on her daughter's shoulder tightened.
"Then maybe she's better off not getting involved with magic at all?" she asked, her eyes locked on the professor.
"Dark magic exists whether you choose it or not," McGonagall answered after a brief pause. "You simply fail to notice its signs, taking them for accidents. It is far better to recognize it and defend against it than to leave everything to chance."
She kept quiet for another moment, letting them take in her words, then added:
"And most importantly, I'm sure there's no safer place in Britain for a young witch or wizard than Hogwarts."
John and Emma stayed silent, and Hermione quickly took the chance to speak:
"And where is your school?"
"In the north of Britain," McGonagall replied. "But you won't find it on any map — it's well hidden."
"But how will I be able to see my parents?" Hermione glanced at her mum and dad, the corners of her mouth sinking a little.
"During the holidays you'll be able to come home. And the rest of the time you'll keep in touch by owls."
"Owls?" Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and a doubtful yet eager smile crossed her face.
"Yes, postal owls," the professor explained. "They'll bring your letters to your parents, and theirs back to you."
Hermione imagined a large owl flying through their window with an envelope in its beak and let out a laugh. Emma, watching her daughter, smiled faintly in return, though worry still shone in her eyes. John, still fixed on McGonagall, absently adjusted his glasses.
"May I ask one more question?" Hermione said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye.
"Of course, Miss Granger," McGonagall replied with a friendly smile.
"Recently my parents and I visited a very beautiful and strange nature reserve… Could that be connected to magic?" She asked and held her breath.
"Tell me more," the professor said.
Hermione eagerly described their walk, the tall, almost fairy-tale trees, and, after a short pause, added the part about her mother's 'bite.'
"A bite?" McGonagall's eyebrows rose slightly, and her voice took on a note of concern. "From your description, Miss Granger, you were clearly in a place thick with magic. And bites from magical creatures or plants can be quite dangerous."
"Bites from plants?" John frowned, as if trying to decide whether this was a joke or not.
"Yes," McGonagall nodded. "But as I see, your mother is fine." Her eyes rested on Emma for a moment. "In any case, in such places it's always wise to be cautious."
"And unicorns are real too?" Hermione suddenly blurted out, struck by the thought.
"Of course," McGonagall answered, a bit puzzled. "You… saw them there?"
"Yes!" Hermione cried with excitement. "There were two unicorns tied to a tree…"
"Tied?!" McGonagall burst out, her voice stripped of its usual restraint. "You're certain?!"
Startled by her reaction, Hermione gave an uncertain nod.
"Y-yes… that's what it looked like."
"That is unacceptable!" McGonagall exclaimed sharply, real alarm in her voice. She went silent for a moment, as if quickly working something out in her head, then turned back to Hermione:
"Can you show me this place on a map?"
"Well…" Hermione hesitated, "…yes."
She pulled out a map of the Oakridge area and pointed to the spot. The professor bent over it, narrowed her eyes, then flicked her wand. In the air appeared a sheet of parchment with an exact copy of the marked place.
"My apologies," McGonagall said, her tone now official and businesslike. "I must leave immediately." She turned to Hermione:
"Tomorrow morning a Ministry of Magic official will come to you. He'll help with the school purchases and explain the next steps. I'll see you at Hogwarts, Miss Granger."
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger," she added, inclining her head slightly. "Please forgive my sudden departure…"
She set her odd hat on her head and with a loud crack vanished. The trick with the cat had impressed the Grangers, but the disappearance of their guest right in the middle of the living room left them in shock…
Hermione was the first to pull herself together. With a barely restrained smile, she got up and went to her room, wishing her parents goodnight. Lying in bed, she could still hear their voices from the living room — they were clearly arguing about her future. But for her, it was already decided: she would go to Hogwarts. And as her thoughts drifted into dreams, ever more fantastic images came alive — unknown places, strange creatures, and the adventures she had long wished for.