Hermione had never seen her parents look so completely out of their depth.
Her mother, usually so calm and poised, kept glancing around the Leaky Cauldron as though she half-expected to wake up in her own bed and find it all a dream.
Her father was gripping her shoulder just a little too tightly, as if afraid she might disappear into the crowd.
But Hermione didn't mind the pressure. She was afraid she would vanish, too. That any moment, the door behind them would slam shut and the strangeness would melt away.
But Harry was there. And somehow, that made everything feel…steady.
They passed through the main room of the Leaky Cauldron, ignoring the curious looks from witches and wizards sipping tankards of frothy drink.
At the back, Wanda turned to them, her expression calm and serious.
"I know you must have many questions," she said, her voice low. "And you'll have time to ask them. But not here."
Richard swallowed. "Where exactly are we?"
Wanda held up a hand. "Please—no questions yet. And…while we're among wizarding folk, it's best you don't call us by name."
Anne's brow furrowed. "Why ever not?"
Wanda's mouth quirked. "Because some of us are…recognizable. And we prefer not to be recognized."
Hermione looked at Harry, confused, but he only gave her a small, secretive smile.
Then Wanda lifted her hand and made a subtle gesture.
In an instant, Hermione felt the oddest sensation—like warm water trickling over her skin. She looked down in shock.
Her cardigan and skirt were gone, replaced by deep blue robes fastened with silver clasps. Even her shoes had turned into neat leather boots.
Her parents were dressed similarly—her father in charcoal wizard robes, her mother in deep green.
"What on earth—?" Anne began, but Wanda raised an eyebrow.
"Later."
Hermione swallowed, nodding. Her heart hammered.
Wanda and America pulled up their hoods. Harry did the same, tugging his cloak to shadow his face.
Then Harry turned to her, his wand appearing from his sleeve like something entirely natural.
"Try not to stare too much," he murmured, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Act natural."
"Act natural?" Hermione hissed. "I'm dressed like a character from The Sorcerer's Apprentice!"
But he was already facing the brick wall. He tapped a brick near the center three times, then tapped two others in quick succession.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the bricks began to tremble and shift, scraping against each other like puzzle pieces.
A tall archway formed before them, opening onto a bright cobbled street bustling with figures in robes and pointed hats.
Gasps broke from all three Grangers.
"Welcome," Harry said simply, "to Diagon Alley."
If the Leaky Cauldron had felt unreal, Diagon Alley was something out of a dream.
Shops crowded both sides of the narrow lane, their windows bursting with things Hermione couldn't begin to name.
A display of shimmering cauldrons in every metal imaginable. Broomsticks floating gently in midair. A sign proclaiming Galloping Gargoyles! Half-Price on Self-Stirring Cauldrons!
And the people—men in plum-colored robes, a witch with a hat shaped like a giant daisy, a gaggle of children pointing excitedly at the ice cream parlor.
Hermione could barely take it in.
Her father's mouth was slightly open.
Her mother clutched her elbow as though she needed the contact to stay upright.
"I've never…" Anne breathed. "I've never seen anything like this."
Hermione swallowed, feeling her heart beat high in her throat. "It's…incredible."
They walked slowly down the street.
Harry drifted closer to her, voice low so only she could hear. "That's Ollivander's," he said, nodding at the narrow shop with peeling gold letters. "Where witches and wizards get their wands."
Hermione shivered in delight. "Wands," she whispered.
"Flourish and Blotts is the big bookshop." He gestured ahead to a tall building with windows stacked high with leather-bound tomes. "You'd probably like it."
"I think I'd live there," she admitted, unable to help herself.
She tried to ask more—What do people study here? Do they go to school? Is this where you bought your wand?—but every time she opened her mouth, Wanda glanced over her shoulder and said firmly:
"Later."
They passed shop after shop—an apothecary with jars of bright powder, a place selling brass scales, a pet emporium with owls and cats and toads all peering from cages.
At one point, they paused in front of a gleaming white building.
Hermione tilted her head back, squinting up the marble steps.
"What is that?"
Harry's eyes were solemn. "Gringotts," he said quietly. "The wizard bank."
"Bank?" Richard repeated faintly.
"Yes," America said cheerfully. "Run by goblins."
"Goblins," Anne repeated, as if testing whether she'd misheard.
Hermione was about to ask if that was some sort of nickname—when she caught sight of a hunched figure with a pointed nose and long, clever fingers moving behind the tall brass doors.
Her father cleared his throat, voice a little strangled. "I think… I need to sit down."
At last, Harry led them to a handsome restaurant tucked between two wizard tailors' shops. The windows were etched with curling letters that read The Gilded Chimera.
Inside, the light was warm and golden, and a server in silver robes led them to a private booth with velvet curtains.
Hermione slid onto the bench seat beside her mother, still dizzy with everything she'd seen.
Wanda lifted her hand, tracing a delicate sigil in the air. A soft shimmer spread over the booth—like the hush that falls after snowfall.
"No eavesdropping," Wanda explained, folding her hands on the table.
Richard leaned back, exhaling. "Thank you."
Anne smoothed Hermione's hair. "Could someone… please explain what we just saw?"
Hermione held her breath, her hand closing around the edge of the table.
Harry and Wanda shared a look.
Then Wanda inclined her head and said gently:
"All right. You've earned some answers."
Hermione's heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. She had never seen her parents look so disoriented—her father's face pale, her mother clutching her handbag in her lap as though it might anchor her to reality.
Harry's voice was the only steady thing.
He leaned forward, folding his hands carefully on the table.
"The simplest way to explain it," he began, "is that there are two worlds living side by side. One is the world you've always known—the Muggle world."
"Muggle?" Richard repeated faintly.
"That's what wizards call non-magical people," Harry explained. "Muggles."
"And the other," Wanda added quietly, "is the magical world. Wizards and witches have lived alongside Muggles for centuries, but always in secret. We have our own schools, our own laws, our own government."
Richard looked like he might faint.
"But—surely—surely we would know if there were thousands of people doing…magic!"
Harry shook his head. "They're very good at staying hidden. Everything you saw today—Diagon Alley, Gringotts, the Leaky Cauldron—it's all protected by spells to keep Muggles out. You only saw them because you were with us."
Hermione's mind was reeling.
She pressed her palm to the table, searching for something solid.
"You mean…all this time… I wasn't just…" She swallowed hard. "I wasn't just strange."
Harry looked at her with something gentle and fierce all at once.
"No," he said firmly. "You were never strange. You were magical."
Anne took Hermione's hand, her own eyes shiny.
"But…how do you know?" she whispered.
Harry turned to her father. "Think about the times when Hermione was upset or scared. Did anything ever happen—things that couldn't be explained?"
Richard opened his mouth to deny it—but the words caught.
Hermione watched as memories flickered over his face.
The time she was three and locked out in the cold garden—and all the tulips burst into bloom in the dead of winter.
The time she fell from the high slide at the playground—and floated safely to the ground.
The time she screamed at the boys who tore her picture book—and the pages reassembled themselves before their eyes.
Anne covered her mouth. "Oh, my God."
Hermione's heart was racing. "Mum…"
Her father looked up, voice hoarse. "All this time… we thought…"
Harry's voice was quiet but certain.
"She's a witch," he said simply. "And she's not alone."
Hermione felt something unfurl inside her chest—a tightness she hadn't known she carried.
"I'm really…a witch?" she whispered.
Harry smiled. "The first time I met you, you did magic without meaning to. You tied that boy's shoelaces together. That's how I knew."
Hermione stared at him, her eyes filling.
"I thought I was broken," she admitted in a very small voice.
Wanda reached across the table and took her hand.
"You were never broken," she said. "You were always extraordinary."
They sat there for what felt like hours, asking question after question.
"What about your government?" Richard asked eventually.
"It's called the Ministry of Magic," Harry explained. "They handle magical law, regulation, international relations—everything."
"Your money—" Anne began.
"Galleons," Harry said. "That's wizard currency. And Sickles and Knuts. You'll get used to it."
"What about school?" Hermione burst out. "How do you learn all of this?"
Harry's smile turned a little wistful.
"There's a school called Hogwarts," he said. "It's in Scotland. It's where most British witches and wizards go when they turn eleven."
"And you'll go there too," America added. "When you get your letter."
Hermione pressed both hands to her cheeks. "This is real. This is all real."
"Yes," Harry said softly.
Their food came—platters of roast meat she'd never heard of, bread that refilled itself, glasses of golden pumpkin juice.
Richard eyed his plate suspiciously.
"This won't…turn me into anything, will it?"
America laughed, shaking her head.
Hermione tasted the pumpkin juice and nearly choked on her delight. "This is the best thing I've ever had."
Anne was smiling through tears. "Look at you," she whispered. "You're glowing."
Hermione felt it. She felt seen.
When the meal was over, Wanda stood.
"I know this is a lot," she said gently. "But you don't have to learn everything at once. You'll have time."
Hermione's eyes were bright with determination. "I want to learn everything. All of it."
Harry grinned. "I thought you might."
They stopped by Flourish and Blotts on the way out. Harry paid for a stack of introduction books—A Beginner's Guide to Magic, Hogwarts: A History, Modern Magical Society.
Hermione clutched them to her chest as though they were treasures.
"You really didn't have to," Anne protested as Harry handed over more gold coins.
"I wanted to," Harry said simply. "No witch or wizard should start out without a few good books."
Outside the Leaky Cauldron, the sun had begun to set.
Hermione's father had insisted on making one final stop—Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.
He bought no fewer than eight flavors, sampling each with the wonder of a man discovering a new planet.
Hermione ate lavender honey ice cream while standing beside Harry.
"You really don't mind?" she asked softly. "Answering all my questions?"
He looked at her with that serious, searching gaze.
"I was alone for a long time," he said. "It's better when you have someone to tell you you're not."
She swallowed.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He shook his head. "Don't thank me. Just promise you'll write if you think of more questions."
"I will," she said. "I promise."
And as they walked back to the Muggle street, Hermione Granger felt—at last—like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Before Harry had taken Hermoine to Diagon Alley, he and Hermione had spoken two or three time a week. Sometimes he'd call, sometimes she would, each conversation were full of fun stuff.
After that day, everything changed.
Hermione called almost every evening.
Sometimes it was because she'd finished Hogwarts: A History (twice) and had follow-up questions that could fill entire notebooks.
Sometimes she'd simply ring him up, breathless, to blurt:
"Harry—what exactly is a Squib? I read about them, but the book didn't explain—"
Or:
"Why do they ride broomsticks when there are perfectly good trains?"
Or:
"Is Quidditch really as dangerous as it sounds? Because that Bludger thing seems frankly barbaric—"
And Harry would listen, smiling, and do his best to answer every question.
He liked it, actually. The way her voice went bright and eager whenever she learned something new. The way she never pretended not to care.
A week after their visit to Diagon Alley, Harry had been sitting at the kitchen table when an idea struck him.
He took out a scrap of parchment and began to write a quick note.
A few minutes later, he tied it carefully to the leg of the tawny owl perched on the windowsill—one of the birds Wanda sometimes used for correspondence.
"Take this to Hermione Granger," he murmured.
The owl bobbed its head, then launched into the sky.
Hermione found the note waiting on her pillow that evening:
Hermione,
I thought you might like these.
You don't have to return them quickly. Take all the time you want.
—Harry
Attached was a tidy stack of slim books. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. An Introduction to Charms. Theories of Modern Magic.
Hermione didn't sleep a wink that night, she was so busy reading.
And so it began.
Every week, she'd finish a set of books and tie them back to the owl's leg with a neat thank-you note tucked between the covers.
The next day, another parcel would arrive.
Sometimes she'd include questions scrawled in the margins.
Harry got into the habit of replying with small slips of parchment:
Yes, there are house-elves at Hogwarts.
No, you don't have to ride a broom if you don't want to.
Yes, the portraits really move. And no, I don't know if they sleep.
One rainy evening, Hermione called him as soon as she'd gotten home from school.
"Harry," she said, voice buzzing through the line, "I want to see it all again."
"The Alley?" he guessed, leaning back in his chair.
"Yes. Just us this time," she said quickly. "If that's all right. I—I don't want to trouble your mother and your sister."
"You're not troubling anyone," Harry said. "But yes. Of course."
"Maybe—" She hesitated, voice small. "Maybe we could go next weekend?"
He smiled to himself. "I'd like that."
There was a pause, then she blurted, "Thank you, Harry."
"For what?"
"For…making me feel like I belong somewhere."
He thought about all the days he'd sat alone in the Dursleys' house, wondering if he was broken or cursed.
He knew exactly what she meant.
"You do belong," he said simply. "You always did."
That Saturday, Harry dressed carefully. Not in wizarding robes, but in neat trousers and a sweater Wanda said made him look "respectable but not suspicious."
Wanda watched him as he straightened his collar.
"You look nervous," she observed.
Harry shrugged. "It's Hermione. She's… She's different. She actually cares about all this."
Wanda's smile was soft. "It's good to have a friend like that."
America grinned from where she was lounging near the fireplace.
"Try not to cause a magical scandal," she teased.
"I'll try," Harry promised, rolling his eyes.