The Science of It All

By: Provocative Envy

CHAPTER ONE

When I was eleven years old, I discovered magic.

From a practical point, it made sense to me; I’d never been quite normal, never been able to conform to the strictest of societal standards—those of my peers, the prepubescent hierarchy baffling me even as it shunned me. When my parents would take me to church on Sundays, I’d look around at all the nice, average, happy people on their knees, reveling in moralistic ambiguity, and wonder to myself if they were in that subservient position because they wanted to be—or had simply tripped, fallen, the dictums of the world as they saw it preventing them from standing on their own. I learned about witchcraft in school, of course, learned about it through the cynical eyes of historians with too little faith in the unrealistic; I learned about the heretics, the witch-hunts, the multiplicity of fantasy melded with the possibility of fact that lay dormant in fables and fairytales and legends.

I was too analytical to be judged as different in the creative sense of the word; I was too awkwardly shy to be judged as different in the outspoken, socially detrimental way. There was simply something off about me, something curious in my demeanor, my gait, my gaze—my parents encouraged my intellectual integrity, my thirst for knowledge, the directness with which I purveyed my inquiries. The conclusion was drawn that nothing was wrong with me, exactly; I was just advanced for my age. And everyone accepted this explanation, and stopped asking me why I read so very much, and how it was that I absorbed information so readily, so easily.

And then, on a rainy day in late July, I chanced a glance out the window of my bedroom, hairbrush in hand, and smiled tentatively at the barn owl pecking at the glass. It took me mere moments to notice the letter tied to its leg—astonishment warred with the thrill of anticipation, expectation, a slow but sure realization that the ordinary-looking owl outside was searching for me. As if in a daze, I unlatched the window, letting the bird beat its wings and hold out its leg. Tentatively, hesitantly, unbelievingly, I untied the thick, parchment envelope from its skinny ankle. Within moments it had pecked at my fingertips and flown off, and I was left at an open window, rain soaking my wrists, a letter addressed to me, to my bedroom to be exact, in my hand.

And then everything was explained, everything made sense, and my love of rationality, reason, logic, was born.

I scoffed at ignorance, preened in my pretention, regained confidence in my uniqueness—everything that had been robbed by my unfortunate, lonely childhood returned with a vengeance, and when my parents’ initial skepticism was replaced by wholehearted, confused support, I took on an entirely new identity. Hermione Granger, silently solemn—but brilliant—daughter of dentists, was special.

It took a long time after I arrived at Hogwarts to acknowledge, begrudgingly, that in a school of people who possessed the exact same talents as I did, I wasn’t nearly as special as I wanted—needed—to be. In fact, the prejudice against me for being new to their world, to their heritage, was overwhelming; I began to wish that I’d never seen that owl, that I’d never had the impetuous temerity to open a window in the rain.

Draco Malfoy, an ethereally pale paradigm of my nightmare, was my singular introduction to this world of magic and marvels that had seemed like such a perfect escape from my real-life imperfections. After my parents had kissed me goodbye, after I’d loaded my luggage onto the steaming scarlet train, after I’d located an empty compartment and sat down—he and his hulking, idiot friends had opened the door, looked me up and down, and demanded to know if I was of Muggle parentage.

Thinking that my inconspicuous lineage would be impressive, would be a showcase of exactly how much I belonged, brand me worthy, I replied in the affirmative, eagerly, agreeably.

“So, you’re a mudblood…well, you won’t last long,” he’d said in response, his lips curling, his lackeys’ deaf-dumb laughter echoing in my fragile, naïve ears.

“What do you mean?” I’d asked, bewildered, unsure if I should be hurt, appalled, or angry.

He stared at me as if I was stupid before throwing his head back and laughing. Even in my hopeful, optimistic state I could recognize unfriendliness when it confronted me so blatantly.

“You don’t know? You’re only on this train because the Headmaster’s a senile, sympathetic old fool. You don’t really belong here. You’re a charity case. My father says the lot of you should be gone within the year, if he has anything to say about it,” he informed me, his tone supercilious, condescending—cruel, really.

Luckily, he decided I wasn’t worth the hassle any longer and set off to find more worthy companions, leaving me shaken and alone. I had read, of course, about this strange and backwards prejudice that pure-blooded wizard families had against people like myself; but I hadn’t believed, hadn’t let myself believe, that it still existed, especially not in such an arrestingly potent form.

But Draco Malfoy, I told myself, was just one boy. Surely other people thought differently. Surely I wouldn’t be as alone at Hogwarts, that remote, fantastical castle, as I had been at home.

And so I set my jaw, determination and desperation infiltrating my personality to such a degree that I was sure I came off as far more domineering and conceited than I was in actuality. But I’d been right, most people were nice, most people were like me, most people didn’t judge me quite so harshly for a parentage I really couldn’t have helped.

Over the years, I learned how to handle Draco Malfoy’s spite.

He never let me forget who I was and what I was; he never missed an opportunity to exploit my one and only weakness. I learned how to respond in kind, how to use sarcasm and wittiness and my wealth of unadulterated, unfiltered rage at his defects—namely, his scorn for me—to verbally disarm him. Our battles increased in frequency and hostility as we grew older.

By the time we reached our last, final year together, we’d reached a standstill.

There was nothing we hadn’t said to each other, nothing we’d bothered to hold back, nothing new to torment the other with. By October, we’d stopped acknowledging each other altogether, our boredom with the other’s presence palpable in the narrow stone corridors. By November, glares were barely even exchanged, our lives colliding so rarely that there seemed little point in continuing a war that had never been properly started.

Which was why I was so surprised when he sat down across from me in the library in early December, a malicious smirk in place.

“Yes?” I asked tightly, more irritated by his interruption than by him.

“Granger. Mudblood. It’s been…awhile,” he remarked casually, caustically. My spine stiffened at his tone.

“Malfoy. I’d call you something more derogatory, but I can’t think of any terms that do your depravity justice,” I responded wryly, watching his face.

“Justice is such an outdated concept, Granger. I’m surprised you’re not investing yourself in something more innovative,” he replied, sarcasm a thin veil for his not-so-subtle reference to our respective birthrights. He wasn’t a stranger to irony.

“Incest is outdated too, Malfoy, but that doesn’t seem to stop your family, does it?” I pointed out, smiling humorlessly.

“Someone’s feeling open-minded today,” he commented, inspecting his fingernails.

“Quit playing the hypocrite for five seconds, Malfoy. What do you want?” I demanded.

“Nothing.” He paused, waiting a few moments before catching my furious gaze and saying, “Nothing now, that is. I happen to know that something that might interest you is happening tonight, midnight, in the Astronomy Tower, though.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded, incredulous, and immediately suspicious.

“Interest me?” I repeated, arching my eyebrows. “In what way? The way that your father’s incarceration interests me, or the way Filch’s detentions interest me?”

His face twitched—a restrained flinch.

“Just be there. I promise you won’t be disappointed. Or maybe you will be—who really knows?” he called back over his shoulder as he walked away.

Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to my homework, dismissing him and his obvious attempt at a prank. Did he really think I was that stupid? Midnight? The Astronomy Tower? Almost instantaneously, I realized that no, no he didn’t think I was that stupid. So what was he really playing at? If he knew I wouldn’t show?

Well, maybe I would show. Just to see.

It couldn’t hurt.