A/N: I don’t own Harry Potter or King Kong. They belong to J. K. Rowling and Merian C. Cooper respectively.

Prologue

The Burrow was one of those places that sparked people’s curiosities. It wasn’t just because of its dilapidated state – it looked like it would topple the moment something as slight as a feather graced it – neither was it simply due to the quirkiness of its inhabitants, wizard, witch or creature. Rather, it had an air of mystery and secret about it. The Weasleys would never admit it – although this could be due to the fact that none of them were aware of such a speculation – but the Burrow looked somewhat deceptive. On first glance, you would not have guessed a family of as big as nine could live in there at all, let alone reside in comfort and warmth. It barely looked like it would adequately fit a family of three. Any unknowing passer-by was actually more likely to think of it as a haphazard lair of some mad loner of a warlock with anger issues (he’d probably hexed his own house out of irritation, hence its decay), and would have shied away immediately.

However, Hermione would have scoffed at these people given the chance. For all her years bunking in with the Weasleys on various summers, she had felt nothing but hospitality, kindness and affection. It had been that way ever since she had first arrived there. The Burrow wasn’t just another building she could forego. It had become a third home to her – after her parents’ house in London and Hogwarts of course. To say she was happy to return to the Burrow was a deep understatement.

Hermione found that whatever task she undertook at the Weasleys’, her actions were not the least bit contrived. Be it helping Ginny weed the garden, or aiding Harry and Ron in feeding the chickens and degnoming the backyard, she always did it all out of gratefulness and thus, she never complained. So naturally, when Mrs Weasley’s request for her to help clear out the attic came, Hermione accepted it without a fuss.

The naked light bulb that swung like a pendulum of a grandfather clock above Harry’s, Ron’s and Hermione’s heads was the only source of light in the attic. The windows that would have let glorious sunlight shine through were thickly and impenetrably coated with grime the shade of algae. Layers of slate-grey dust caked everything in the attic, and the Weasley family ghoul was only barely visible in a dark crook that greatly resembled a marsh. One could witness the floating dust moats around the room. Overall, the room smelt slightly damp, the air was humid and the ghoul snored terribly. It felt rather uninviting, but the trio had promised Mrs Weasley a decently-cleaned attic and well, nobody liked to see Mrs Weasley on a bad day.

They decided to divide and conquer; splitting the large piles up so each had more than enough to sort through. However odd it may seem, there was still some organisation in the heap. Harry’s section turned out to mainly consist of old Quidditch equipment and school supplies. Ron, on the other hand, had to deal with family heirlooms in the forms of statuettes and trophy objects. Finally, Hermione conceded to sorting out the old clothes and tomes that cluttered her corner of the attic. The group sifted through the piles as though on an archaeological expedition. While Ron tossed little figurines aside in distaste, Harry and Hermione dug through their mounds enthusiastically, immersed in that which interested them.

Hermione squealed as she picked through her lot. Books had always been her preferred avenue. “Merlin, I’d never thought I’d ever come across volumes such as these! How come you didn’t tell me your family had them, Ron?” she asked excitedly.

“Do I look like the kind of person who stays up in a smelly old attic all day finding books? I’m sorry, but I’ve got better things to do with my time,” Ron shot back irritably. “Besides, the reason they’re all up here’s probably because Dad was just iffy and bought a whole bunch of Muggle books from something called an Oxfam. The last time he brought back a load of it, Muriel threatened to blast the house apart – she was visiting, you see. So Dad had to chuck it all up here and promise never to look at it again to make her happy. Now, they’re probably ancient history in his mind. I don’t think he’s ever going to sort this all out if we don’t do it for him.”

“Do you think he would mind if I took some of these though?”

Ron shrugged. “Go right ahead. Like I said, Dad’s probably already forgotten he has these.”

The night was hot and as a result, Hermione decided to crack the windows of the bedroom she was sharing with Ginny. The youngest Weasley was downstairs playing with Crookshanks. Hermione herself was reclining on her bed on top of the comforter with one of the old volumes she had borrowed from the Weasleys sitting open on her lap. Earlier, she had spent a good fifteen minutes admiring the chocolate-coloured velvet jacket embossed with makeshift precious stones. Its title, The World of Kong: A Natural History of Skull Island, was sewn into the fabric with metallic thread.

That very title had been etched in her memory since the first time she came across it. Just the name – Skull Island – intrigued her. For awhile, she had been searching for the book. She’d even thought to check the Muggle bookstores and libraries and yet there was no sign of it. Some librarians had even turned her away, claiming to be unaware that such a book even existed. From the looks of the copy she had propped up against her thighs though, it was definitely a collector’s piece.

Although Hermione was usually a quick reader, she took her time, slowly digesting the encyclopaedia’s contents. It was as though everything in it was too unbelievable for her to grasp by glances. Her shrewdness kept her from believing much that she took in from the book describing the expeditions of one Carl Denham and his crew on ‘Project Legacy’. Evolved dinosaurs, a twenty-five-foot gorilla that sparked their travels, and other unfathomable flora and fauna all seemed too far-fetched. Hermione was judicious enough not to be easily fooled by bedtime-story horrors after all. And that was what they all were to her – tales to shake the hearts of timid children. She soon grew disinterested in the book and tossed it aside, figuring that finishing it would be a huge waste of time. She was genuinely disappointed and was just about to retrieve another tome from the stack next to her bed when the door swung open and a scarlet-faced Ron stormed into the room.