1 Sept, 1991

Dear Mum and Dad and Uncle L,

I'm in Gryffindor! If you'll recall from our discussions on Hogwarts: A History, that's the house reserved for the fearless and bold. I'm not entirely sure it's the right fit, but the sorting hat was quite insistent even though it thought about Ravenclaw for a bit too, that's the smart and studious house. It mentioned Slytherin too, but only for a moment, apparently they don't usually like people who don't have magical parents, no matter how ambitious. Which seems short-sighted to me, if you're so ambitious, wouldn't you want to work with anyone who's talented, regardless of their parents? It's silly.

It's only the first night so I'm still getting to know my classmates, but my roommates seem nice, they're a bit girly but it's early yet. Harry Potter is in Gryffindor too, I met him on the train and he seemed less impressive than he did in the books so I think there may have been some creative license.

Sorry this letter is so short, but it's late and the excitement has been quite exhausting. Tomorrow I'll ask a prefect where to find the Owlery so I can send my first official letter home!

Love to all of you, please give Baskerville a million hugs for me,

Hermione

10 October, 1991,

Dear Uncle Lou,

I hate it here. Is that terrible?

I can't tell mum or dad, not after all the convincing I had to do to come in the first place, but the girls in my dorm are completely uninterested in anything but makeup and boys, and the boys only care about quidditch, which is just as boring as football and three times as dangerous.

I will never be convinced that broomsticks are an acceptable mode of transportation. Not ever.

Plus, while most of my professors are lovely, my potions professor is truly horrendous, always picking on students, especially Gryffindors. To borrow a quote from Lewis, his name is Severus Snape, and he almost deserves it.

Anyway, I'm sorry to be so glum, I'm just miserable and then I feel bad for being miserable because I'm in this amazing place learning all kinds of new things and everyone makes fun of me for being excited. Like I'm the crazy one!

Hopefully my next letter will be more positive, but even if it isn't, I should look on the bright side, right? One day school will be behind me, and I'll be off running the world or breaking new ground in research, and then it won't matter whether or not I had people to sit with at lunch.

Love,

Hermione

6 June, 1992

My Absolute Favorite (albeit only) Uncle in the World,

As much as things have gotten better since I first came to school, I think I'm ready to do nothing but read and loaf about for the summer. I sat my last exam this morning, and I think I did fairly well although I know I could've done better on my essay for History and I'm quite sure my Potions professor will dock points just on sheer dislike, which is horrifically unfair but in keeping with his character.

I shouldn't speak ill of professors, but he's a difficult man to speak well of.

Anyway, I'm off to post this, and in a few days I'll be home, and I can tell you absolutely everything about this year that was too interesting to put on paper. I highly doubt anything interesting enough to write home about will happen between now and the leaving feast tomorrow, but now that I say that I'm sure I've jinxed myself.

Actually jinxing oneself is a very difficult thing to do, I've learned, because it requires intent and it's difficult to intend to cause harm to oneself, but I'll save that digression for after I'm home.

Love and First Editions,

Hermione

25 September, 1992

Dear Uncle,

I think I'm in love. Obviously it's entirely unrequited, as the man in question is my Defense teacher and so completely too old, but he's handsome and gallant and the things he's done are so incredible that I don't think I ever stood a chance.

Even his name sounds like something out of a Byron poem, or something. Gilderoy Lockhart. It's beautiful. He's beautiful. I know you're laughing at me, and I don't even care, that's how in love I am.

In less pleasant news, I learned a new word yesterday. I make a habit of it, thanks to your guidance and support (although I'm still curious what kind of upbringing you had that made toasters a revelation but words like loquacious and anodyne as second nature).

Regardless, the word in question was mudblood. A boy in my year, Draco Malfoy, who I believe I've mentioned before, called me that, and from the reactions of everyone around me it was both rude and completely out of bounds for an argument between classmates. As insults go it's fairly straightforward, isn't it? Anyone with even the slightest bit of knowledge of the magical world's particular brand of bigotry would be able to understand it, even if they'd never heard it before. You wouldn't even really have to know anything to know that it's not just an insult to one's character, but to one's own entire self. Wizards and muggles both seem to enjoy hating people because they were born "wrong".

Is it silly that it upset me? I know I'm no less than anyone else, I'm at or close to the top of our year in every subject, but I hate that it won't matter to some people, because no matter how much I memorize I can never make up for not having been born in this world.

This is one of those letters I'd prefer you didn't discuss with my parents. If mum thought I was being hurt, or even just made uncomfortable, she'd try to burn the whole wizarding world down to protect me from it. I think she might actually succeed, too. I'm quite confident she'd have been in Gryffindor, if she'd been a witch. Dad, of course, would have been in Ravenclaw. I'm not sure about you, I want to say Ravenclaw, you're the smartest and best read person I know, but that doesn't quite fit.

Back to happier subjects, I quite enjoyed Watership Down, and despite only being half done with Hitchhikers Guide I want to read everything Adams has ever written. I loaned the former to a friend, Neville, but I'll return it as soon as he's done with it. I'm trying to convince Harry to read Redwall, but getting him to focus on anything but snitches is a fool's errand these days. Surprisingly, I caught Ron with it when he thought I wasn't looking, so could you send a few more of those when you have time?

With all my absolute gratitude for your discretion,

Hermione

10 December, 1992

Mum,

Due to some extra credit work, I will not be returning home for the Christmas holidays. Also, he would hate it if he knew I was saying this, but from what I can tell Harry's home life isn't a happy place to be at the best of times, so I hate the idea of him spending Christmas alone in the castle when I can stay here and keep him company.

I know you won't be mad, but please don't be sad about it either. I love you and dad and uncle Leo and Grandmère and Granda so much, but my friend needs me, and I would never forgive myself if I could have helped and didn't.

Love,

Hermione

2 April, 1993

Dear Uncle Lee

Sometimes I wonder how many of my secrets you'll be willing to keep. It's not that I don't trust you, not at all, I think I trust you more than anyone in the world, but part of trusting you means that sometimes you'll tell my parents things even if I don't want you to, because you're all adults and you're all supposed to know what's best.

That's all rather ominous, I suppose. Truly, I'm completely safe, but the more I learn about the whole magical world, the more I realize that might not always be the case. Things are just so much, all the time; no matter how easily some of them are undone, they can still be done. Harry broke a bone during a quidditch match, and then someone vanished all the bones in his hand and gave him a potion to regrow them. Is it terribly muggle of me that I can't imagine a life where that all just happens, and everyone rolls their eyes and moves on? There's a potion that can give you someone else's face for an hour, and it's not even that difficult to make, so how do you ever know people are who they say they are?

Maybe I'll graduate and go into some boring desk job kind of career, and never worry about anything more frightening than papercuts. And small talk.

Anyway, Harry and Ron still aren't taking final exams seriously, I suspect they won't until it's too late for all my study guides to be much help, and Malfoy is still a horrifically annoying git, with much too high an opinion of himself. One day I hope to correct that misplaced ego.

Love,

H

2 September, 1993

Dear Uncle Leo,

In case it didn't sink in the last forty-seven times I mentioned it, I hate that you're so perceptive. And also that you seem to understand, better than any other muggle I know, how dangerous the wizarding world can be. So, as promised, I'm writing to inform you of the first (hopefully only) moment of danger I've experienced. The odds of the school having a second basilisk seem slim, so I'm optimistic.

I would also like to state, for the record, that I think you're being entirely paranoid. The danger was swiftly repelled by a responsible adult.

There was a thing called a dementor on the train. It looked a bit like the Grim Reaper, and they feed on happiness by removing it from the area around them. It was extremely unpleasant to experience.

Our new Defense professor (there's a curse on the position, so nobody's lasted longer than a year) cast a spell that drove it off, but I'm not sure what the spell was or how it worked. His name is Professor R. J. Lupin, and if I hadn't already learned the perils of schoolgirl crushes on professors, I think I would have this year. Or maybe I wouldn't have, and I would've just pined.

I would feel bad about subjecting you to thoughts like that, but you brought it on yourself by establishing yourself as my closest confidant, and worse, being very good at it (Hufflepuff, perhaps?). If I had girl friends my own age I would foist this off on them, but my roommates are still irredeemably silly so you're stuck with me. The boys are unsuitable as well, because they're boys.

On a more serious note (pun not intended), apparently Sirius Black isn't a muggle after all, he's a wizard, and he's the reason dementors have been posted around the school. Professor Lupin said they usually guard the prison, Azkaban, which is another one of those things that everyone treats like it's normal despite being an obvious human rights violation, but also everyone in Azkaban seems to be genuinely terrible people, like the Death Eaters from the war, so maybe it's warranted?

He's also Harry's godfather, and the person who betrayed Mr. and Mrs. Potter, and he's going after Harry himself now. Everyone is very confident he can't get into the school, and with the dementors around we've been assured we'll be perfectly safe. Even so, I'll be careful, I promise. I overheard you and mum talking about him, so I know you're worried, and I want you to know I won't take any unnecessary risks.

I've included all the normal beginning of school discussion in my letter to mum and dad, and they always share, so I'll spare you a repeat. I was hugged rather ferociously by Colin Creevey, who seems entirely unaffected by our shared unpleasantness. His younger brother is the first year I mentioned who fell into the lake, so I assume the irrepressible enthusiasm is genetic.

Keep the poetry section warm for me,

Hermione

10 January, 1994

My darlingest Leonidas,

The boys are angry at me. Crookshanks has a vendetta against Ron's horrible sickly little rat, and an anonymous someone sent Harry some fancy broomstick, so nevermind that it wouldn't be the first, or even the second time someone tried to kill Harry during quidditch, I'm clearly the unreasonable one for wanting an adult to take a look.

And I'm so tired. Divination is rubbish. If I put into words what I'd be willing to do for a chicken tikka masala I'd be in Azkaban by the end of the day.

Please let me know if these sad sack letters annoy you, I'm just lonely and tired and frightened. Sirius Black, despite all assurances that it's impossible, has gotten into the castle twice, and I keep having nightmares where he's attacking Harry and then suddenly it's not him, it's you, and then it's Crookshanks, and then him again, and I'm surprised I don't have a new boggart.

Crooksy says to tell you he misses Baskerville dearly, and expects to catch up on all the good shop gossip as soon as we're home. Please inform us immediately if Miss Feminist Nonfiction and Miss Doorstop Fantasy have finally spoken or if they're still just mooning over each other from their respective sections.

All my love, for whatever that's worth,

Hermione

29 January, 1994

Uncle,

I write this evening from the quietest corner of the Gryffindor common room, which is still very loud, for our fearless warriors are celebrating their glorious victory in battle.

I'm not sure the Slytherin quidditch team are such dastardly foes as all that, but nobody agrees with me and it's more fun to play along.

The decision was also made, (I expect out of sheer determination to cause as much trouble as possible) to celebrate Burns Night a few days late. Our captain, Wood, became unintelligible several drinks ago, which hasn't stopped him from jumping onto a table to recite two thirds of To a Mouse every half hour or so. Not the first two thirds, but from what I can make out he's just skipping whatever lines he forgets. A few other Scottish students (and Harry's roommate Seamus, who's Irish but said, and I quote "close enough") chime in occasionally, but I think they're making it up as they go.

Excuse the ink blot, I was jostled. Please ask mum to send more gel pens in her next care package. Anyway, luckily no Haggis. Apparently there was An Incident shortly after Professor McGonagall became head of house, so it's been banned ever since. I believe the poetry recitations are over for the evening, as well, but I don't think I was supposed to see Oliver and Percy Weasley snogging at the bottom of the boy's staircase. Frankly it's probably good for them, they're both far too uptight. And that's me saying it, of all people.

Once again I must prevail on you not to show this letter to my parents. We'd have been shooed off to bed hours ago the last few years, and we probably should've been again, but someone spiked the punch and I find myself quite enjoying it. Scout's honor, I won't get up to anything more interesting than people-watching until I'm at least 15.

The boys still aren't talking to me, but I'm keeping busy, so it's not so bad. I was stuck on a particularly tricky essay for Transfiguration and feeling very sorry for myself last time I wrote, I promise it's really not as bad as it probably sounded.

Do you think anyone would know Jabberwocky if I recited it?

Love,

Hermione

30 June, 1994

Leo,

I didn't get to write one Great Last Letter last school year, and first year I made the mistake of writing before I was absolutely certain all the adventures were over, so this year I'm writing at the leaving feast on the (tenuous) assumption that even Harry can't get into any more trouble in the next twelve or so hours. Possibly asphix asphyxiation, as he and Ron are currently competing to see who can fit more jammy dodgers in their mouths, but that can't be helped.

Unfortunately for you, you taught me too well (another point in the Slytherin column), which means I can't put any of the really interesting bits in writing for fear of it coming back to bite me (remind me I said that, it'll be funny in context), so you'll have to wait until tomorrow. Professor Lupin won't be back next year, unfortunately, and Professor Snape is even more annoying about it than usual. Ron's pet rat is gone, and good riddance, because it turns out it was even more terrible and creepy than any of us realized at first.

I returned the time turner to Professor McGonagall, and won't be using it next year, which is both a relief and a bit sad. It came in quite handy but I don't think I could live with the temptation in the long term.

The moment I get home we're going to get dinner and I'm going to tell you absolutely everything, and I'll even let you scold me for how much rule-breaking I've done. I'll just sit there and think about how much fun it was to punch Draco Malfoy, and I won't hear a word you say.

Love and Lots of Indian Food (even though Parvati has firmly argued it's not real Indian food, it's a colonial bastardization to appease inferior English palates),

Hermione

The deadbolt clicked under his hand with an echo that shouldn't have been possible in a room so thoroughly stuffed with leather and paper. Hermione had flipped the sign to Closed on her way out, a childish pleasure that hadn't lost its charm the way elevator buttons and bubble wrap had. Leo hoped, as he walked mindlessly back to his seat in the cluttered little office, that it never would.

Pictures covered the walls of the tiny space, generations of Grangers, their friends and employees, combinations of all three, methodically filling blank spaces from the furthest corner towards the door. There's Hermione's first visit to the bookshop, before she'd even made it home from the hospital, "9/20/79, H, mum, dad, and uncle L" written neatly at the bottom of the polaroid. The white edged corner covers the blank space of a glossy 4x6, his own official first day, apprehension visible even as he smiled.

Uncle L, with the Mysterious Backstory. Leonidas, who'd stumbled into The Fountain Pen one rainy day and never been allowed to leave, not after Claudie had plied him with tea and John had handed him a stack of titles to shelve and Callie had stopped by to complain of swollen ankles and returned an hour later with "some decent clothes, for god's sake, you're dressed like a priest".

That he'd never actually seen a lightswitch before should probably have raised more questions. It did raise a lot of them, to be fair, but there really should have been more.

He'd squawked the first time he rode in a car. Callie had only laughed a little, she was kind like that.

"Please, Leo, really. It's a perfectly good name, someone ought to get some use out of it, yeah?" She'd said it like it was an armoire she was handing down, not her maiden name. Calliope Jean Granger née Wright had never had a little brother, but she took to it like a duck to water. Leo Wright had never had a big sister, but he did his best.

(He'd never held any illusions that his best was good enough, but he usually muddled through these days. It helped to avoid the stack of encyclopedias in the back corner of the stockroom, the ones in front of the safe he didn't dare touch.)

Cracking his knuckles, Leo pulled a sheet of paper loose from a notebook, and a pen from the cup by his computer monitor.

Mr. Lupin,

I'm writing to request a meeting at your earliest convenience. My niece, Hermione Granger, was until recently a student of yours, and has spoken very highly of you. She was quite dismayed at her school's decision to let you go, which she assures me was due to no fault of your own. As you might understand, having met her, my niece is a difficult girl to see disappointed, particularly when her keen sense of justice has gotten involved.

As it happens, I own and manage a small bookshop, and am currently looking for an employee. The hours are flexible, pay is reasonable, and I have it on good authority from both Crookshanks (a very discerning cat) and my own Baskerville that the bed under the west-facing window is an excellent place to nap, on the off chance you have any pets of your own who may accompany you.

Assuming I haven't been dragged off by a band of highwaymen, I can be reached at The Fountain Pen Booksellers, Richmond, London. Please call or stop by when you can make time. Even if you've found other employment, I'm sure Hermione and her friends would be delighted to see you.

Sincerely,

Leonidas Wright

He folded the page into meticulous thirds, and tore another from the notebook. Lupin was the smart one, he'd probably be able to read between the lines, and he'd be gracious in his surprise if he couldn't.

S.T.S,

Reports of my death, to borrow the quote, have been greatly exaggerated.

Please let me know when you'll be available to meet, we have much to discuss. Among them, what on earth possessed you of all people to go into education.

R.A.B.