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Chapter Text

October 31st, 1977 — The Beginning of Peace
POV: James Potter

The castle felt lighter that evening. Not just in the way the torches flickered merrily against the stone or the way the Halloween feast had sent half of Gryffindor House into sugar comas, but in the rare, remarkable way that the world itself seemed to breathe again.

James Potter leaned against the window ledge just outside the Great Hall, a freshly printed copy of the Evening Prophet folded under one arm. His other hand twirled his wand idly, still buzzing with the thrill of what he’d read minutes earlier.

DUMBLEDORE VANQUISHES DARK LORD:
Ministry Confirms Grindelwald-Era Class Victory as Aurors Begin Mass Arrests of Death Eaters.

Merlin, he could barely believe it. It had finally happened. Voldemort was gone. Properly gone. No whispers of escape, no dark mark hovering ominously in the sky tonight. Just peace. Sweet, bloody peace. The kind he hadn’t dared to hope for until now.

He grinned and bumped the back of his head against the stone behind him, exhaling slowly.

“By the time I graduate, there won’t be a war left to fight,” he muttered to himself, and for the first time in years, he believed it. Really believed it.

The Ministry was moving fast. Too fast, some said, but James figured they’d earned it. If Scrimgeour and Crouch wanted to toss cloaked bastards into holding cells and sort it out later, fine by him. Let the Wizengamot sort the details. Let Dumbledore have a bloody holiday. Let everyone breathe.

Even Sirius had smiled today. A real one. The kind that reached his eyes. That was saying something.

And Lily…

James straightened up, brushing non-existent crumbs off his Head Boy robes and adjusting his glasses.

Right. Speaking of things going right—he had a plan. A good one. A normal one.

He spotted her walking up the corridor, crimson hair tied back in a low ribbon, expression unreadable as always. Lily Evans: Head Girl, Prefect Extraordinaire, Charms prodigy, breaker of hearts (his, specifically). She looked as composed as ever, but even she had allowed herself the tiniest smile when McGonagall had read the Prophet aloud in the Common Room.

James stepped into her path like he had a hundred times before, but this time—this time—there was no smirk, no showboating, no flashy lines.

Just a muffin.

A perfect, still-warm, pumpkin muffin wrapped in a napkin charmed to stay warm. He held it out silently.

Lily blinked at him, lips twitching slightly. “No mistletoe? No grand declaration?”

He shook his head. “Just a muffin. To celebrate a very good day.”

She took it from him gently, her fingers brushing his. She didn’t pull away.

“Thanks, Potter.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, though his heart was doing an embarrassing little jig. “So... want to take a walk? Just the lake. No ulterior motives. I swear.”

Her smile widened, and James thought she looked tired, but relieved. Less guarded. Lighter, like the castle.

“Alright,” she said. “One walk. But if you turn it into a Quidditch metaphor again, I’m hexing your eyebrows off.”

James laughed, falling into step beside her. “No Quidditch. Just... peace.”

For now, at least, everything was going great.

And James Potter—Head Boy, hopeless romantic, and future Auror—let himself believe that the world might finally be heading toward something better.

Chapter Text

July 31st, 1980 — The Beginning of Everything
POV: Lily Potter

The morning light filtered in through the gauzy curtains, soft and golden, the kind of sunlight that made everything feel quieter, more magical. The kind of morning that settled in your bones and whispered: something beautiful is coming.

Lily Potter—née Evans—rested a hand on her rounded belly and smiled, slow and soft.

“Any day now,” she murmured to the bump beneath her dressing gown. “Or… today, maybe?”

The baby kicked gently in reply.

Lily chuckled and shifted on the couch, reaching for the warm cup of tea James had made for her earlier. He’d left for his early meeting with Albus—Ministry things, old Order business, something about new security charms—but he’d kissed her temple before he went and promised he’d be back before lunch.

“Better be,” she muttered, amused. “If you miss your son’s birth, James Potter, I swear I’ll hex your kneecaps off.”

The thought sent her adrift, nostalgia tugging gently at her.

Three years. It had only been three years since that Halloween evening in their final year, since James had offered her a muffin and not a punchline, and somehow that had made all the difference. They’d gone from awkward walks around the lake to all-night conversations, from tentative smiles to whirlwind kisses, from reluctant allies to head-over-heels idiots in love.

They got married just a year after graduation. A small, quiet ceremony. Sirius had cried, though he’d deny it forever. Remus had given the toast—something surprisingly poetic about soulmates and stardust. Even Peter had turned up on time and remembered the rings.

And Severus…

Lily sighed, her heart catching a little.

Severus hadn’t joined the Death Eaters. Not after the war ended so abruptly in ‘77. Dumbledore’s duel with Voldemort had ended it all, and without the war raging on, Severus had stayed. Apologized. Tried. And while they were never quite the same, he had come to the wedding. Had stood at the edge of the crowd with a stiff nod and a reluctant half-smile. And she’d hugged him anyway.

It helped that James no longer bristled at the sound of his name. Time—and impending fatherhood—had mellowed him. These days, James and Severus could actually sit in the same room without sparks flying. Occasionally, they even agreed on potion theory.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was peaceful. And peace, Lily thought, was no small miracle.

Her fingers drifted down to her belly again, where their child waited. Their boy, as the Healers had confirmed. A Potter. A son. Her heart ached at the thought of holding him, of brushing a curl off his forehead, of singing to him the way her mum used to sing to Petunia and her.

She could already imagine him running through the fields outside their cottage, muddy knees and laughter in the air. She wondered if he’d have her eyes or James’s. Sirius hoped for the Potter hair and Evans temper—“for the chaos, obviously.”

And then—
A sudden, sharp pressure clenched across her lower abdomen and she felt something trickle down her thighs.

Lily blinked.

Then it came again. Stronger.

Her teacup rattled slightly in its saucer as she sat up straighter.

“Oh,” she said aloud, hand gripping the edge of the couch. “Oh.”

She looked down at her belly.

“Well, little one,” she whispered, breath catching. “I think it’s time.”

Outside, the wind shifted. The cottage stood quiet and sun-warmed, wrapped in charmwork and old magic.

Inside, a mother’s heart pounded with fear, with joy, with something ancient and fierce and holy.

And as the first contraction truly hit, Lily Potter—brilliant witch, loyal wife, fierce friend, unspeakable 65 —closed her eyes and braced herself.

It was time.

The chapter of her life was ending.

A new one was just about to begin.

Chapter Text

August 31st, 1982 — The Storm Before the Spark
POV: James Potter

James Potter hadn’t been expecting a call-out on his day off.

He especially hadn’t expected Moody to come bursting into his kitchen with a magical signature report clutched in one hand, muttering about “unstable rifts,” “massive power spikes,” and “code crimson surges.”

Honestly, he had just been about to toast a crumpet.

Now he was hurtling through Muggle Oxford in full Auror gear with Sirius, Remus, Peter, and Moody, trying not to blow up any light poles as they followed the magical fallout on Moody’s enchanted tracker.

“What in Merlin’s left boot is going on?” Sirius yelled over the roar of magical interference. “That’s not a ward breach, that’s—”

“—an uncontrolled, spontaneous magical burst,” Remus finished grimly. “If that came from a wand, it would’ve melted. That’s raw magic. Wild magic.”

James frowned, wand tight in his hand. “Could it be a magical creature?”

“No creature registers like this,” Moody growled. “It’s coming from that building—dentist’s office, if the Muggle signs are right.”

They skidded to a stop in front of a narrow red-bricked house with a sign:
Granger & Granger: Dental Practitioners and Literary Consultants.

Peter blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Shields up,” Moody barked. “Standard breach formation. We don’t know what’s inside.”

James took the lead with Remus, while Sirius and Peter flanked the sides. Moody stalked behind, his magical eye already scanning through the walls.

And then—

A blast of golden light erupted from the third-floor window. It shattered the glass and sent crackles of ancient, runeless magic spiraling through the air like lightning laced with song.

“Bloody hell,” James whispered, stunned. “Did you feel that?”

His entire magical core was humming—resonating like someone had struck a tuning fork inside his chest.

Before they could react, the door flew open, and a frazzled Muggle man in scrubs and spectacles stuck his head out.

“Are you from the government?” he asked, hair sticking up wildly. “Because my wife just gave birth, and the lights exploded, the clock melted, and I’m fairly certain the walls are now breathing!”

Everyone stared.

Moody slowly lowered his wand. “...That’s new.”

The man blinked at them, confused. “Why are you all wearing cloaks? Is this part of the emergency response?”

James cleared his throat. “Sir—uh—Mr. Granger, is it?”

“Yes. Dan Granger. My wife, Jean, is upstairs with our daughter—”

“Right, er… congratulations,” James said awkwardly. “I think we’re going to need to explain a few things.”

**

Inside the flat, the world had become strange. Time warped slightly near the baby’s crib. The air shimmered faintly, thick with untamed magical energy. Books floated off shelves and rearranged themselves in alphabetical order. The wallpaper was glowing faintly. A nearby kettle kept whistling “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

And at the center of it all was a tiny infant girl, sleeping soundly in her mother’s arms, completely unaware that her birth had just rattled the very seams of magical space in Southern England.

Jean Granger looked up as they entered, her face pale but calm.

“Are you with the… people who know things?” she asked carefully. “Because I think our daughter might have—well—caused an electrical anomaly?”

Remus stepped forward with a warm, soothing voice. “Mrs. Granger, your daughter is what we call a Muggleborn witch. And this… this is unprecedented.”

Sirius leaned over and peered at the baby. “Merlin’s beard. That’s her? She did all this?”

The baby yawned.

James Potter stared at her and felt the magic pulse again, steady and vibrant. Not chaotic anymore. Just… potential. Endless, impossible, beautiful potential.

“Hello, little one,” he said softly, smiling. “What’s your name?”

Jean beamed despite the chaos. “Hermione,” she whispered. “Hermione Jean Granger.”

Moody exhaled a long, slow breath. “Well. The Ministry’s going to have a field day with this.”

Hours later, after the paperwork was being drawn up and the Grangers given an entire crash course on the magical world and a promise of tutoring and eventual Hogwarts contact…They also told them about themselves apparently they were dentists or teeth healers and were both currently students in literature hence their residence at oxford since they are originally from hampstead.

James lingered just a bit longer.

He watched Hermione through the crib bars, watched her tiny fingers twitch in sleep, books still dancing gently around her room.

“She'll be something else when she is older” Remus murmured beside him.

“She already is,” James said.

He didn’t know how right he was.

But across the world, a quiet string of fate had just been pulled.

Chapter Text

Date: August 31st, 1982
POV: Albus Dumbledore

The silver instruments on his desk sparked like restless thoughts, humming with interference. One glowed red.

That had not happened in years.

Albus Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles, fingers pausing briefly on the edge of his desk. Outside his window, the last sunset of August bathed the Scottish hills in gold. But inside his office, the air had turned curiously still.

A knock interrupted the silence. Three rapid raps. One hesitant.

“Enter,” Albus called, already knowing the rhythm.

Peter Pettigrew shuffled in, looking paler than usual, cloak wrinkled, hair damp with sweat. “Headmaster… sir,” he said breathlessly. “I—I’ve come from Oxford. With the others. There was a… well, not an attack. But—something.”

Albus raised a brow. “Do sit, Peter.”

Pettigrew perched on the edge of the chair, twitchy and small. “There was a magical burst. Enormous. Unfiltered, like a wild storm. Sirius and James thought it might be an attack, but—there were no signs. No Dark marks. No targets.”

“I know,” Albus murmured, gesturing toward the softly glowing instruments behind him. “I felt it, too.”

Peter blinked. “You… did?”

“A child was born today,” Albus continued, more to himself than to his visitor. “In Oxford. To two Muggle scholars. Unremarkable in name, but… the magic around them, Peter, was anything but unremarkable.”

Peter swallowed. “You—you think she’s important?”

Albus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his mind strayed to the memory that had haunted him for over a year.

It had been a cold February night in 1982 when Pandora Lovegood came to see him, her wide eyes shadowed with exhaustion, grief still clinging to her like ash. Her husband, Xenophilius, had died months earlier in an accidental magical fire—one of her own experiments gone awry.

She had left the Department of Mysteries, resigned her position, and clutched her two-year-old daughter Luna like a lifeline as she begged for something different. A chance to teach. A chance to be normal. To raise her child far from buried artifacts and sealed doors.

But first, she had asked to deliver something—a vision that had come to her in the quiet of grief. Her voice had trembled as she spoke, and Albus had recorded every word.

Albus could still hear it, every syllable of the prophecy echoing in his mind.

He had kept the memory locked in a Pensieve, its words never shared. Not with the Ministry. Not even with Minerva.

Until today.

Today, the magic whispered her name.

Hermione.

He would keep an eye on her, from a distance. Nudge the pieces as they moved into place. The wizarding world might be rebuilding itself, trying to forget the shadows of the last war—but magic had already chosen its next ripple in the current.

And he had learned long ago: one ignored prophecies at their peril.

Chapter Text

POV: Jean (Jahanvi) Granger

The first time it happened, the lights exploded.

Not in a dramatic movie way—no fire, no screaming violins. Just quiet sparks, tiny sunbursts in the ceiling, followed by a thick hum of magic in the air. The kind of hum you could feel in your teeth. Jean had turned around to find her daughter, barely crawling, staring at a floating toy in deep concentration.

"Hermione," she had whispered.

Her husband, Dan, had dropped the laundry basket in shock, not because they didn't know their daughter was capable of this but because this time it seemed more intentional.

Oxford had grown quieter since they moved their practice closer to home. Books lined the walls of their study-slash-consulting-room—philosophy for Dan, mythology and history texts for Jean, their common ground in literature still holding strong from their university days.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared them for parenting a child who could make the walls shimmer just because she wanted another spoon of banana mash.

And so they adapted.

They logged each incident like researchers. Documented times, triggers, outcomes.

And every month, without fail, there would be another… event or more than once and someone from the magical world, aurors as they said would come to check up on them usually a one or two from the group of friends that called themselves..marauders? what an odd thing to name oneself.

Books would fly. Clocks would run backwards. Rainclouds appeared above Hermione’s head mid-tantrum once. And one unforgettable evening, she cried so hard the entire neighbourhood’s power shorted out for six minutes.

It was Jean’s mother who gently pointed her in the right direction.

“Bachpan ki natkhat, agar madhur sur mein dhal jaaye, to voh shant ho jaati hai,” her mother had said over a crackly long-distance call.
( Chaos of childhood if channeled into music then it will calm down considerably )

"Teach her music, beta. That’s how we handled you when you were little." ( beta- child )

Jean had laughed then—but the next morning, she retrieved her violin case from the attic.

Edward followed suit with the piano.

They didn’t teach Hermione, exactly. They played to her, around her. Long, gentle pieces in the evening. Ragas from Jean’s childhood when she learned Hindustani or as people call it nowadays, Indian classical music back in Delhi. Western lullabies. Duets. Music became part of the fabric of their home—woven into breakfast, bath time, tantrums, and starry evenings.

And the magic—wild, wild magic—responded.

It never fully stopped. But it slowed. Smoothed. Softened.

Hermione, not even two, began humming tunes in her sleep. Sometimes in Hindi, sometimes in made-up words, sometimes in nothing but sound. She’d tap rhythms on her crib rails. Beat tiny fists against her toy chest in time with the violin.

SHe remembered when a few months back, almost a year actually, Lily Potter had arrived one spring afternoon in 1983, with a two year old Harry asleep in her arms and a warm smile on her face. She'd come with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin—friends of Dumbledore, apparently, and working for some secretive task force.

"We’re not here to scare you," Lily said gently, sipping masala chai in the Grangers’ kitchen. "I’m Muggleborn too. Figured you might want a little solidarity."

Jean had clung to her every word.

"It doesn't make sense at first," Lily continued. "Magic in the nappies. In the tantrums. But it gets better. Structure helps. Routine. And… affection."

Sirius offered to enchant the windows so a half year old Hermione couldn’t float through them mid-dreamflight. Remus charmed the Grangers' bookshelf to expand as Hermione grew—"She’ll need it," he said with a knowing look.

By the time Hermione turned three, the bursts were less frightening as they taught her to control her temper, infact they were a slight delight as sometimes she would conjure birds from leaves and butterflies from paper.

She’d levitate toys instead of launching them. Spin picture books in midair rather than tearing them. She could understand both English and Hindi fluently now—“Daadi” was her favourite word, followed closely by “gaana"

(grandmother-daadi, gaana-song)

They were careful. But they weren’t afraid anymore.

Then Jean's mother, Janki Sharma got diagnosed with cancer. She moved in with them then instead of living alone and started teaching hermione all about Indian Classical music that she knew. SHe was firm. RIyaaz everyday at 4 A.M for 2 hours and Raags practised accordingly with the time they're meant to sung, perfecting every note with practise.

She was unable to go to a normal preschool due to her bursts and therefore jahanvi granger had quit work as soon as hermione turned 3 and instead decided to homeschool her daughter for 2 hours everyday, take care of her sick mother and pursue her dream of becoming a full time author, while her husband took care of the practise.

Hermione had a busy schedule for a 3 year old but she seemed to enjoy it, music till 6 with her fav Daadi then schooling with her mum, piano lessons, violin/cello lessons at home depending on the day, sitar lessons with her daadi again, vocal practise,swimming lessons only then could she read in peace and play.

Hermione would grow up between piano keys and violin strings. Between Sanskrit lullabies of her daadi and dusty tomes. Between the Muggle world and the flickering promise of another one.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet Evening Edition
Date: 31st August 1982

‼️MAGICAL MAYHEM IN MUGGLE OXFORD – A CHILD IS BORN IN A STORM OF SPELLFIRE‼️
By Beatrix Bloxham, Senior Magical Correspondent

Oxford—known for its dusty Muggle universities, over-priced bookstores, and thoroughly non-magical habits—was the site of an unprecedented magical surge this morning, sending the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes into a state of high alert.

At exactly 8:31 a.m., reports flooded in from both magical and non-magical sources regarding strange phenomena: mirrors shattering without cause, a sudden burst of summer lightning from a clear sky, gravity-defying puddles, and in one unfortunate case, a saxophone that began screaming in fluent Latin.

Within minutes, a team of Aurors—including notable names like James Potter, Sirius Black, Alastor Moody, and Remus Lupin—were dispatched to investigate what was initially feared to be a rogue spellcaster or dark magic resurgence.

Instead, they found…

A newborn baby girl.

THE GIRL AT THE HEART OF THE STORM
Born to respected Muggle dentists and scholars Edward and Jahanvi (Jean) Granger, the infant—Hermione Jean Granger—has already made headlines as possibly one of the most magically potent Muggleborn children of the century.

“This wasn’t just ambient magic,” a source in the Department of Mysteries commented on condition of anonymity. “This was… old. Wild. The kind that hasn’t echoed through Muggle walls in generations.”

More remarkably still, the child’s magical outburst was witnessed, recorded, and studied—with no Obliviation performed on the parents.

Let us repeat: no Obliviation.

A RARE EXCEPTION

In a bold move endorsed by Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore himself, the Ministry has made a formal exception to the Statute of Secrecy, allowing the Grangers to retain full memory of the magical event and their daughter’s nature.

Sources within the Ministry cite their “exceptional academic background, calm response, and proactive willingness to cooperate with the magical world” as key reasons.

“This is extremely rare,” stated Madam Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. “Normally, Muggle families only become aware of magic when their child receives their Hogwarts letter. But in this case… the magic introduced itself early.”

MAGIC IN HER VEINS

Early estimates suggest young Hermione Granger may possess an unusually high magical reservoir for a Muggleborn, with signs of wandless magic, elemental fluctuation, and possible pre-verbal spellcasting patterns.

“She’s humming at frequencies we usually only observe in trained Seers,” one Unspeakable muttered, wiping a scorched clipboard.

While the magical community welcomes this gifted child, some whisper that such power emerging untrained could be dangerous—or world-shifting.

“Storms follow her,” said a nearby hag prophetically. “Mark my words.”

⚠️MINISTRY NOTICE: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPROACH THE CHILD WITHOUT CLEARANCE. SHE BITES.⚠️

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet – Sunday Features Section
Date: 2nd September 1986

🎻 "ENCHANTED ECHOES: MUGGLEBORN PRODIGY STUNS AT OXFORD RECITAL" 🎼
By Melody Quill, Arts & Culture Correspondent

Oxford—The hallowed halls of the Muggle world have long echoed with the clink of teacups and droning lectures on things like "economic theory" and "existentialism." But last evening, something far more magical occurred.

Miss Hermione Jean Granger, age 4 years and 2 days, took the stage of a local university recital hall clutching a half-sized violin, her tiny fingers poised with startling grace. What followed left every adult in the room speechless, several in tears, and more than one magical observer wondering whether music might be a form of magic after all.

🎶 A NIGHT TO REMEMBER 🎶
“She didn’t just play,” said Professor Ellen Wycliffe, a musicologist and fellow performer. “She spoke through it. As if something older, something deep inside her, was coming through the strings.”

The recital was originally intended as a children’s community showcase hosted by Oxford’s Muggle university and attended by scholars, musicians, and several Ministry agents in Mugglewear (who, incidentally, were so moved they forgot to take notes).

Hermione performed a piece her mother, Jahanvi Granger, had composed—a blend of Indian classical melody and Western structure. It was titled “Monsoon Memory.” The hall fell silent. Even the ambient magic, often unpredictable around her, stilled and shimmered.

🌟 A STAR ON TWO STAGES 🌟
Miss Granger has already made a name for herself in internal Ministry reports as a magically gifted child with untamed but increasingly harmonized bursts of wild magic. Now, it appears her discipline in music may be grounding that power.

“This is precisely what we've hoped for,” said one senior Unspeakable under condition of anonymity. “Her wild magic reacts not to restriction—but to resonance. Music calms her core. And last night? It sang through her.”

Magical sensors discreetly placed by the Department of Mysteries recorded a stabilized magical hum during her performance. No flares. No bursts. Just… harmony.

🎤 THE CROWD REACTS
Though the audience was largely Muggle, their reaction was palpably magical.

“She’s brilliant,” whispered one local music teacher. “And so young!”

A Ministry cultural attaché reportedly wept openly, declaring, “It’s like hearing magic without a wand.”

A few magical onlookers—rumored to include Auror Remus Lupin and a certain Mr. Sirius Black in a tweed jacket and fake glasses—were seen clapping with distinctly misty eyes.

👩‍⚕️ THE GRANGER FAMILY
Drs. Dan and Jahanvi Granger, proud but modest, only said they were “grateful she’s found a language that helps her express herself.” Jean Granger was later seen tuning her own violin backstage, guiding her daughter’s little hands with soft Hindi lullabies.

The Grangers continue to balance their work in dentistry and academia with raising a daughter who, as one Auror once said, is “magic bottled in baby curls.”

💫 WHAT COMES NEXT?
There are whispers—though the Prophet cannot confirm—of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore himself requesting a private audience with the family in coming months. It seems clear that Miss Granger is not only being watched… but admired.

As for Hermione, she simply said: “I liked the music. It made the butterflies quiet in my tummy.”

Even at four, she already understands what many adult witches and wizards spend lifetimes chasing:

Magic isn’t always cast. Sometimes… it’s played.

✨ Watch this space, dear readers. We suspect Miss Granger’s story has only just begun. ✨

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet – Evening Edition
Date: 16th December 1988

🕯️ "THE GIRL WHO WENT SILENT: MAGIC AND MOURNING IN OXFORD" 🕯️
By Octavia Skeeter, Special Investigative Columnist

Oxford, 15th November — The world of both Muggles and magical folk alike has watched in awe for years as Miss Hermione Jean Granger, the prodigious young child of two scholars, made headlines for her powerful magic and unprecedented musical brilliance.

But yesterday, the symphony fell silent.

Shortly after receiving news of the passing of her grandmother, Mrs. Janki Sharma, affectionately known as her Daadi, Miss Granger suffered an uncontrolled magical outburst of unusual scale and intensity—strong enough to trigger alarms across several Magical Monitoring Stations, and even disrupt local Muggle electrical grids in parts of southern Oxfordshire.

Witnesses described windows shattering without warning, string instruments collapsing inward as if “sucked into silence,” and an eerie, windless storm of music sheets spiraling in the air without a single hand raised.

⚡ A FRAGILE BALANCE UNDONE

This is not the first time young Hermione’s emotions have shaped her magic, but it is the first time her reaction has caused temporal fractures recorded by the Department of Mysteries.

“She wasn’t just grieving,” said a source inside the Department under strict confidentiality. “Her magic grieved with her. It mourned. And then… it broke.”

Magical readings from her home reached spectrum levels reserved for cataclysmic magical events, including distortions in time and harmonic space. The last time such levels were recorded was during a ritual backfire in the early 1900s, later classified as a minor magical catastrophe.

🕯️ WHO WAS JANKI SHARMA?
Mrs. Sharma, a Muggle woman of Indian heritage, was not only Miss Granger’s maternal grandmother, but her first music teacher, cultural anchor, and described by those close to the family as “her emotional center.”

It was Daadi who first taught Hermione Hindi lullabies, encouraged her to perform, and soothed her surges of magic with ancient ragas and rhythms. Her passing from an aggressive form of cancer came as a blow to the entire Granger family—and now, it seems, the magical world as well.

🧪 LOCKDOWN IN THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES

In the aftermath of the outburst, Hermione has been temporarily placed in the Harmonic Containment Chambers of the Department of Mysteries for observation and magical stabilization.

Sources confirm that for over a month, she has not spoken, sung, or touched an instrument. Her magic, once melodic and brilliant, now spikes without rhythm and retreats without warning. Some Unspeakables describe her presence as “haunting” — like “a violin string stretched too tightly, one breath from breaking.”

“We have to be careful,” said a high-ranking Ministry official. “She is powerful… perhaps more than any child we’ve ever recorded. But she is grieving. And grief in a child that powerful? It bends magic into unfamiliar shapes.”

🗞️ THE WORLD WATCHES
Parents of young magical children, musical communities in the Muggle world, and even Hogwarts faculty have all sent messages of sympathy, concern, and curiosity.

Professor Filius Flitwick, Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, was quoted privately:

“Hermione Granger is one of the most extraordinary magical signatures I’ve ever sensed — and she’s not even seven. But right now, more than anything, she needs space. And kindness.”

Some wizarding families, however, whisper fears of instability.

“She’s too powerful,” one anonymous Pureblood matron said. “What if she can’t be taught to control it? What if music isn’t enough anymore?”

💔 A CHILD, UNRAVELING
At just over six years old, Hermione Granger is already a name on both magical and Muggle lips. But for now, her light has dimmed—caught in a silence deeper than words.

A silence that hums with loss.
And power.
And promise.

We at the Daily Prophet offer our deepest condolences to the Granger family. And to Hermione, wherever she is—may the music find its way back to you. 🎶

Chapter Text

Christmas Day, 1988
Hermione’s POV

The house didn’t feel like home anymore.

Everything had changed while she was gone. It looked the same—her books still lined the shelf beside the window, her tiny cello was still resting under its white silk cover, and the curtains Daadi had sewn with golden thread still swayed softly in the winter wind. But the warmth had been replaced by something else.

Something hollow.
Something quiet.

The piano hadn't been played in weeks.

She hadn’t touched her violin either. Or hummed. Or sung. Not even when the snow fell outside in soft little flurries like it used to when Daadi would say “Look, Hermione, the sky is dancing.”

But the sky didn’t dance anymore.

And neither did she.

She sat curled up on the sofa, legs tucked under her, arms wrapped tight around the stuffed peacock Daadi had given her on her last birthday. Its name was Sur. It meant "tune" or "melody."

Everything had gone quiet when Daadi died.

And then… the magic had screamed.

She barely remembered the way the wind had cracked through their walls, how the walls had shivered like they were crying with her, how the candles had burst into blue flame and then smoke. She only remembered the silence after.

That long, long silence.

Until today.

Her father knelt in front of her. His voice was gentle, slower than usual. Careful.

“Hermione,” he said, brushing a curl behind her ear. “We spoke to Professor Dumbledore.”

She blinked, not answering.

“He thinks you don't have to go back to the DOM after Christmas. The house is warded now, with special enchantments. Just in case your magic… reacts again.”

She clutched Sur tighter.

“He says your magic is getting restless. It’s been a month without music. Without movement. Without anything to… carry it.”

Her chest ached at that word.

Music.

“I miss her,” she whispered for the first time since it happened. Her voice sounded like it didn’t belong to her.

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick. “We all do.”

Then, he pulled out something from his coat pocket. A letter.

“Your Daadi left something for us. Before she… before she went, she told Mum about one of her old student. Someone special.”

Hermione frowned. “A student?”

“He was her favourite, apparently. Came to her classes years ago when your mum was still young. They became friends. And later, Daadi found out—he’s magical. A wizard. But he never told anyone. He didn't need to.”

Hermione looked up at him properly for the first time.

“She said he understood music like no one else. That he discovered something very rare. Music magick.”

Her breath caught.

“She told your mum and Dumbledore to contact him. Just in case. And he’s agreed to teach you.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“What’s his name?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Anirudh Pandey. He’s famous, both in the Muggle world and the magical one. Right now, he’s taking a break from performing and teaching. Focusing on himself. But… he’s agreed to take you as his student. He said your Daadi once told him you’d be something extraordinary.”

She swallowed hard.

“Professor Dumbledore wrote to him last week. He says it’s the best course forward. That your magic needs discipline, yes—but also expression. You can’t bottle it in. It needs to move. Breathe. Dance.”

Hermione blinked fast, staring at her father’s kind eyes, clouded by weeks of worry.

“You’ll start again, little one,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Music. Sports. Martial arts. Meditation. School. We’ll fill your days with everything that makes you shine. No more long, empty hours. No more build-up. It’s time to live again.”

Later that night, when the moon hung low and quiet, Hermione stood by the piano.

Her mother sat nearby, humming gently. Soft, low notes from an old Hindi lullaby that Daadi used to sing. Hermione’s fingers hovered over the keys.

Then, slowly, gently—

She played one note.

Then another.

And the house sighed, almost in relief.

She wasn’t healed.

But the music had returned.

Chapter Text

Letter from Albus Dumbledore to Anirudh Pandey
To Anirudh Pandey,
Maestro of the Veena and Voice,
Master of Music Magick,
Former Professor of Magical Aural Phenomena,
Ashram of Music, Uttarakhand

Dear Mr. Pandey,

I hope this letter finds you in peace and clarity. I write to you not only as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but as one who bears witness to magic in its most rare and raw form.

There is a child. A muggleborn witch named Hermione Granger. Six years old, recently orphaned of her maternal grandmother, and cursed—or perhaps blessed—with magic so potent, it speaks before she does.

You were named by her grandmother, Janki Sharma, your teacher and dear friend. Before her passing, she left a single request: that should this child lose her way in soundless grief, you would guide her back with the oldest magic we know—music.

She hasn’t sung since the death. Nor spoken much. But her magic roars for release.

I ask you, Anirudh, not merely as a musician or magician—but as someone who understands what it means when the world falls silent.

Come. If not for me, then for her.

In song and silence,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Letter from Anirudh Pandey to Albus Dumbledore
Dated December 1, 1988
Written in charcoal ink on rice paper, scented faintly of sandalwood

To Albus Dumbledore,

I wondered when this day would come.

Yes. I will teach her.

But know this, Albus: I do not train prodigies. I train those who must create or perish. If she is what you say she is, I will not tame her magic—I will show her how to let it fly.

Send her to me at dawn on the first day of the new year.

She shall be my last pupil.

In rhythm and reverence,
Anirudh Pandey

Daily Prophet Special Edition
December 31st, 1988

⚜️ ANIRUDH PANDEY TO TAKE ON FINAL STUDENT — A CHILD PRODIGY BORN OF WILD MAGIC ⚜️
By Ravindra Patil, International Correspondent for Art & Arcana

The Department of Mysteries confirmed late last night that Anirudh Pandey, the globally renowned maestro of music magick and former Head of Magical Aural Studies at Mahoutokoro, will be taking on a final pupil after nearly a decade of silence.

The student? A six-year-old British witch: Hermione Granger, the subject of several recent reports regarding magical surges that have rattled both the Muggle and magical world.

Pandey, who vanished from public life after the death of his family in 1981, issued a rare public statement:

“This child carries silence like a wound and magic like a tempest. I will teach her how to listen again. This is my last offering to the world.”

Miss Granger begins her studies under Pandey on January 1st, 1989.

The world will be listening.

Chapter Text

January 1st, 1989 — India

The air was thinner here.

Hermione wasn’t sure if it was because they were in the mountains or if it was the silence — the kind that sank into your lungs and stayed there.

Her parents had left her at the foot of the temple-turned-home. They’d kissed her forehead, handed her her violin case, and promised to come again soon. She believed them. But even as they left, she knew this was something only she could do.

Anirudh Pandey stood barefoot on the stone floor when she arrived. He wore no robes, only a cotton kurta the color of morning fog. His hair, long and silver at the temples, was tied back. He looked at her for a long time before saying anything.

"You were early," he said finally. "Good."

Hermione nodded. She clutched her violin tighter. She didn’t know if she was supposed to bow or curtsey or say namaste. Instead, she said softly, "Thank you for agreeing to teach me."

"You may thank me later," he said. "When it hurts."

He gestured for her to follow him. They entered a large wooden room. Empty. Not even cushions. Just the hum of the wind slipping through the window slats and a few brass bells hanging from the ceiling that chimed when no one touched them.

“Sit.”

She sat cross-legged on the floor. Her violin remained in her lap.

"I have heard you play," Anirudh said. "But now I want to know what you know. Theory first."

Hermione blinked. "Music theory?"

"Hindustani classical," he said. "What is the base of a raga?"

She straightened, grateful. Something she could answer.

"A raga is a framework of musical notes used to create a melody. It has an arohana—ascending—and an avarohana—descending pattern. It evokes a particular mood, or rasa, and is meant to be performed at a certain time of day or season."

He nodded.

"How many swaras?"

"Seven—Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni."

"Types?"

"Shuddha, Komal, and Tivra."

"And what is Shruti?"

"The smallest gradation of pitch. There are twenty-two."

He raised his brows ever so slightly. “And taal?”

“Rhythmic cycle. There are many, like teentaal, ektaal, jhaptaal…”

He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes shifted.

“Good,” he said. “You know the bones. But I do not teach bones. I teach breath.”

He stood. "You will not learn magic from me. Not yet."

Hermione blinked. “But—but I thought—”

He held up a hand. “Magic without mastery is madness. What you did—those bursts—are not songs. They are screams. Beautiful, yes, but wild. I will not let you cast a single spell until your sur—your notes—are so pure they cut through stone.”

Hermione lowered her gaze. Her fingers curled around her violin case.

"You are like a sword," he said. "Still being forged. And in swordsmanship, what is taught first?”

She glanced up. “Footwork.”

He nodded. “Exactly. Not killing spells. Not flames. First, you learn to stand.”

He moved to the center of the room, then hummed a single note. The room trembled.

“You will practice this Sa,” he said, “for three hours a day. Sing it. Hold it. Match it. Until it is not you singing, but you becoming the note.”

"And when you are ready… when the mountain listens back… then I will teach you magic."

He handed her a tanpura. “Begin.”

Chapter Text

The Note That Opened the World
January 4th, 1989 — Uttarakhand, India

Sa… Sa… Sa…

Her throat was raw. Her back ached from sitting straight. The tanpura’s wooden frame had become an extension of her body — the drone now the lullaby she slept to, the hum she breathed in.

For three days, Hermione had sung only one note. Sa. For hours. Over and over. She had not wept. Not complained. Not even thought to ask when it would end. Because something inside her needed this. She had not touched her violin. She had not asked for her piano.

She had not had a magical burst.

On the fourth morning, before the sun had fully risen, the brass bells outside chimed — not from wind.

Guruji entered.

With him came two familiar faces. Hermione sat up, eyes widening as her parents approached her — their expressions caught between awe and worry. Jean knelt beside her and brushed Hermione’s curls off her forehead. Dan kissed her temple.

Guruji nodded to Hermione. “Sing.”

Hermione took the tanpura. Closed her eyes.

And she sang.

A single note. Sa. But this time, it didn’t tremble. It didn’t falter. It was straight and pure and glowing — as if the note had finally claimed its place in her bones.

The air shimmered. The temple walls seemed to still.

When she finished, Guruji nodded once, slowly.

“You may call me Guruji, now.”

Hermione’s lips parted. She barely dared to breathe. Her mother began to cry quietly. Her father pulled her into a hug, but even as she melted into his warmth, her eyes never left Anirudh Pandey.

He had accepted her.

Later that evening, Guruji led her through the inner corridors of the temple. It was only then that Hermione realized she had not been alone.

There were others — quiet figures meditating under trees, practising riyaaz (rehearsal) with bansuris, sitars, sarangis, and strange instruments she’d never seen before. Some floated. Some chanted. All shimmered faintly with contained power.

“They are seekers,” Guruji said. “Like you, once. But I do not teach them anymore.”

“Why?” Hermione whispered.

He paused in front of a prayer hall.

“My daughter,” he said. “My last pupil. She had a gift even greater than yours. But she wanted to own the music, not serve it. She tried to bend its will. The magic rejected her. She burned alive… and took my wife with her.”

Hermione froze.

Guruji turned to her, eyes solemn but not cruel. “I vowed then to never teach again. Until your grandmother asked me. I agreed, because I sensed… you would listen. If I ever sense you’re straying from that path, I will stop. Without hesitation.”

Hermione nodded slowly. Her throat had gone dry.

"You will not have regular lessons," he added. "I will call for you when I believe you are ready. Sometimes at night. Sometimes when it rains. You will come, and you will listen. That is the way."

“Yes, Guruji,” she said.

Her room had changed.

While she had been learning one note, her entire world had been moved here.

Her cello rested in one corner. Her piano gleamed in another. Her drum set was polished and already surrounded by soundproof wards. Her daadi’s sitar had been placed reverently under a shelf of candles. The tanpura she’d used sat like a throne.

Soon, she would receive more: a harmonium from Calcutta, a bansuri from Varanasi, a veena made from magical teak, and a tabla enchanted by one of Guruji’s old acquaintances from Ujjain. All blessed. All waiting to be tuned to her soul.

Her parents told her, over warm aloo parathas, that teachers from around the world — ones who had each touched fragments of Music Magick in their own cultures — would be guiding her as well.

None could match Guruji. But they knew their crafts. And every single one of them had fled persecution. Every single one sought refuge here.

Because Music Magick was rare. Feared. Hunted.

And Hermione Granger was now its youngest and last chosen one.

Chapter Text

The Hidden Temple of Song
January 6th, 1989 – Uttarakhand

Hermione watched her parents disappear past the threshold of the temple gates.

They were reluctant, especially Jean — her mother had squeezed her so tightly before letting go. But the rules were clear: this was a place for the gifted, and only those seeking to master their music and themselves were allowed to stay.

There were no luxuries here. No televisions. No radios. No distractions.

Only stone walls, crisp air, ringing silence, and the constant, distant hum of someone practising.

Hermione spent the next day settling into the rhythm — waking at dawn, meditating with her tanpura, studying old Hindustani compositions, and cleaning her instruments herself. Guruji had made it clear: discipline was devotion.

Two days later, Guruji summoned her again.

He led her beyond the known temple grounds, past moss-lined archways and ancient banyan roots that curled around crumbling stone. A narrow trail wound upward. The mist grew thicker. The air was pine-drenched and cold.

Finally, they reached a smaller, hidden temple nestled between two cliffs, completely overgrown with ivy and flowering vines. It bore no signboard. Only a carved lotus above its threshold.

“This,” Guruji said quietly, “was your Daadi’s place.”

Hermione turned sharply. “My Daadi?”

“She was the one who discovered this place. Long before I became what I am. She was not born with the kind of magic wizards speak of. No wand, no incantations. But her gift was beyond even their understanding.”

He paused, his fingers brushing over a carved panel of the goddess Saraswati, sitting with her veena, eyes closed in serenity.

“I was only a boy when I heard her. She sat there”—he pointed to a stone platform near the idol—“and sang. One note. Just one. It called me from miles away. My body walked before my mind even understood. That day, she accepted me as her first student.”

Hermione stared at the worn stone. Her chest ached.

Guruji continued, voice low, like telling a story meant only for the wind. “She revived this temple. Said she had dreamt of it as a child. Said the goddess had called her here. For centuries, this temple lay dormant, filled with scrolls older than most wizarding civilizations. It remembers forgotten songs. Lost instruments. Magicks not of spellbooks, but of sound, of soul.”

He looked at Hermione now. “Your grandmother believed that music was not about what you do — but about what you become. And she taught me that in our land, magic is not a possession. It is not something within us.”

“It’s not?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“No. Magic simply is. All around us. Flowing. Breathing. Timeless.” He tapped her chest. “We are merely gifted the ability to shape it. Nothing more. We do not own magic. We align with it.”

Hermione felt her breath catch. Something inside her — something knotted and tangled since her childhood — began to unspool.

“In our philosophy,” Guruji said, walking slowly toward the Saraswati idol, “the gods are not outside of us. They live in the song, in the silence, in the practice. For music, many worship Maa Saraswati. Others Krishna, the divine flautist. Some even revere Shiva, the cosmic dancer.”

He smiled faintly. “There is no wrong god. There is only wrong intent.”

Hermione’s fingers curled around her shawl.

“I want to learn all of it,” she whispered. “Not just the magic. The why of it.”

Guruji turned. For a moment, she thought she saw warmth beneath his worn eyes.

“You will. But first, you will clean this temple. Alone. And you will sit here and listen. Every morning. Every night. Before you even think of playing again.”

“Yes, Guruji.”

She bowed, touching the stone with her forehead, just as she had seen the others do.

Chapter Text

The Voice That Moved Mountains
January 9th, 1989 – Hidden Temple of Saraswati

It had been three days since Hermione began cleaning the hidden temple.

Three days of sweeping dust from stone idols. Of scrubbing moss from cracked marble. Of arranging old manuscripts, some so ancient that the ink shimmered as though sung onto the pages. At night, she sat on the cold floor with her tanpura, the echo of sa pulsing through her spine as if the temple itself was tuning her.

But it was on the fourth morning that something changed.

The sun had not yet risen. Hermione had lit a small diya near the idol of Maa Saraswati, its flame dancing gently in the cold breeze. She knelt, closed her eyes, and began to hum — not a raga, not a scale. Just her voice and the tanpura. A soft, hesitant melody.

And then she heard it.

A second note — deeper, fuller — rising behind her. She turned.

Guruji stood at the entrance of the sanctum. He joined her hum with a perfect ni, his eyes half-closed.

When the notes faded, silence fell like snowfall.

“You felt her, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

Hermione nodded, still dazed. “Was that… was that her?”

Guruji smiled faintly and stepped forward. He lit two more diyas and placed them on either side of the main idol. The shadows danced over the carvings, giving the goddess life.

“Your Daadi was the greatest practitioner of music magick I have ever known,” he said, voice low. “And I say this as the one who inherited her knowledge.”

Hermione turned toward him, wide-eyed. “But… you’re the greatest living master. Everyone says so.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “She never sang to be heard. She never performed for applause. She sang only for the gods, and to teach. That was her way. She taught me everything I know. I was her first and last true pupil.”

“But she was a muggle…”

Guruji’s gaze sharpened gently. “There are no muggles here. No witches or wizards. Only the gifted… and the normal. And the normal can be gifted too, just not in the way you expect.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“She could not lift a wand. But her voice could lift grief from the hearts of the dying. She could not duel. But she could make flames bend to her will with a thumri. She could not apparate. But she could send messages across continents through the echo of her bansuri.”

Hermione slowly sat down, her tanpura still across her lap, reverent.

“And she was not the only one,” Guruji continued. “There are others, those you’ve heard of — Lata Mangeshkar, Kishore Kumar, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi. Some say even Ravi Shankar’s sitar was once blessed by Saraswati herself. Many of them never knew what they were doing was magic. But it was. Their gift was so pure, so powerful, that the gods listened.”

He turned toward Hermione now.

“That is the truth of music magick. It is not cast. It is earned. With discipline. With surrender. With love.”

Hermione felt tears prick the corners of her eyes.

“She taught anyone who came to her,” Guruji whispered, eyes distant. “She never turned anyone away. She believed that anyone could find their magic. Because magic is not in us. It is not outside us. It simply is. Everywhere. We are only vessels. Some are born able to shape it. Others learn. And some… some are chosen by the gods themselves.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

“Did she… Did she know I’d come here one day?”

Guruji closed his eyes. “She used to sing a lullaby here, every month on the full moon. A song of snow and cello strings. She said it was for someone who hadn’t arrived yet. Someone who would play not just music, but the very soul of it.”

Hermione's fingers tightened around the tanpura's neck.

“She was singing to you,” he whispered. “And now… she is listening.”

Chapter Text

The Gathering of Echoes
January 11th, 1989 – Temple of Saraswati

The sun had barely broken past the misty ridges of the Himalayas when the first new teacher arrived.

Hermione had just finished lighting the morning diya and was stretching her hands, readying for three hours of sa. She looked up when the temple bells jingled gently — not in alarm, but like the welcoming of an old friend.

A woman with a sharp silver braid stepped through the main courtyard, wearing flowing crimson robes, a long lacquered case slung across her back.

Hermione blinked. “You… you’re—”

“Hoshiko Maeda,” the woman said with a graceful bow. “Your new sensei. I’ve come from Kyoto.”

She unstrapped the case and opened it.

A shakuhachi — a slender bamboo flute — gleamed within. The wood shimmered with something more than polish, like it remembered centuries of mourning songs and mountain winds.

“I will teach you how to breathe through stillness,” Maeda-sensei said. “And to sing through silence.”

That same afternoon, two more teachers arrived. One rode a magnificent chestnut horse, while the other walked barefoot through snow.

The first introduced himself with a low, proud voice and a flash of calloused fingers: “Soroush Avazeh, of Isfahan. I play the santoor — and once, in a war, I ended a battle with a single ghazal.”

The second bowed deeply, his turban wound tight, his voice like a drum. “I am Baba Amrik. Your tabla will no longer just mark rhythm. It will speak.”

Hermione could hardly breathe.

That evening, Guruji gathered them all under the banyan tree at the center of the inner courtyard. The tree was older than any of them. Older than the temple. Its roots coiled into the stone, gnarled and wide like sleeping serpents.

Hermione sat cross-legged as her teachers encircled her. Each placed their instrument before them: flute, strings, drum.

And then — nothing. Just silence.

Guruji broke it, finally. “This is not Hogwarts. This is not Western wand-magic. You are not here to learn how to cast. You are here to learn why the world listens when you do.”

He turned to Hermione, voice sharper now.

“You will not learn magic in the first few weeks. Not even a note. You will learn control. You will master perfection. When your notes flow without effort — not from talent, but discipline — only then will the gods consider lending you power.”

He snapped his fingers. The courtyard shifted.

Suddenly, it was dark — lit only by magical flames. In the center, a woman in white stood alone, eyes closed. Wind swirled around her. A distant raga began to play, slow and haunting.

Hermione realized: this was a memory. A magical echo.

Then — boom — lightning cracked. The woman struck a note and the very ground trembled.

A demon-like creature appeared, snarling.

But the woman didn’t flinch. Her melody changed. It soared.

And with it, the demon shattered — not with a spell, but a crescendo that split the sky.

The memory faded.

Guruji looked Hermione in the eye. “That was your Daadi.”

Hermione’s heart thundered.

“She didn’t throw curses. She didn’t hex. She sang, and the world obeyed. That is what we will prepare you for.”

He stood. “The teachers will come when they wish. Your lessons may begin at midnight, or during a thunderstorm. You will adapt.”

Then, with a rare softness, “Your parents have sent the rest of your instruments. The veena, the bansuri, the harmonium, even your daadi’s sitar. They’re in your room now.”

Hermione was trembling with gratitude.

As the sky dimmed and snow began to fall, she bowed low to her new teachers, to Guruji, and to the banyan tree — the silent witness to something ancient awakening inside her

Chapter Text

Gods in the Silence

The snowfall hadn’t stopped in three days.

It blanketed the temple rooftops and muffled even the morning bell. But inside, in a small room warmed by magical brass lanterns, Hermione sat cross-legged, back straight, and waited.

Her fingers rested on the bansuri that had arrived that morning — a gift from one of the most revered craftsmen in Varanasi, enchanted with river memory and reed-breath.

She hadn’t yet played it.

Because the man who would teach her stood by the window, silent as the snow.

He was impossibly tall, in a flowing blue dhoti, white streaks of vibhuti on his arms and across his brow. His voice, when it finally came, was soft as the wind:

“I am Raghavendra. I come not to teach you notes — but the spaces between them.”

Hermione blinked. “You’re… a bansuri master?”

“I play,” he said. “But more importantly, I listen.”

He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with something older than time. “Your bansuri is sacred. In our traditions, it is the voice of Krishna — the divine mischief-maker, lover, and protector. He did not need armies. He sang through his flute, and the universe bent.”

He placed a hand on the window. “Some say it was the bansuri’s silence that shattered demons. Not its song.”

Hermione swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Breathe.” he whispered. “Hold the bansuri. And for three days, do nothing but breathe through it. Not a note. Just air. Just feeling.”

Later that week, her piano instructor arrived with a crash of drama.

He was French. Of course he was French.

He wore a wine-coloured coat and gold-tipped boots and declared, with a bow deeper than necessary, “Ma chérie, I am Étienne Dubois. And I will teach you the only form of music that understands madness — piano.”

He set up a vintage upright in the west wing of the temple, placed a raven-feather metronome on its lid, and told Hermione: “You shall learn to bleed beauty through keys. And if you do not sweat, it does not count.”

Two days after Étienne’s arrival, she was summoned again by Guruji.

It was nearly midnight.

The temple’s central sanctum was lit with a soft blue glow — moonlight from the open ceiling, pouring down over the white marble idol of Maa Saraswati, veena in hand, her stone smile gentle.

Guruji sat cross-legged before the altar, eyes closed. When Hermione knelt beside him, he didn’t open them.

He simply spoke.

“Your Daadi,” he said, “believed magic was not a possession. It was presence. A state of being. Saraswati was her goddess. The goddess of knowledge and melody. But she also feared her.”

Hermione turned to the statue. “Why?”

“Because music is power. And power, child, is never innocent.”

He finally opened his eyes, locking with Hermione’s.

“Music magic is one of the only magicks that normal people can touch. Your Daadi was a squib. She held no wand. But she mastered what even great wizards could not. Because she had grace. Purity of will. And because Saraswati allowed it.”

Hermione listened with bated breath.

Guruji reached into his robe and pulled out a parchment scroll. He unfolded it carefully.

It was a notation — but not like any she’d seen. Each mark shimmered faintly, like it had been dipped in starlight.

“She wrote this,” he said. “The first invocation raga. She never performed it. It was too dangerous.”

He handed it to Hermione.

“You will learn it. But not now. First, you must train. You must learn to breathe like the flute, weep like the cello, burn like the piano.”

A week passed.

The cello master arrived just before sunrise — a quiet woman in saffron robes, with a halo of greying curls and eyes like thunderclouds. She did not give her name.

She simply placed her cello down in the outer meditation courtyard and said: “You will play to the sunrise. Every morning. You will not stop until the sun has risen fully above the peaks. If your bow shakes, the sun will not rise.”

Hermione stared.

The woman smiled. “It is superstition. But also truth.”

More instructors came.

An Austrian magician who specialized in throat singing and rune-carved violins.

A Ghanaian griot who played the balafon and taught Hermione about ancestral chords and the magic of memory rhythms.

A Brazilian composer who danced more than taught, his berimbau glowing with spiritual heat.

Each of them, Hermione learned, had once trained under Guruji’s guruma, her Daadi — or had wandered to the temple in search of it, and stayed. Not all were magical by birth. But all were gifted.

And now, Hermione began to understand the truth:

Magic wasn’t a thing you had. It was a thing you heard. And if you were very lucky, it heard you back.

Chapter Text

Ragas for the Gods

I. Bansuri — Breath Before Sound
By the second day, her lips were sore.

The bansuri lay across her lap, warm from hours of breath—only breath. No notes yet. Just the push and pull of life through wood and air.

Raghavendra sat opposite her, unmoving, the shadow of the temple's colonnades flickering over his skin like river light.

“Music,” he said, finally, “is the wind that carries truth. If your breath is not honest, your note will lie.”

Hermione exhaled again—long, even—and for just a flicker, the flute shivered. The barest sound formed at the rim—like the ghost of a note. Her heart leapt.

Raghavendra nodded.

“She begins to speak.”

II. Cello — Before the Sun Rises
The cello was too big. Too heavy. Too cold.

At 4:50 each morning, Hermione climbed to the snow-swept courtyard, dragging her shawl tight, her fingers aching with frost. The cello waited—already tuned, already judging.

Her unnamed teacher never said much.

She would only gesture once toward the horizon and mutter, “Begin.”

The first notes were broken. Wobbly. By day four, Hermione’s wrist cramped. Her fingers bled. By day seven, something inside her broke open.

And on the eighth morning—when the sky had barely begun to tinge gold—she played a single, long, aching note that hung in the air. The wind stilled. Even the birds paused.

The cello purred in approval.

The teacher did not smile—but she bowed.

III. Piano — Playing with Fire
Étienne was chaos.

He threw open windows mid-lesson. He demanded she shout while playing. He made her slap the keys with fury and weep onto the ivory when the music turned soft.

One night, he lit candles all over the chamber, flung his coat off, and declared:

“Tonight, we play Shakti.”

Hermione blinked. “Isn’t she the goddess of destruction?”

“Creation through destruction. Fire, rage, love. You must learn to feel until you burn.”

He sat beside her on the bench and slammed out a thunderous chord. Hermione’s fingers trembled—but she followed.

Together, they built a storm. And when the final note rang out, the candles shuddered, flickered, then all extinguished.

Étienne leaned back, panting. “Now that… was divine.”

IV. Krishna’s Song
On the night of Janmashtami, Raghavendra gave her an offering bowl of milk and honey.

“You’ve learned to breathe,” he said. “Now learn to listen.”

He played one phrase on his bansuri. Simple. Five notes. But when they echoed through the temple air, they shimmered with something impossible.

She heard footsteps, bare against stone. Laughter, childlike and mischievous. A cowbell. A whisper of flute dancing with ankle bells.

She turned, wide-eyed.

But no one was there.

Raghavendra only smiled.

“When Krishna plays, time listens.”

V. Saraswati Mata Whispers
It happened one night, long past midnight.

Hermione wandered into the sanctum where Guruji once taught her. It was quiet. The Saraswati idol shimmered under moonlight, veena in her hands, lotus beneath her foot.

Hermione approached.

She felt… drawn. Her fingers, half-conscious, reached for the scroll. The one her Daadi had written—the forbidden Invocation Raga.

Her cello was beside her. No one had placed it there. Yet it was there.

And so she played.

One note. Then another.

And suddenly—wind.

Soft at first. Then furious. A thousand whispers. Feathers against skin. Bells in the distance.

The goddess’s stone eyes glowed. Just faintly. A hush fell across the world.

And Hermione felt it.

A voice—not of words, but of knowing—pressed into her soul.

“She is watching.”

Then silence.

She turned.

The scroll had vanished.

Chapter Text

Becoming Raga

I. Her Room of Echoes
Hermione’s room wasn’t quiet anymore.

It thrummed.

The cello leaned in the corner like a guardian. The tanpura sang to itself softly by the window, a spell keeping it tuned. Her piano keys were warm from hours of touch. The daadi's sitar now had strings that shimmered faintly in moonlight—Hermione didn’t know why.

Even the floorboards creaked in rhythm.

She no longer woke up crying. She no longer stared into the mirror and asked who am I now?
Because now, each note she practiced answered back.

You are the girl who plays.
You are the girl who learns.
You are the girl who becomes.

They came like the wind—unexpected but always exactly when she needed them.

Pandit Vishram, an old drum master, made her sit in silence for two days before he allowed her a single beat. “You listen to the drum. It does not listen to you.”

Narayani, a blind harmonium teacher, taught her how to find the notes by feeling. “Your skin knows where divinity hides. Trust it.”

Rukmini, a veena master, told her stories of Saraswati Mata as they plucked strings. “The goddess sits in your throat, child. Learn when to speak—and when to sing.”

Javed, a wandering poet, taught her rhythm in words. Ghazals. Couplets. Mantras. “Your voice is a spell. Your syllables are wandless incantations. Be careful what you say.”

It came to her during twilight—saanjh(evening)—when the world turns the color of longing.

She’d been playing without thought. A bansuri phrase, joined by a cello sigh, then a piano chord soft like breath.

It built slowly. A conversation between the lost and the becoming.

She didn’t write it down.

She just played.

And when she finished, the temple dogs had curled near her feet. A breeze had slipped through the windows. The other disciples had stopped their riyaaz to listen.

And from the inner sanctum, Guruji’s voice called out:
“Now, you begin.”

That night, she dreamed of her daadi.

Not as a ghost, not as a voice—but as a girl. Sitting by a river. Singing to the moon.

And young Anirudh, barefoot, shy, holding a broken flute, listening from the shadows.

Daadi turned to her and smiled.

“You hear it now, don’t you? The world’s true music.”

Hermione nodded in her dream, her heart aching and full.

Daadi whispered,
“Then keep playing, beti. One day, it will save more than just you.”

On the morning of her third week, Hermione stepped into the temple, dressed in white, her hair braided like daadi’s old photos.

She bowed to the idol of Saraswati.

And for the first time—she didn't feel like she was pretending.

She didn’t feel broken.

Didn’t feel like the one always trying to be brave.

She just felt… Hermione.

Whole. Quietly powerful.
And humming softly under her breath,
a tune that belonged to no one else.

Chapter Text

Sa, Re, Ga, Ma — The Sacred Test

I. August 31st, 1989 — India
The morning of Hermione’s seventh birthday arrives as though the universe itself pauses to acknowledge it.

The rains, faithful and wild through the monsoon months, have stilled. The skies over the mountains of Uttarakhand clear into silken blue. The earth, washed and awake, smells of cardamom, sandalwood, and the gentle musk of jasmine.

The courtyard of the old Saraswati temple — now lovingly tended by Guruji and his disciples — is prepared with sacred care. Strings of marigold and jasmine are woven around the pillars. A rangoli of musical notes spirals outward from the base of the ancient peepal tree. Its leaves shimmer in the quiet morning light, rustling like an audience hushed in reverence.

Hermione stands at the center, dressed in simple, soft cotton — white and gold, her braid woven with wildflowers. Around her sit those who shaped her journey:

Her parents, hands clasped.
Dumbledore, silent, his twinkle softened into something solemn.
The Marauders — Sirius all nerves and affection, James vibrating with pride, and Remus calm and steady as the Himalayan wind.
And of course, Guruji, flanked by her many teachers — each one silent, each one ready.

She takes a breath. Her seventh birthday is not for candles or cake.
It is for becoming.

II. The Sevenfold Riyaaz
One by one, the instruments are placed before her.
One by one, she lifts them.
One by one, she speaks through them.

The bansuri is first.
Her breath is steady, shaped by months of practice. She plays a morning raag in honor of Krishna — lilting, playful, reverent. It feels like birdsong, or the sound of the Yamuna at dawn. Narayani smiles through tears and nods once.

The tabla follows.
Thunder and rhythm. Discipline and fire. She beats out a taal older than memory, her small hands powerful and sure. Pandit Vishram hums in approval, eyebrows raised.

The harmonium.
Here, her voice joins the keys. A raga of devotion — Saraswati Vandana — spills forth. The temple seems to sigh with it.

The veena.
Her fingers glide across the strings like wind over grass. It is a song of longing, of remembering her daadi. Rukmini, her instructor, whispers a prayer under her breath.

The sitar.
This one once belonged to her daadi. Its sound is smoky, deep. She plays a melody of dusk and rain — ancient, aching, and wise. No one breathes until she finishes.

The piano.
She performs a small, simple original composition. Soft chords. Gentle dissonance. It’s a lullaby with no words, and it leaves Dumbledore blinking away something wet.

The cello.
The final instrument. Her soul. She does not play it. She pours herself into it. The bow dances between restraint and surrender, and the notes groan with memory.
Pain. Joy. Grief. Hope.

And then, her voice alone.

She sings —
no words, no lyrics —
just vibration.
Just truth.
Just herself.

It is not perfect.
But it is honest.

III. The Silence After
The courtyard is still.
Even the birds seem to pause.

And then—Guruji steps forward. Slowly. As though moved by wind.

He does not speak at first. He only bows — deeply, fully — to her.

“You are ready,” he says softly. “Each of your instructors agrees. Today, the Saraswati Parampara lives again.”

Hermione lets out a shaking breath, almost disbelieving. Her mother’s hands cover her mouth. Her father closes his eyes with quiet pride.

Guruji places something in Hermione’s palms.

Wrapped in silken white cloth is a small, smooth tanpura stone — the kind found only in the deepest riverbeds where raga-singers once bathed and sang to the gods. It is warm. It hums when she touches it.

“This belonged to your Daadi,” Guruji says. “She would hold it during riyaaz. Not for power. But to remind herself: magick is not control. It is communion.”

“You need no wand. No focus. Only truth. Only surrender.”

He places his hand above hers.

“From today, you are not just a student. You are an initiate of Music Magick. A child of Saraswati. Of voice, vibration, and silence.”

IV. The Blessing
At that moment, the peepal tree behind her rustles with a sudden wind.
A single white flower drops from its high branch — floating down, dancing in the air — and lands gently in Hermione’s open palm.

Accepted.

Chapter Text

Swar ka Pratham Sparsh — First Touch of Magick

I. The Morning After
The air the next day is honey-warm and still scented with marigolds.

Hermione wakes before the sun, the tanpura stone clutched in her hand. She hasn’t let go of it since Guruji gave it to her — not even while she slept. It thrums softly against her skin, a quiet reminder: you are not alone.

She pads barefoot across the cool stone floor of the temple’s inner sanctum, heart fluttering. Her first real lesson in Music Magick begins today — the kind only Guruji can teach.

II. Guruji Waits Beneath the Tree
The old peepal tree where she performed stands quiet. Guruji sits beneath it, eyes closed, spine straight, lips moving in silent chant. Today, this is just for her.

He opens his eyes as she bows.

“Sarvashreshṭh sādhak,” he says gently. “The one who seeks only truth. You have entered the oldest path. Music is not spellwork. It does not obey. It listens.”

Hermione nods, eyes wide. Her fingers tremble.

Guruji raises a hand and points to a clay pot beside them — inside it, a drooping tulsi plant, leaves curled and pale. “Your first lesson,” he says, “is not to heal. It is to ask the world to heal with you.”

III. Swar and the Plant
He instructs her to sit. Close her eyes. Breathe.
“Forget melody. Forget words. Hum not from your throat — hum from where your breath meets the sky inside you.”

She tries.

At first, it’s just sound.

But slowly — something shifts.

Her hum finds a frequency that feels true. Not loud. Not strong. But real. The tanpura stone warms. The air seems to tremble gently, like dew on a spiderweb. The leaves of the tulsi stir.

She keeps humming.

Minutes pass.

Then — the smallest leaf uncurls.

A new green pushes up from the soil.

Hermione gasps, tears pooling, not from pride but from awe.

Guruji smiles. “Not power. Resonance. You did not heal it. You reminded it how to live.”

IV. Lorewoven Lessons — Krishna & Saraswati
As the sun rises, Guruji walks her to a shaded alcove, lined with carvings.

He speaks gently.

“Do you know the first time Krishna played his bansuri?” he asks.

Hermione shakes her head.

“He was just a child. But when he blew into that hollow reed, the Yamuna curved to listen. The trees leaned closer. It was not the music. It was that he played it for them. With love. With surrender. That is Music Magick.”

“And Saraswati?” Hermione whispers.

“Saraswati Mata was not born. She was sung into being. She is the first song — the note before time. When she plays her veena, she restores balance. Not because she is a goddess. But because her heart is without ego.”

Chapter Text

Raag ke Devta — The God of Melody

Months paas...

The monsoon has returned.

Heavy, pounding rain drums against the sloped temple roofs. Thunder echoes like a low drum. Hermione is indoors with Guruji, incense curling around them like mist. The air tastes of sandalwood and rain.

Guruji sits cross-legged in front of her. He does not start with a chant today.

He simply says:
“Do you know of Tansen?”

Hermione blinks. “He was a singer… a court musician?”

Guruji smiles, “He was more than that. He was a bridge between this world and the divine. His voice could conjure nature itself. That is music magick at its peak — not taught, not cast, only embodied.”

He waves his hand — a bowl of water floats between them, suspended by invisible threads of power.

He hums.

Just a single note.

The water trembles. Ripples form not from motion, but from vibration.

He hums again — deeper.

The water flares into steam.

“Raag Deepak,” Guruji says. “Tansen could light lamps by voice alone.”

He hums again — softer, gentler — and the temple grows cool. The window shutters tremble. Outside, the downpour grows louder.

“Raag Megh Malhar. His music could call the rains.”

Hermione stares, awestruck.

Without a word, Guruji taps the bowl of water once. The steam inside shifts, swirls — and becomes vision.

Not a Pensieve memory. Something more ancient.

The temple changes shape around them — just in that space.

They are no longer inside a lesson.

They are watching.

The memory shows a mountain pass. The sky is black with monsoon clouds. Wind howls across sharp crags. Trees bow. Leaves fly.

A lone figure stands on a rock outcrop — barefoot, hair wet, wrapped in a simple cotton sari, soaked and shivering but still, still, unshakable.

It is her Daadi.

Hermione gasps.

There is no veena. No tanpura. No bansuri.

Only her voice.

She begins to sing — Raag Malhar — and it is unlike anything Hermione has ever heard. Her daadi’s voice is old-fashioned, textured, but so exact — every note placed like a jewel, every breath like an offering.

She sings into the storm. Not against it.

And slowly — the wind softens. The thunder stills. The clouds part, drawn by the weight of her music.

By the end of the song, the sun breaks through the heavens — golden light slants across the soaked stone. Raindrops glow like pearls.

Her daadi finishes her final note, opens her eyes, and smiles at the sky as if it were an old friend.

Hermione is weeping silently.

Guruji says nothing for a long time.

Then softly:
“That is the path, child. Not force. Not spellwork. Surrender. Your daadi had no wand. No title. But the sky heard her.”

When the vision fades, the temple feels different.

The storm outside is still going — but it no longer feels violent. Just present. Just listening.

Hermione hugs her knees, quiet.

“Was she born with it?” she asks, her voice small.

Guruji shakes his head. “She was born only with love. And devotion. Music magick can be awakened in anyone. Even those the world calls ‘normal’. If the soul is pure, if the gods permit, if the intention is right.”

He offers her the bowl of water.

“Sing,” he says.

Hermione takes a breath.

And sings.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet – Special Evening Edition
30th June 1990

BELLATRIX LESTRANGE ESCAPES AZKABAN
Feared Follower of You-Know-Who Vanishes Without a Trace

In a stunning and deeply troubling turn of events, Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the most notorious Death Eaters in recent history, has escaped from Azkaban.

The Ministry of Magic confirmed the breach early this morning, with Acting Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt releasing a statement: “There are no signs of accomplices. The breach appears to have been internal. We are pursuing all leads.”

Bellatrix, a known devotee of the late Lord Voldemort, was sentenced to life imprisonment for her involvement in multiple acts of magical terrorism, torture, and murder during the First Wizarding War. Most notably, she was one of the key perpetrators behind the Longbottom Incident.

It has been over eight years since the fall of Voldemort. The wizarding world is left reeling at the first serious sign of his legacy returning.

The Ministry has declared Lestrange “armed, unstable, and extremely dangerous.” Citizens are urged to report any suspicious activity immediately. A reward of 10,000 Galleons has been posted for information leading to her recapture.

Security measures have increased across the British Isles.

The Daily Prophet – Morning Edition
2nd July 1990

DOUBLE MURDER IN OXFORDSHIRE SHOCKS MAGICAL AND MUGGLE COMMUNITIES
GRANGERS FOUND DEAD — DARK MARK SUSPECTED

Tragedy struck the heart of Oxfordshire late last night when the bodies of Jean (Jahanvi) and Dan (Daniel) Granger were discovered in their Muggle home.

The couple, both respected dentists and beloved by their local community and parents of Hermione Granger were found dead under what Aurors are now confirming to be magical circumstances. The scene, originally reported by Muggle law enforcement as a “home invasion gone wrong,” was quickly turned over to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Initial reports indicate the presence of ancient dark curses at the scene — far beyond typical hexwork. The Ministry has officially linked the murders to Bellatrix Lestrange, who escaped Azkaban less than 48 hours earlier.

Most chilling of all was the message found at the scene, pinned to the Grangers’ front door with a ceremonial dagger:

“Her melody ends here. The girl is next.”

This act of terror has left the magical community shaken.

Bellatrix Lestrange remains at large.

Hermione
2nd July 1990 — Saraswati Temple, Uttarakhand

The tanpura string snapped mid-note.

Hermione blinked.

The mountain air, so often thick with the scent of rain and jasmine, seemed too still. Too loud. Guruji’s footsteps came across the marble courtyard in a slow solemn rhythm.

He was holding the paper.

Hermione didn’t need to read the Prophet headline to know. Not really. She knew. The moment the string had broken. The moment her hand trembled. The music in her bones recoiled.

Anirudh tried to speak first, voice steady. “Child—”

“What happened,” she asked, not blinking.

Guruji handed her the paper.

The headline had her parents’ names in it.

“Jahanvi and Daniel Granger Found Dead in Oxfordshire.”

She read the note once. Then again. Then again. It felt like her voice had been ripped out of her throat.

She stood.

The tanpura lay beside her, its broken string humming like a wounded thing.

Hermione walked to the temple steps, past her teachers, past the altar. Her bare feet touched the cool stone as thunder rumbled in the distance.

The skies were grey.

The storm hadn’t broken yet — not outside, at least.

But inside her?

A silence so deep it could shatter mountains.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Raag for the Fallen
Ministry of Magic Autumn Gala Performance
28th August 1990 — The Atrium, London

Glass chandeliers swayed with a charmed breeze above a glittering crowd. High-ranking officials, ambassadors, professors from Hogwarts, members of the International Confederation — all gathered under golden banners and the soft hush of anticipation.

But no one was talking about the décor.

They were here for him.

And her.

Pandit Anirudh Pandey, India’s legendary master of musical magicks, had not performed publicly in ten years. Ten years of silence — until tonight.

Beside him stood a girl in a deep indigo lehenga, her curls braided with white mogra blossoms. She looked small next to him. Thin. But when she sat, back tall and poised before the violin, something shifted in the room.

The crowd hushed.

The name had been whispered across magical Britain since the Prophet first reported it:
Hermione Granger — the prodigy orphan.
No interviews.
No statements.
No press.
Vanished into the mountains nearly two years ago.

Now she had returned, sitting cross-legged on the stage floor beside her Guruji, a storm behind her eyes and silence braided into her spine.

When she plucked the first string, the air changed.

They opened with Raag Megh Malhar — the Rain Bringer.

Anirudh sang with closed eyes, each note bending into clouds. Hermione followed on the violin, violin as a homage to her late mother, her fingers gliding with disciplined grace. The melody gathered slowly, like thunder before a storm. It shimmered with longing.

The magic was gentle. It didn’t scream. It breathed.

By the third movement, soft rain began to fall — not on the guests, but behind the performers, where the enchanted water caught and shimmered midair, forming the illusion of monsoon hills.

Somewhere near the front, Minerva McGonagall forgot to breathe.

When Hermione began to sing —
Not loudly, not dramatically, just enough —
Her voice wasn’t a child’s anymore.

It was haunting.

It was familiar.

For those old enough to remember, it echoed a voice from long ago. It echoed her daadi, long whispered about in corners of international academies — the squib who could summon fire with her song.

When the last note fell, so did the illusion.

The stage was quiet.
The girl bowed her head.
The Guru laid a hand over his heart.

And no one clapped.

They stood.

The Daily Prophet
29th August 1990 – Culture Section

“Orphaned Prodigy Hermione Granger Returns to the Stage With Renowned Maestros”

For the first time since the tragic murder of her Muggle parents by escaped Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange almost two months ago, young witch and musical prodigy Hermione Granger appeared in public.

The performance — which was a display of ancient South Asian music magicks — was part of a cultural exchange organized by the Department of Magical International Cooperation.

Neither Granger nor Pandey gave interviews, though their appearance has prompted renewed interest in the long-lost art of wandless musical spellwork.

When asked how she felt to be back in Britain, Granger reportedly answered only:

“The music speaks for me.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: A Song for Her Father

The Daily Prophet – Evening Edition

Date: September 27, 1990
Headline: Magical Prodigy Performs at Muggle Gala—Pandit Anirudh Pandey and Hermione Granger Stun Audiences Worldwide

In what has been called a "once-in-a-generation" performance, famed maestro Pandit Anirudh Pandey took the stage last night at the Royal Albert Hall in London—joined by none other than his youngest pupil, eight-year-old Hermione Granger. The event, a global cultural gala hosted by a Muggle organization in memory of celebrated musicians lost in the past decade, saw an audience filled with both magical and non-magical dignitaries in secret attendance.

The duo delivered a stunning Indo-Western fusion performance, blending Hindustani vocals and violin with a grand piano accompaniment by young Granger. Sources confirm the evening was a tribute to Hermione’s late father, Dr. Daniel Granger, whose favourite instrument was the piano and who was known to have played for his daughter nightly.

Witnesses describe the performance as “surreal” and “otherworldly”—though not a single wand was seen, many described an “enchantment in the air” that left even the most skeptical Muggle guests breathless.

The lights were dimmed, the hush that fell over the vast hall as sacred as prayer.

A single spotlight spilled across the polished black surface of a grand piano, catching the golden embroidery of the little girl’s indigo dress. Hermione Granger, barely eight years old, sat poised on the bench, her fingers gently resting on the keys like they were sacred relics. Beside her stood Pandit Anirudh Pandey, dressed in deep blue silks, his silver-thread shawl draped over one shoulder, cradling a sleek black violin.

Both were barefoot.

Hermione looked up at the audience—rows and rows of people who did not know her, who would never know the loss that had eaten her alive. But tonight, it was not for them. It was for her father. The man who used to hum old Hindi songs and 70s rock anthems while making her toast. Who had danced with her in the living room to the sound of the Beatles and old Bollywood records. Who had wept, once, as she first played “Tere Bina Zindagi Se” on the piano.

The Pandit gave her a single nod.

She struck the first note.

The hall was filled with the opening strains of Lag Jaa Gale (come hug me) —Hermione's voice soft, unsure for a moment, then blossoming into clarity like a lotus opening in morning light. Anirudh joined her with his violin, a gentle weeping tone, then weaving harmony beneath her. They moved between languages—Hindi, Tamil, and English—stitching sorrow and joy together in perfect pitch.

Piano met violin, voice met voice.

She played “Ae Mere Humsafar,”  Then, in a quiet pause that hung like a held breath, she turned toward the audience, her voice quivering but steady:

“This… is for my Papa.”

She played the first bars of Clair de Lune, merging seamlessly into Kal Ho Naa Ho (tomorrow may or may not come0. And something in the air shifted. Rain began to fall softly outside the massive glass windows of the hall, as if the heavens themselves leaned in to listen.

The Prophet Continues

“Granger’s piano work was beyond exceptional,” said one of the gala’s senior music critics. “The way she flowed between classical ragas and Western cinematic scores—it was spellbinding. We’ve never seen anything like it.”

While Muggle guests praised the night as “the most touching musical experience of their lives,” magical witnesses, including Headmaster Albus Dumbledore himself, discreetly attended the back row and described the event as “an example of the rare, divine intersection between music and magic.”

Though Hermione Granger has refused all interviews, she accepted the audience’s final ovation with a deep bow beside her guru, who placed his hand gently on her head—a quiet blessing in front of the roaring applause.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Echoes in the Sky
5th October 1990 – Quidditch World League Junior Finals, Dartmoor Stadium

The match was over.

The cheers still echoed like firecrackers in the twilight air, spells bursting overhead in sprays of gold and silver as brooms dipped and danced in celebration. The pitch was ringed with magical lights, bobbing orbs of flame that cast soft glows across the now-cleared field. The victors — Team India — had dismounted to wild applause. The runners-up stood tall, still proud, still glittering with wind-swept determination.

But now — now came the silence between the roars. The hush before the awards. The moment that no one expected would become the most unforgettable part of the night.

A raised dais appeared at the edge of the pitch.

And upon it, the music began.

Pandit Anirudh Pandey sat cross-legged on a white linen rug, clad in a luminous ivory kurta that shimmered slightly in the stadium lights. His silver hair was tied back in a loose knot, his violin cradled in his lap like an old friend. He did not bow. He did not raise a hand.

He simply looked toward his student.

Hermione Granger stepped into the circle of light.

She was radiant — not like a child, but like a star from some ancient sky. Her deep blue gown moved like water as she walked, bare feet silent against the conjured wood of the platform. Mogra blossoms were braided into her curls again, and in her arms she held a cello — taller than she was — gleaming like dark mahogany under starlight.

She bowed her head slightly.

And began to play.

The notes were low at first — slow and tremulous, as though the earth itself were waking from a long sleep. The cello’s voice was warm, aching. Hermione’s fingers danced down the fingerboard with grace beyond her years, while the bow drew sound from silence like breath from stone.

Then came Panditji’s violin — soft, gentle, not leading but cradling the sound around her.

He was not here to dazzle.

He was here to hold space.

Hermione took a breath.

And sang.

Her voice rose through the cool October air, steady and soaring. No lyrics this time — only pure aalaap, the ancient practice of wordless melody. It was longing and joy, heartbreak and hope, all stitched into sound.

The stadium fell utterly still.

High above, the enchanted banners of every nation fluttered, then stilled, then fluttered again — as if bowing.

A few broomsticks still hovered in the night sky. Their riders floated silently, helmets off, hands slack by their sides.

Even the wind listened.

The raag they played was Raag Yaman, a twilight melody once sung for gods at dusk. Hermione’s cello wept with dignity, every stroke of her bow measured and alive. Her voice was no longer trembling. It was strong. Clear. Divine.

At the final crescendo, her bow hovered for one suspended second before she drew the last note — not loudly, but as if whispering a secret to the stars.

Silence fell.

Then came the sound of thousands — not clapping, not cheering — but standing.

A wave of reverence rippled across the stadium.

On the dais, Pandit Anirudh Pandey placed his hand on his heart and looked at her, eyes shining.

And Hermione bowed.

The Daily Prophet – Special Sports & Culture Edition
6th October 1990
Headline: “Granger’s Twilight Song Leaves Quidditch Fans Spellbound”

By Marla Diggory, Senior Correspondent

What began as a championship final for the Junior Quidditch World League last night in Dartmoor became something more — something magical in the truest sense of the word.

Following the match between Team India and Team Kenya, guests were treated to a surprise performance by India’s legendary maestro Pandit Anirudh Pandey and his young pupil, eight-year-old Hermione Granger. What unfolded on the ceremonial dais was described by multiple Ministry officials as “an evening the magical world will speak of for decades.”

Granger, known for her recent emotionally charged tribute at the Royal Albert Hall, stunned audiences once more — this time wielding a full-sized cello and offering a vocal rendition of Raag Yaman, a traditional twilight raga seldom heard outside of sacred temples.

“She was transcendent,” said Ayaan Sabeel, one of the Junior League’s youngest chasers. “The whole pitch changed. It wasn’t just music. It was… remembering something we didn’t know we’d forgotten.”

Though no overt magic was seen during the performance, spectators report “ripples in the air,” “floating lights,” and an “immense sense of peace.” Even Quidditch veterans like Viktor Krum (in attendance as guest of the Bulgarian team) were seen standing quietly through the entire performance.

Pandey, whose playing supported Granger with humble grace, chose not to sing, allowing the young prodigy to take center stage.

“I have never seen him do that before,” commented Lakshmi Varma, music historian for the Magical Archives of South Asia. “It is not a gesture of restraint. It is a coronation.”

When asked for a comment, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, who attended incognito in the upper balcony, simply said:

“The wind itself changed direction. I believe that is all the review she needs.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: The Fury Unleashed

27th October 1990 – Ministry of Magic, Grand Foyer

The Ministry of Magic’s Grand Foyer was a stunning sight, bathed in the warm, golden glow of enchanted chandeliers that stretched across the vast ceiling. The air buzzed with conversation and the occasional laughter of prominent wizards and witches gathered for the Ministry’s annual Gala. This year, however, the Gala was not just about celebration; it was a tribute, a remembrance. The tragic deaths of Hermione’s parents, the Grangers, still hung in the air like an unspoken shadow. The Ministry had invited the legendary Pandit Anirudh Pandey and his prodigious pupil, Hermione Granger, to perform once again — this time for a larger, more powerful audience.

Hermione stood at the edge of the stage, her heart fluttering beneath her calm exterior. She had performed in front of large crowds before, but this felt different. The tension in the air wasn’t only due to the grandeur of the Gala, but because tonight’s music was about something more personal, more raw.

She stood by Panditji, her new radiant blue gown that shimmered under the light, blue had somewhat become her colour, her cello ready at her side. She hadn’t played for this audience since the Quidditch World League Junior Finals, but tonight, she knew the stakes were higher. There were whispers in the crowd — from the high-ranking Ministry officials to the esteemed professors from Hogwarts. She felt their eyes on her, the weight of their expectations, but she knew she was ready.

As the music began, it felt like the very air in the room shifted. Panditji’s violin filled the space with a soft, resonant hum, but it was Hermione’s cello that spoke first. The notes were steady, dark, and heavy, like the weight of her grief, yet there was a sharp, undeniable clarity in each stroke. The performance had begun, but there was something different in the way Hermione played tonight — a sharpness, an intensity.

She took a deep breath, and the words of the song escaped her lips without hesitation. The ragam, Raag Amath, a furious, stormy composition known for its power to channel rage and intensity, began to fill the room.

Her voice rose — not soft and melodious, but fierce, raw. Each note seemed to contain the fury of every painful memory, every regret, every injustice she had ever felt. The audience fell into a stunned silence as the sound of Hermione’s voice enveloped them. It was as though a storm had swept through the room, a ferocity that no one had ever imagined could come from such a young girl.

Her cello rang with the sharp, bitter intensity of the raag, and the vibrations filled the air with magic. It wasn’t just music anymore; it was a force, an elemental power that surged through her and out into the crowd. The very foundation of the Ministry seemed to tremble under the weight of it.

And then, as the final crescendo built, Hermione’s eyes narrowed, focused on something in the crowd.

She saw her.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

A dark figure in the back, draped in shadow, watching from the periphery. Her pale, cruel face was half-obscured by a hood, but the flicker of recognition sent a tremor through Hermione’s chest. The anger in the young witch’s chest flared to life. Bellatrix. The woman who had ripped her world apart. The murderer of her parents. The dark wizard who had never paid for her crimes.

The music surged again, this time darker, more furious. Hermione’s fingers moved faster, her bow slicing through the air. The cello cried out, almost as if it was urging her forward, urging her to let go. She felt it then, the surge of power in her magic, fueled by months of sorrow and rage. Her voice cut through the raga like a blade.

And in that moment, a flicker of recognition passed between Hermione and Bellatrix. The older witch’s lips twisted into a cruel, mocking smile. It was a look that haunted Hermione, one that made her blood boil with every memory of that night.

Without warning, Hermione's magic surged.

Her heart raced, her voice trembling with the energy she was unleashing. She looked down, her eyes meeting Bellatrix’s as her magic enveloped the dark witch.

Bellatrix Lestrange was frozen in midair, her wand lifted in a futile attempt to strike. She looked down in shock, her eyes wide with fear — something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. But Hermione wasn’t finished.

With a flick of her wrist, Bellatrix was bound — ropes of shimmering light wrapping around her arms and torso, suspending her in midair. The crowd watched in stunned silence, unsure of what to do or say. The music had turned into a furious, unrelenting storm of sound and magic, Hermione’s fury magnifying with every breath she took.

And then, it happened.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Whispers spread quickly as they realized who was in their midst.

“Bellatrix Lestrange…”

A voice from the back of the room, a voice of authority. “She’s an escaped convict! A Death Eater!”

Before Hermione could react, a group of Ministry Aurors surged forward, wands raised. They quickly took control of the situation, surrounding the floating Bellatrix and securing her in chains.

The crowd slowly began to stir, a mixture of awe and fear in their eyes. The tension in the room lifted, but only slightly.

Hermione’s breath came in shallow gasps, her hands trembling as she lowered her cello. Her magic ebbed away, leaving her feeling suddenly empty, drained. Panditji moved to her side, his expression unreadable. He gave her a gentle touch on the shoulder, his eyes filled with both pride and concern.

The Ministry had its hands full with Bellatrix, who was swiftly escorted away, but Hermione’s eyes remained fixed on her. A part of her was still burning with that raw emotion, but another part of her felt… relieved. Justice had been served — in her own way.

The Daily Prophet – Special Edition

28th October 1990

Headline: "Hermione Granger Confronts Bellatrix Lestrange: A Fury Unleashed at the Ministry Gala"

By Marla Diggory, Senior Correspondent

The Ministry of Magic’s Annual Gala, meant to honor the finest witches and wizards of the year, took an unexpected and dramatic turn last night when young Hermione Granger, eight years old, once again mesmerized an audience with her musical prowess — only this time, her performance was more than a song.

The night’s performance, originally set to celebrate the young prodigy’s achievements, turned into a live confrontation with one of the wizarding world’s most feared criminals: Bellatrix Lestrange, an escaped Death Eater responsible for the deaths of countless innocents, including the Granger family.

As Hermione Granger sang and played the furious Raag Amath, a sudden surge of magic filled the air. The young witch, her grief and anger still fresh, sensed the presence of Lestrange in the crowd. In a shocking turn of events, Granger’s magic exploded outward, binding the fugitive in midair. Lestrange, seemingly unable to defend herself, was swiftly taken into Ministry custody by Aurors.

Several witnesses reported a sense of peace that followed the dramatic turn of events, describing the scene as "surreal." Auror Department officials have confirmed that Bellatrix Lestrange will face charges for her crimes, and her capture has been hailed as a significant victory in the fight against dark magic.

Hermione Granger’s bravery, her control over the wild surge of magic, and her incredible musical talent have made her the subject of both admiration and concern. While some worry about the emotional toll these events may take on the young witch, others see her actions as a form of magical justice.

"Her power is undeniable," said Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, speaking off the record. "But we must all remember that the burden of such strength is heavy, and no one — not even Hermione Granger — can bear it alone."

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: The Temple of Saraswati

27th December 1990 – The Temple of Saraswati, Uttarakhand, India

The early morning mist hung in the cool air, weaving through the ancient trees that surrounded the Temple of Saraswati. High in the mountains of Uttarakhand, the temple stood at the edge of a quiet river, its stone walls weathered by centuries of history. The sound of the water flowing gently beside the temple was both calming and timeless, as if the river itself had witnessed the trials and triumphs of generations past.

Hermione stood on the temple steps, gazing out at the vast expanse of the mountains. The sky above was painted in hues of pink and gold, the first light of day creeping over the peaks. She could feel the magic of the place, a quiet hum that seemed to echo in her chest, resonating with the heartbeat of the world.

It had been weeks since her return to India, and yet the events at the Ministry Gala seemed to cling to her like a shadow. The fury that had gripped her when she saw Bellatrix Lestrange — the fury that had manifested in her music, in her magic — still lingered in her thoughts. She had let it take over, allowing her anger to define the moment. It had been a mistake, she knew that now. She had lost herself in the heat of the battle.

And now, in the peaceful solitude of the Temple of Saraswati, she sought to regain what she had lost: her center, her balance, her calm.

Pandit Anirudh Pandey had led her to this sacred temple, his silence speaking volumes. He had not reprimanded her, but Hermione could sense the weight of his disappointment. He, who had taught her to channel her magic through music and harmony, had watched as she let her anger shape her actions. But he had also understood. In that moment of fury, there had been a deep need — a need for justice, for closure, for revenge. And yet, Panditji’s wisdom reminded her that even in the darkest of moments, her magic could not be born of destruction.

As Hermione approached him now, sitting cross-legged in the center of the temple courtyard, his eyes met hers — calm, piercing, and filled with quiet understanding. There was no anger in his gaze, only a profound sense of knowing.

"You allowed your anger to carry you," Panditji said quietly, his voice a soft whisper against the stillness of the morning. "But magic born of anger is like a storm. It can be powerful, yes, but it destroys everything in its path, including the one who wields it."

Hermione swallowed, her heart heavy with the weight of his words. She had known this, of course, but to hear it from him — from the one who had guided her every step of the way — made it all the more real. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, ashamed of the loss of control she had felt.

"I am sorry, Guruji," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I lost myself."

Panditji was silent for a long moment, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. Then, he spoke again.

"Anger has its place, Hermione," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "But it cannot rule you. In the heat of the moment, you sought to protect yourself, your loved ones. But there is a difference between justice and vengeance. A difference you must learn."

Hermione nodded, tears welling in her eyes. She had let her desire for vengeance cloud her judgment, forgetting the very essence of the magic she had been taught. Music was not just a tool for magic; it was a way to heal, to create, to restore. And she had used it to destroy.

"You must remember," Panditji continued, "that true power comes not from the force you wield, but from the wisdom with which you wield it."

Hermione stood, her hands pressed together in prayer, her heart quieting with each word he spoke. The temple around her seemed to hum with the energy of centuries, as though the very stones were alive with knowledge and truth. She had come here seeking peace, and she knew now that peace was something she had to cultivate within herself.

Two Weeks Later

As the new year progressed, Hermione threw herself into her magical training with a new sense of purpose. The lessons were grueling, the techniques more challenging than anything she had faced before. But each day, she grew stronger — not just in her magic, but in her understanding of herself.

Her second year of training at the Temple of Saraswati had come to a close, and she stood on the precipice of her third year. The stakes were higher now. The path ahead would demand more than she had ever given before. But Hermione was ready.

Panditji had been in frequent communication with Professor Dumbledore, who had traveled to India several times to meet with him and discuss Hermione’s progress and the headmaster

One afternoon, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Hermione sat in the temple courtyard, her cello resting in her lap. Panditji sat across from her, his eyes closed in deep meditation.

As if sensing her thoughts, he spoke without opening his eyes. "You are not just learning magic, Hermione. You are learning to wield it with the grace of the goddess Saraswati herself. You must find harmony in the chaos that surrounds you."

Hermione nodded, feeling the weight of his words sink in. This training — this journey — was not just about magic. It was about understanding the deeper currents of life and learning to navigate them with wisdom.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet – Special Edition

2nd August 1991

Headline: “Granger to Join Hogwarts Class of 1991 as Special First-Year Student”

By Marla Diggory, Senior Correspondent

In a surprising announcement yesterday, it was revealed that Hermione Granger, the eight-year-old magical prodigy whose musical performances have captivated audiences worldwide, will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a first-year student.

The announcement was made by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore at a Ministry of Magic gathering, where he confirmed that Miss Granger will be joining the incoming class of eleven-year-olds on 1st September, even though she will turn 9 only a day before as Miss Granger has proved herself to be extremely powerful from the day of her birth, it has been recommended that her magic needed control and stability for which she has been training in music magicks under Pandit Anirudh Pandey, since she was a six year old the last two years and the few months have helped but to ground her magic as it is very powerful she will need a wand and therefore for supervision she will start her first year 2 years early. Miss Granger has always exceeded our notions of excellence we can only hope she will be just as bright in her academic endeavors.

Granger, whose magical education has been guided by the esteemed Pandit Anirudh Pandey at the Temple of Saraswati in Uttarakhand, is expected to bring a unique and extraordinary perspective to her Hogwarts education.

“She has already achieved so much at a young age,” Dumbledore said in his statement. “Her potential is immense, and we are excited to see how she will grow at Hogwarts.”

Though some have raised questions about the appropriateness of Granger joining the first-year class, given her exceptional abilities, the Ministry and Hogwarts have expressed confidence in her integration with her peers.

As the magical world watches with bated breath, Hermione Granger’s arrival at Hogwarts promises to be a defining moment in magical education.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: A Parting, A Promise

31st August 1991 – Temple of Saraswati, Uttarakhand

The monsoon had left the temple fragrant with life. Jasmine climbed the pillars in spirals. Rain-kissed marigolds lined the courtyard. The Saraswati River murmured gently at the edge of the temple walls, as though singing a soft goodbye.

Hermione stood barefoot in the main sanctum, dressed in a simple white salwar. Her cello case was closed at her side, and tucked inside her satchel were a wand she rarely used, a few hand-bound books of raags, and a single letter from Hogwarts.

Tomorrow, she would leave.

But not before the final rite.

Pandit Anirudh Pandey stood before her. He wore saffron and white — the traditional garb of farewell. Not a word had passed between them about her departure until this moment.

In silence, he lit the dhoop sticks. The heady scent of guggul filled the air.

He gestured for her to sit.

The aarti began.

But this time, it was not for the goddess alone.

It was for the disciple.

The flame circled her three times. The conch blew once. And as the notes of the tanpura rose around them, Anirudh Pandey finally spoke.

"You are ready, Hermione."

She did not answer.

"You have learned not only to wield music as magic," he said, his voice low and calm, "but to feel it as dharma. That is what makes you different. That is what makes you dangerous."

Hermione looked up, unsure.

He held her gaze. "At Hogwarts, there will be temptations. Power. Pride. Glory. And shadows that are not just outside — but within. You must be vigilant. Not only with your spells, but with your swara. Your music must not become a weapon."

She nodded, words sticking in her throat.

"And yet…" he sighed. "There may come a time when it must."

A pause. A long one.

Then, he stepped forward and placed a single mogra blossom in her palm. "Do not forget where your journey began. The river remembers every note."

Hermione blinked quickly, trying to burn the image of this moment into her mind.

"I won’t let you down, Guruji."

"You won't, your education at this temple might be over but it isn't over with me, you will continue your lessons how will we magane that i will tell you later when you are at hogwarts."

At sunset, the entire temple gathered in the courtyard. Disciples, elders, visiting musicians — all came to bid farewell to the girl who had once arrived here small and broken, and now stood like a morning raga — full of promise.

She played one last piece beneath the Bodhi tree. A soft Raag Bhimpalasi, filled with longing and farewell. And when she finished, no applause came.

Only the sound of silence.

A silence full of blessings.

1st September 1991 – King’s Cross Station, London

The mist around Platform 9¾ shimmered like breath on a mirror. Cloaked figures darted past the Muggle crowds, trunks rolling, owls hooting from cages. Families embraced, students laughed and jostled.

And amidst them, a small girl in a dark indigo shawl stepped quietly through the barrier.

Hermione Granger stood before the gleaming scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express.

She felt like a contradiction — too young and yet too old.

Her fingers tingled. Not with nerves.

But with knowing.

The music inside her was quiet now — resting. Waiting.

She turned once, and saw no one from the temple. No Guruji.

Only the memory of his voice.

The river remembers every note.

And so would she.

Hermione boarded the train.

And the world shifted.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Through the Glass

1st September 1991 – King’s Cross Station, London

Harry Potter had never seen Platform 9¾ this alive.

Steam hissed from the scarlet train, curling into the air like dragon’s breath. Trunks clattered, owls hooted indignantly, and wizarding parents gave last-minute instructions like generals sending their children to battle.

“Harry, wait —” Lily Potter pulled him aside just before he stepped through the barrier.

He turned, adjusting his rucksack. “Mum, I’m not going to forget my books.”

“It’s not that,” she said softly, and James came up beside her, an arm slung casually around her shoulders. Both of them looked oddly solemn.

“There’s someone you might see on the train today,” James said, scratching behind his ear. “Someone you knew. A long time ago.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Lily reached into her pocket and unfolded a photograph. It was old — slightly wrinkled, sun-warmed. A little girl stood between Lily and James, her curls wild and windswept, her face serious but her eyes curious, luminous.

“That’s… Hermione,” James said.

Harry frowned. The name sparked something — not quite a memory, more like a feeling. Something warm. Something from before.

“We saw her last on her seventh birthday,” Lily added, glancing down at the photo. “In India.”

Harry tried to summon her face in his mind. He remembered music, vaguely. A temple. A birthday cake shaped like a swan. Her laugh — high and soft like bells — but it slipped through his fingers like fog.

“She’ll be starting today,” Lily said. “We wanted to tell you because… well, you two were close once. Before—”

“Before her parents were killed,” James finished quietly. “And before she left for India.”

Harry nodded, uneasily. “Right.”

But before he could think too long on it, a shout called out.

“Oi! Potter!”

It was Draco Malfoy, already leaning halfway out of the train window, waving like he’d won the House Cup.

Beside him stood Regulus Black’s son — Aelius — tall, dark-eyed, and sharp in both tongue and cheek. Harry smirked and turned back to his parents.

“I’ll look out for her,” he said, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “Promise.”

James clapped him on the back. “That’s our boy.”

And then Harry stepped onto the train.

Aboard the Hogwarts Express

The compartments were half full already. Owls screeched, chocolate frogs hopped madly underfoot, and over it all, the low hum of magic buzzed like static in the air.

“Thought you were going to ditch us,” Draco grinned, kicking open a seat.

Aelius rolled his eyes. “Please. Potter’s too loyal for that. It’s tragic, really.”

They bantered easily, the way boys do when they've known each other since toddlerhood. Harry let himself sink into the seat across from them, pressing his forehead to the window.

And then he saw her.

Hermione Granger was walking past the train, her step light but deliberate, guided by a witch in long saffron robes who disappeared the moment they reached the platform. She carried only a cello case, strapped to her back like a sacred weapon, and a small, neatly packed satchel at her side.

Harry’s breath caught.

He hadn’t expected her to look like that — not regal, exactly, but ancient in a way. As if the years had shaped her into someone older than all of them.

“Who’s that?” Aelius asked, leaning in.

“Hermione Granger,” Harry murmured before he could stop himself.

Draco blinked. “Wait, the Hermione Granger?”

Aelius whistled. “Didn’t she bind Bellatrix Lestrange in midair with a song?”

“She was a friend,” Harry muttered, looking away. “A long time ago.”

But the image of her stepping onto the train — her curls haloed by sunlight, her eyes scanning the crowd with calm detachment — stayed with him.

He didn’t go to find her.

Not yet.

But something inside him — buried beneath the noise of friendship and jokes and nerves — stirred.

And listened.

Chapter Text

1st September 1991 – Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry Potter had seen many magical things in his life — a toy broomstick at age four, the giant squid on a family trip to the Black Lake, even Sirius Black dancing barefoot on the roof of Grimmauld Place during a storm.

But nothing felt quite as enchanted as the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

Floating candles glimmered above like fireflies suspended mid-dream. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the star-drenched sky outside. Four long house tables buzzed with the chatter of returning students, but the first years stood in a huddled line, eyes wide.

The Sorting Hat sat on its stool, worn and wrinkled and singing its yearly song. Harry barely heard it.

He was scanning the crowd.

Looking for her.

He found her two students behind him — Hermione Granger, her hair coiled in a simple braid down her back, eyes steady, cello nowhere in sight but presence undiminished. She looked… calm. Or maybe just prepared.

He turned forward again, not sure why his chest felt tight.

One by one, names were called. Applause erupted. The hat shouted.

"Malfoy, Draco!"
Draco gave Harry a crooked grin and sauntered forward.

The Sorting Hat barely brushed his head.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Draco took the table like a prince returning to court, green and silver welcoming him with open arms.

"Aelius Black!"

Aelius swaggered up, eyes half-lidded with cool amusement. The hat hesitated — argued, even — but eventually declared:

"RAVENCLAW!"

“Typical,” muttered Draco across the room.

Then came…

"Potter, Harry!"

The room hushed.

Harry walked slowly, every eye on him. The hat slid over his head, and the voice filled his mind.

"Ahh… curious. Very curious. Talent, yes. And ambition, plenty. But your heart, Potter… oh, it burns."

"Not Slytherin," Harry whispered.

"No? You would do well there. But… yes, yes, I see. GRYFFINDOR!"

The table exploded. He was ushered in with handshakes and slaps on the back. Percy Weasley gave him a too-serious nod; Fred and George whooped like he'd scored a goal. But Harry barely noticed.

He was waiting.

"Granger, Hermione."

Silence again. A different kind.

She stepped forward, not nervously — but with the focus of someone approaching an altar.

The hat rested on her head.

And paused.

"You… are not like the others. Not at all. Such discipline. Such fury, such grace… no, not Gryffindor. Not Ravenclaw, though you'd thrive there. Slytherin? Perhaps. But your soul… seeks devotion. Community. Harmony. Well then…"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

There was a beat of pure stillness.

And then thunderous applause — more surprise than welcome — filled the room.

The Hufflepuff table looked stunned for a moment, then burst into delighted cheers.

Harry stared.

Hermione bowed her head slightly, not to the crowd, but to the Hat itself, before walking calmly to her new house table and taking her place among students who looked both awed and thrilled.

"Hermione Granger, a Puff?" Aelius muttered from across the room.

"I don’t think the Sorting Hat was joking," Harry murmured.

But he couldn’t look away.

Later That Night – Hufflepuff Basement Dorms

Hermione sat on her new bed, listening to the laughter of girls she’d never met.

Susan Bones was kind-eyed and a little too curious.
Hannah Abbott talked a lot, but warmly.
Megan Jones and Sally-Anne Perks were quiet but observant.

And the boys?

Justin Finch-Fletchley had immediately tried to carry her cello and tripped over it.
Ernie Macmillan talked like he was reciting a textbook.
Wayne Hopkins and Roger Malone were already planning snack raids.
Oliver Rivers just nodded at her, then returned to his notebook, scribbling furiously.

She felt… safe. Unexpectedly so.

And then came the owl.

A golden envelope with her name in neat, slanted calligraphy.

She opened it with care.

To Hermione Granger,
From the Desk of Albus Dumbledore

My dear Miss Granger,

As discussed, you will receive specialized magical instruction each weekend, beginning this coming Saturday. Your instructor, Pandit Anirudh Pandey, will arrive by secure portkey at dawn. You are requested to keep this arrangement confidential, save for those you trust implicitly.

Please also note: your daily practice remains unchanged.

4:00 a.m. sharp.

Welcome to Hogwarts.

May the music continue.

Yours in wisdom,
Albus Dumbledore

Hermione smiled.

Outside the round window, the stars hung low.

Chapter Text

2nd–5th September 1991 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hermione's POV

By the third day of classes, Hermione Granger had organized her timetable, color-coded her notes, begun training at 4 a.m. with her cello (silencing charms applied), and learned the fastest route from the Hufflepuff common room to the Astronomy Tower.

She had also made… friends. Real ones.

Padma Patil was sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued — a Ravenclaw who enjoyed late-night star charts and secretly writing poetry in Hindi anf french. Theo Nott, on the other hand, was quiet, clever, and deeply observant — a Slytherin with ink-stained fingers and a tendency to speak in cryptic metaphors.

Together, they were a strange trio.

Padma called them “the Lost Rāgas.”
Theo preferred “The Triangle of Discomfort.”
Hermione just smiled and called them her people.

They had lunch in odd corners of the castle. Met by the lake to swap theories. Passed notes in class — coded, of course. When Hermione told them she practiced every morning before dawn, Padma only nodded sagely and said, “I hope you also meditate.”

Theo grinned. “I bet you turn into a tiger when nobody’s watching.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

She liked that they didn’t ask for explanations.

Harry's POV

Harry wasn’t used to sharing space with so many people.

The Gryffindor common room was always loud, always moving. But he didn’t mind. He liked Seamus’s terrible jokes and Dean’s impressive sketching. Ron Weasley, though not in his dorm, was still a familiar face at meals and always had something strange stuck in his jumper.

Then there were his people.

Draco, sharp and smirking, knew how to start trouble and finish it.
Aelius Black, clever and aloof, read Muggle novels under the table and occasionally muttered ancient Greek under his breath.

Harry felt… balanced with them. Like each had carved out a corner of chaos and calm.

They were all different — and that made it work.

Still, sometimes, across the Great Hall or in the courtyard between classes, his eyes would flick toward a certain braid of brown hair, and he’d feel something he couldn’t quite place.

Not curiosity. Not nostalgia.

Something in between.

Shared Class – Wednesday, Double Potions

Snape swept into the dungeon like a thundercloud.

Harry and Draco sat near the front. Aelius had arrived late and was stuck in the back. Hermione had claimed a spot beside Theo, Padma on her other side.

It was the first class they all shared.

“Today,” Snape drawled, “we will begin with a simple calming draught. Assuming none of you explode before the cauldron even simmers.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked toward Harry.

He caught her glance.

It lasted one breath too long.

Then he looked away.

Draco leaned over. “She’s the girl from the Prophet, isn’t she? With the cello?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Theo leaned toward Hermione. “Your lion friend looks uncomfortable.”

Padma grinned. “Should we offer him a hug?”

“NO” Theo and Hermione said at once.

They grinned.

The potion bubbled.

Later That Day – Courtyard, Between Classes

Hermione walked with Padma and Theo, discussing magical theory.

Harry walked with Draco and Aelius, discussing Quidditch.

They crossed paths.

No one stopped.

But Padma turned her head just slightly. “That one,” she murmured, “is going to matter.”

Hermione arched a brow. “To me?”

Padma only smiled.

That Night – Hufflepuff Common Room

Hermione tuned her cello in the firelight.

A letter sat on her bed — from Guruji. No words, just an enchanted note in Raag Desh, floating in delicate swirls across the page.

She pressed her hand to it.

Outside, the castle rustled like a sleeping beast.

She didn’t know yet that her choices would shape its dreams.

Chapter Text

Saturday, 7th September 1991 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The castle was still asleep when Hermione rose.

4:00 a.m.

The moon cast long silver shadows through the Hufflepuff windows as she slipped out of bed, wrapped her shawl over her shoulders, and padded barefoot through the corridors.

She had already found a secret chamber — tucked near the fourth-floor corridor, once a music classroom, now long-abandoned. Stone pillars cradled dust and silence. But to her, it sang.

This was where she played.

This was where he would come.

She tuned her cello slowly, reverently. Every string like a breath. Every movement like memory.

And at exactly 5:00 a.m., with no sound, no flash, only a soft shimmer of wind — he was there.

Guruji.

Pandit Anirudh Pandey stood before her, robes billowing gently in a wind that had not come from the windows. His eyes were tired, but kind. He looked older in the Scottish light. More human than divine.

But to Hermione, he still glowed.

She bowed deeply.

He nodded once.

Then — without a word — they began.

For two hours, they played.

No speech. No spells. No instruction.

Only rhythm. Rāgas that bent like branches in the wind. Her cello answered his violin, sometimes hesitant, sometimes bold. He tested her. He challenged her. She rose to meet him, sweat beading on her forehead as the notes climbed higher and faster.

When it ended, she collapsed into a sitting position on the cold stone floor.

Guruji knelt before her.

Silence again.

But this time, he broke it.

“You did not lose yourself,” he said, voice low and serious. “Not like that night.”

Hermione looked down. “I… remembered.”

“Good.”

He pressed a small packet into her palm — dried jasmine, tied with golden thread.

“Your mother wore this in her hair once,” he said. “At the temple. On your seventh birthday.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“She danced,” he said, “with your father. And you — you played that same raag. You were only seven. The priests stopped to listen.”

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them.

And then she said it.

“I miss him.”

Guruji reached out.

And for the first time, in all their lessons — he held her.

It wasn’t the embrace of a mentor.

It was something gentler.

Tentative.

Hopeful.

Like a man remembering how to be a father.

And a girl learning she could still be someone’s daughter.

Later That Morning – Hufflepuff Common Room

Hermione returned before breakfast, cheeks pink from wind and memory.

Susan Bones was braiding her hair. “You look… peaceful.”

Hermione only smiled.

She slipped the jasmine into a tiny glass bottle and placed it on her nightstand.

Elsewhere – Gryffindor Tower

Harry Potter sat in a circle of chess pieces, watching Ron lose spectacularly to Aelius.

His mind, though, was elsewhere.

He had seen her — before breakfast — slipping down a side corridor, cello case in hand, shawl around her shoulders like moonlight.

And for a moment…

She had looked…

Safe.

“Oi, Harry,” Ron called, “your knight’s chewing on my rook again!”

Harry blinked.

Smiled faintly.

And said nothing.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

Charms class.

It was supposed to be simple.

Levitation, wand technique, basic pronunciation.

But of course, nothing was ever just simple when she was involved.

Professor Flitwick had barely finished his demonstration before Hermione Granger raised her hand — eyes bright, quill already half-filled with notes she had apparently taken during the lesson.

Harry, seated beside Aelius, half-listening, whispered to Draco across the table, “She’s going to make us all look like trolls.”

“She already has,” Draco muttered. “Did you see her wand grip? It’s like she sleeps with her spellbooks.”

Aelius raised a brow. “Maybe she is the spellbook.”

Then came the practical portion.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

Hermione’s feather hovered immediately, spinning in a perfect spiral. She sat back, smug.

Harry grit his teeth.

No way.

He adjusted his grip, narrowed his focus.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

His feather jerked, shot up too high, and exploded in a puff of magical static that singed the top of his hair.

Laughter. Even Flitwick chuckled.

Hermione didn’t laugh.

She just smirked.

And that was worse.

Hermione’s POV

By the end of September, Hogwarts had begun to feel less like a school and more like a collection of rhythms.

There was morning meditation. Afternoon note-swapping. Theo’s endless sarcasm, Padma’s relentless logic, Luna’s odd but beautiful commentary on magical beasts no one else had seen.

Hufflepuff was warm and quiet — soft snores, shared snacks, gentle chaos. Megan had taught her to braid with two wands. Susan always had extra chocolate. Sally-Anne secretly sang to herself when she thought no one was listening.

Hermione belonged. Not as a prodigy. Not as the girl from the Prophet. Just… as herself.

But then he happened.

Harry James Potter.

Golden Boy. Stubborn. Quidditch-obsessed. Arrogantly unaware that he was not the top student in Charms.

She had watched him in class, trying too hard, scowling when she succeeded first. She’d felt his gaze like static electricity — not admiration, not dislike. Something else.

Rivalry. Maybe.

Whatever it was, she rolled her eyes every time he opened his mouth to challenge a spell she’d already perfected.

Padma noticed.

“Your lion problem’s flaring up again,” she said one night at dinner.

Hermione poked at her mashed potatoes. “He’s infuriating.”

Theo, leaning across the table from the Slytherin benches, smirked. “He stares at you like you’ve stolen something he can’t name.”

Hermione raised a brow. “His pride, probably.”

Padma snorted. Luna, floating nearby like a moonbeam, whispered, “The stars say your magic collides in fire. That’s rare.”

Hermione blinked.

Then rolled her eyes again.

“Tell the stars I’m not interested in combustion.”

Hogwarts Courtyard

The two trios passed each other like different solar systems orbiting the same sun.

Hermione, Padma, and Theo: calm, clever, dangerous with knowledge.
Harry, Draco, and Aelius: bold, snarky, and always looking for trouble.

They nodded coolly at one another.

Not friends.
Not enemies.
Not yet.

But something was building.

And it would not stay quiet for long.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s POV

It had taken three weeks.

Three weeks of 4 a.m. practice. Of voice exercises, raag modulation, and meditative control. Of holding her wand with not her fingers, but her intention.

And finally — finally — it happened.

She lit all four diyas.

Not with a spell.

But with sound.

“Raag Deepak,” Guruji had murmured as she sang, each note like a thread pulled from flame. The clay lamps, arranged in a sacred square, flickered… then flared to life.

Hermione collapsed to her knees, breathless. Sweat glistened on her brow, but her eyes shone brighter than the diyas.

Guruji crouched beside her, not smiling — but something softer.

“You are beginning to remember who you are.”

She looked up at him, chest still heaving. “It’s different here. The magic… feels younger. Wilder. Hogwarts is—” she paused, searching. “Chaotic. Loud. But also… kind.”

He nodded, folding his hands. “You are learning balance. Not just of music and magic — but of self.”

She stared into the flickering flames.

“There’s this boy,” she said finally.

Guruji didn’t respond, just tilted his head slightly.

“He’s—” she wrinkled her nose, “—obnoxious. Competitive. But… not unkind. He challenges me. Makes me want to prove something.”

Guruji raised an eyebrow. “To him? Or to yourself?”

She huffed.

Both.

Guruji’s gaze lingered, then softened. “Rivalry sharpens skill. Just do not let it dull your heart.”

Harry’s POV

The sky was his.

It was the first time Hogwarts felt like home.

Madam Hooch’s lesson had started off simple enough. Brooms lined up. Shouting “Up!” and most of them flopping over like dying trout. Neville’s took off without him — then dumped him unceremoniously in the grass.

And then Ron Weasley picked up the Remembrall.

"Look what he dropped!" Ron sneered, tossing it in his palm.

Harry didn’t even think.

“Give it back.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Make me.”

Challenge accepted.

Seconds later, Harry was off the ground — soaring — wind tearing through his hair. The world dropped away. He swerved, twisted, and caught the glass sphere in one smooth dive.

When he landed, the first thing he saw was McGonagall. Looking absolutely terrifying.

But instead of detentions, there was a different kind of fate waiting.

Later That Evening – Gryffindor Tower

“You’re the youngest Seeker in a century!” Aelius was practically shouting, eyes wide. “Centur-eee, Potter!”

Draco tried to look unimpressed. “You’ll be dead in a week.”

Harry, still holding the Nimbus 2000 Professor McGonagall had arranged to be delivered, was too stunned to care.

He finally felt right.

Not james and lily potter's son
Not just the friend of Draco and Aelius.
Not the second-best in Charms.

He was the one who flew.

Elsewhere – Hufflepuff Common Room

Hermione sat cross-legged near the fireplace, jotting down raag variations in her enchanted journal. Theo was flipping through a Charms manual while Padma scribbled Arithmancy formulas in neat blue ink.

Across the room, Susan and Megan were debating the best magical baking spells. Hannah was flipping a fashion magazine- witch weekly?

Padma looked up. “Did you hear? Potter’s on the Quidditch team.”

Hermione didn’t look up.

“I heard.”

Theo smirked. “Jealous he found his magic in a broomstick instead of a library?”

She rolled her eyes. “I light diyas with my voice. He caught a shiny ball.”

But even as she said it, she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

Maybe… she was just a little proud.

Not that she’d ever admit it.

Chapter Text

8th November 1991 – Hogwarts Courtyard

Hermione hadn’t expected Hogwarts to say yes.

She hadn’t expected so many people to say yes.

But on the morning of November 8th — the day of Diwali — there was a note slipped under her pillow from Professor Sprout, warm and perfumed with fresh soil:

“The courtyard has been cleaned and charmed for warmth. You have our full blessing. – Pomona”

It made her eyes sting, just for a moment.

Padma had squealed when Hermione first brought it up. “Of course we’ll do a Laxmi Pujan! Parvati knows all the rituals — and I have bindis!”

And somehow, that’s how it started.

By sundown, word had spread.

Parvati invited Aelius. Aelius invited the Ravenclaw boys. Theo pulled in the Slytherins, and then the Gryffindors, not to be left behind, declared they were coming too — even Percy Weasley sniffed it was “culturally important.”

The courtyard was alight with soft floating candles and marigold garlands that draped over arches and fluttered gently in the charmed breeze. A magical fire crackled in a copper urn at the center, surrounded by rows of unlit diyas.

Hermione, Padma, and Parvati stood barefoot on a raised stone platform, all three in dazzling lehengas. Hermione’s was deep indigo threaded with silver. Her curls were braided with jasmine. A small bindi sat glowing at the center of her brow.

She felt like herself.

Not the prodigy.

Not the orphan.

Just… Hermione.

The air was thick with scent — sandalwood, cardamom, something sacred and old.

As the students gathered — dozens of them — Hermione’s breath caught.

She hadn’t known this many people cared.

Or that they would show up.

Even Professors Flitwick and McGonagall stood near the back, watching quietly. Dumbledore lingered in the shadows, eyes glittering like starlight.

The aarti began with soft mantras.

Parvati sang to Ganesh with grace. Padma offered to Saraswati, eyes closed in reverence.

And then — it was Hermione’s turn.

She stepped forward.

Sang to Lakshmi.

Her voice was low and reverent, lifting into a soft aarti that shimmered through the crowd.

And then — the diyas.

She sang Raag Deepak again.

This time, not to prove anything.

This time… for her parents.

The notes rose and flickered — first gentle, then blazing, and one by one, the diyas across the courtyard lit. No wands. No flint. Only music. Only will.

The crowd gasped as fire bloomed in rows like constellations.

Warm light danced across faces — Slytherin green robes and Gryffindor reds, Ravenclaw blues and Hufflepuff yellows, all glowing the same golden orange.

For once, there were no houses.

Only home.

Later, in the Great Hall, the usual stone and banners were transformed.

Bright rangoli designs charmed into the floors. Tables laden with butter paneer, garlic naan, laddoos, and kulfi. Professor Sprout was munching samosas happily, and Flitwick had learned to say “Shubh Deepavali” in perfect pronunciation.

Even Snape, looking vaguely alarmed by a particularly spicy vada pav, didn’t leave early.

Harry sat between Draco and Aelius, licking rasgulla syrup off his fingers. Across the hall, Hermione caught his eye.

He raised a hand in a small salute.

She rolled her eyes.

But smiled anyway.

That night, as students were escorted back to their common rooms under softly glowing diyas still flickering in the halls, a strange peace fell over Hogwarts.

Something had shifted.

Magic, yes — but something deeper.

Something warmer.

Chapter Text

ive posted a lot in a day and so like yeah, i think im gonna post a fea more chapters and then go silent for a while but i will come back to this for sure

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: A Flame That Remains
9th November 1991 – Hogwarts Grounds, Pre-dawn

Hermione woke before the sun.

Her alarm hadn’t rung. There had been no owl, no dream, no knock at her door. She just… knew.

Guruji was coming.

She slipped out of her four-poster bed in the Hufflepuff dorms, careful not to wake Susan or Hannah, and pulled on a woolen shawl over her kurta. Her feet padded silently down the corridors, then up, up, up — to the courtyard.

The diyas were still glowing.

Faintly. Quietly. As if waiting.

And then — with a pulse like a heartbeat — the air shimmered.

A sound like a distant note from a tanpura rippled through the morning frost, and in its wake stood Pandit Anirudh Pandey, robes wrapped against the chill, a thin smile softening his lined face.

“Guruji,” she whispered.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just looked at her.

Then, his voice low:
“You lit the world last night, little one.”

Hermione bowed low, her breath clouding in the cold. “I wanted to remember them. I didn’t want Diwali to… pass by.”

He nodded. “You did more than remember. You reminded.”

She glanced away, voice quiet. “It felt like home. For a little while.”

Guruji reached into his satchel and drew out a small velvet box. “Then let’s make that feeling stay.”

Inside was a pendant — delicate gold, inlaid with a single glowing rudraksha bead, carved with the symbol of Saraswati.

“For you,” he said, fastening it around her neck. “To wear during every lesson. And every time you feel alone.”

Hermione blinked fast. “Thank you.”

They moved to the edge of the grounds, where the grass still shimmered with frost, and a low magical barrier kept out the wind.

There, Guruji conjured a single diya in the air.

“Today, we begin a new kind of training,” he said, voice suddenly formal. “You are no longer only a disciple of sound — but of silence. Of stillness. Of restraint.”

Hermione stilled.

He continued, gently now. “Your song last year — it saved lives. But it was born of fury. You cannot build your foundation on fire.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“I do not scold you, beti,” he said. “But from today… the training will ask more of you.”

Hermione met his eyes, steady. “Then I will give more.”

As the sun broke over the mountains in the far distance, Guruji began to sing.

Raag Bhairav.

A morning raag. Sacred. Severe. Forgiving.

Hermione joined him — voice low, breath steady, her new pendant warm against her skin.

Their notes spiraled into the rising light, weaving between the frost-laced trees and the far-off towers of Hogwarts, while the last Diwali diya flickered softly beside them.

Later, she returned to the castle with aching shoulders and a full heart. As she reached the Hufflepuff cellar entrance, she paused.

The diya Guruji had conjured was still glowing on the edge of the forest.

It hadn’t gone out.

She smiled.

Not all flames are meant to.

Chapter Text

The room was still.

Sunlight filtered through conjured windows, painting warm gold across the smooth stone floor. A faint breeze drifted through — not real wind, just the memory of Uttarakhand’s mountains carried within the walls. Four diyas flickered at the center of the room, surrounding the low mat where Hermione sat cross-legged in her school robes, breathing softly after a long lesson.

Guruji sat beside her, fingers resting lightly on his tanpura’s neck.

They had just finished Raag Marwa — a heavy, introspective raga for twilight thoughts and quiet truths.

Hermione’s voice had wavered toward the end, not from strain — but from everything else.

“I feel like I’m… catching up,” she said quietly. “Not just in magic. Everything.”

Guruji tilted his head. “Catching up to what?”

She hesitated. “To everyone else. To being eleven. To Hogwarts. To Harry.” Her voice dropped. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s too much.”

He watched her for a moment, then smiled gently. “And yet… you wake at four every morning. You sing. You meditate. You attend a full day of classes, study late in the library, and still — every evening, you play.”

Hermione flushed. “It doesn’t feel like much.”

“But you’ve noticed,” he continued, “that you retain more than others. Learn faster. Think sharper.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, unsure if it was a compliment or a correction.

“That is not because you work harder,” he said. “There are others who also work hard. Who study just as long.”

He set the tanpura down gently.

“It is because of your music.”

Hermione looked up.

“It has reshaped your mind. Like rain carving stone. Your discipline with sound, with pitch, with breath — it has trained your focus, your intuition, your ability to perceive patterns. That is your edge. Not magic. Not intelligence alone.”

She blinked.

“But that’s… isn’t that unfair?”

Guruji smiled.

“It might seem so. But you chose this path. You bled for it. You mourned through it. You made it your sanctuary, your sword. It is a gift born of grief — and of grace.”

Hermione was quiet.

“You’ve earned every inch of what you are,” he said gently. “And what you are becoming… that is still unfolding.”

Silence stretched between them, warm and glowing.

Then, Guruji placed his hand on her head for a moment, almost like a benediction.

“Now,” he said, rising slowly, “go play. But something light. No ragas tonight. Maybe… Clair de Lune.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Yes, Guruji.”

As he portkeyed away, leaving only the soft echo of string vibration behind, she sat alone for a while.

She didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Just lit — like one of her diyas

Chapter Text

The room was still.

Sunlight filtered through conjured windows, painting warm gold across the smooth stone floor. A faint breeze drifted through — not real wind, just the memory of Uttarakhand’s mountains carried within the walls. Four diyas flickered at the center of the room, surrounding the low mat where Hermione sat cross-legged in her school robes, breathing softly after a long lesson.

Guruji sat beside her, fingers resting lightly on his tanpura’s neck.

They had just finished Raag Marwa — a heavy, introspective raga for twilight thoughts and quiet truths.

Hermione’s voice had wavered toward the end, not from strain — but from everything else.

“I feel like I’m… catching up,” she said quietly. “Not just in magic. Everything.”

Guruji tilted his head. “Catching up to what?”

She hesitated. “To everyone else. To being eleven. To Hogwarts. To Harry.” Her voice dropped. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s too much.”

He watched her for a moment, then smiled gently. “And yet… you wake at four every morning. You sing. You meditate. You attend a full day of classes, study late in the library, and still — every evening, you play.”

Hermione flushed. “It doesn’t feel like much.”

“But you’ve noticed,” he continued, “that you retain more than others. Learn faster. Think sharper.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, unsure if it was a compliment or a correction.

“That is not because you work harder,” he said. “There are others who also work hard. Who study just as long.”

He set the tanpura down gently.

“It is because of your music.”

Hermione looked up.

“It has reshaped your mind. Like rain carving stone. Your discipline with sound, with pitch, with breath — it has trained your focus, your intuition, your ability to perceive patterns. That is your edge. Not magic. Not intelligence alone.”

She blinked.

“But that’s… isn’t that unfair?”

Guruji smiled.

“It might seem so. But you chose this path. You bled for it. You mourned through it. You made it your sanctuary, your sword. It is a gift born of grief — and of grace.”

Hermione was quiet.

“You’ve earned every inch of what you are,” he said gently. “And what you are becoming… that is still unfolding.”

Silence stretched between them, warm and glowing.

Then, Guruji placed his hand on her head for a moment, almost like a benediction.

“Now,” he said, rising slowly, “go play. But something light. No ragas tonight. Maybe… Clair de Lune.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Yes, Guruji.”

As he portkeyed away, leaving only the soft echo of string vibration behind, she sat alone for a while.

She didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Just lit — like one of her diyas

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The roar of the crowd was like thunder wrapped in wind.

Harry stood in the center of the pitch, broom in hand, adrenaline crackling like lightning under his skin. His scar itched slightly — not from pain, but from nerves — and high above, the enchanted banners of Gryffindor and Slytherin waved like titans battling in the sky.

This was it. His first match. Eleven years old, and already the youngest Seeker in a century.

Beside him, Fred and George clapped him on the back. Oliver Wood shouted strategy from somewhere up front. And across the pitch, in silver and green, Draco was smirking like he’d already won.

Typical.

Aelius sat beside him in the stands during practices sometimes — aloof and bookish, but sharp when he bothered. But Draco? He was fast. Harry had seen it. Still, that didn’t mean he was better.

Not today.

Harry mounted his broom. The whistle blew.

They shot into the air like sparks.

Hermione’s POV

She sat on the third tier of the stands, bundled in a mustard-yellow scarf, arms crossed. Not because she was cold — she was just annoyed.

“He is good,” Theo admitted, squinting up at the sky as Harry looped through a formation. “Annoyingly so.”

“He’s arrogant,” Hermione replied.

“Arrogance and talent often travel together,” Padma murmured, sipping pumpkin juice. “Still. That last dive was impressive.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

They had brought snacks — typical Ravenclaw foresight, Slytherin cunning, and Hufflepuff generosity all blending into a picnic basket full of samosas and almond biscuits. Around them, the stands were a blur of house colors. Parvati waved from the Gryffindor section. Luna sat alone three rows down, sketching something that looked like a broomstick and a cloud with eyes.

Hermione focused back on the match. Harry had just narrowly dodged a Bludger, turning in a wild spiral and coming up behind Draco with practiced ease.

“Show-off,” she muttered.

“Bit rich coming from you,” Theo snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Padma grinned. “Only that your diya-lighting song from Diwali is still being discussed in the staff room. Professor Flitwick tried to replicate the harmonics on a glass harp. He failed.”

Hermione flushed slightly. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Hermione tried not to smile. She failed.

Harry’s POV

He spotted it.

A glimmer. A glint. The Snitch.

It was low, weaving near the grass by the Slytherin goalposts.

Draco saw it too.

They dove at the same moment.

Wind howled past Harry’s ears. The crowd vanished into background noise. He could feel the fire of competition — not just with Draco, but with himself. To do this. To be this.

Faster. Closer. Nearly—

He caught it.

His fingers snapped closed over the Snitch like it was meant to be there.

The stadium erupted.

Gryffindor lifted off their brooms in celebration. Oliver whooped. Fred tackled George in the air.

And Harry — breathless and wild-eyed — rose into the sky with the golden prize in hand.

Hermione’s POV

She clapped. A little.

Mostly because it was a good catch. Even if it was Harry.

Theo groaned. “I’m going to be hearing about this for weeks.”

Padma rolled her eyes. “At least the next match is Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff. We'll get a break from the dramatics.”

Hermione smiled faintly, then stood. The wind tugged at her scarf.

She wasn’t envious. Not really.

She had her music. Her mornings. Her magic.

But part of her, a small part — the kind that curled like smoke in her chest — did wonder what it would feel like to fly like that.

To rise and not be afraid.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting soft orange light across the circular common room. Outside, the gardens of Hogwarts were cloaked in early frost, and inside, most of the Hufflepuff first-years had long since gone to bed.

But Hermione sat curled on a beanbag near the window, a book on ancient magical mudras resting closed in her lap. Her scarf was still damp from the evening mist. Her eyes weren’t on the book.

They were on the memory of the music she’d just played.

The early morning sessions with Guruji were intense. Today, she’d finished a new taan in Raag Charukeshi and held the resonance for thirty-two seconds — her longest yet.

But it was never just the music.

It was always her parents too.

And tonight, that ache had bloomed again — soft and quiet and real.

Footsteps padded toward her.

“Hermione?” Padma’s voice was gentle, but curious. She wore her midnight-blue Ravenclaw jumper over pyjamas, her braid undone and loose over one shoulder.

“I brought biscuits,” Theo added, appearing behind her, holding a tin with a rather dramatic bow. “Don’t worry, they’re not enchanted.”

Hermione gave them a tired smile. “You two always appear at the perfect moment.”

“We’re brilliant like that,” Theo said, flopping down beside her and opening the tin. “Also, you forgot your satchel in the library.”

“Again,” Padma said pointedly, settling beside her on the floor. “That’s three times this week.”

Hermione nodded. “Sorry. My mind’s been… somewhere else.”

There was a pause. Then Theo said quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

“I miss them,” she said. “My mum and dad. I think I miss them most when I play. It’s like… they’re closer then. But when I stop… it hurts again.”

Padma reached for her hand. Theo didn’t say anything, but he leaned back against the beanbag, a solid presence beside her.

“I know we joke a lot,” Padma said gently, “but we’re here. Properly. You don’t have to hold it all by yourself.”

Hermione blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while, sharing the biscuits. Theo broke it.

“So,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “are you still pretending not to care about Potter’s ridiculous flying stunts?”

Hermione groaned. “Please. The way he looked after catching the Snitch today — like he’d just invented magic.”

Padma chuckled. “You did clap.”

“Barely,” Hermione snapped, cheeks pink. “Anyway, he’s not even the smartest one in his trio. Aelius is. And I’m sure Draco is the loudest.”

“You like him,” Theo said smugly.

“I do not!”

“You do,” Padma agreed.

Hermione scowled. “You two are insufferable.”

“But correct,” Theo added with a wink.

Hermione threw a biscuit at him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

December 1st, 1991 – Hogwarts, Staff Tower, Meeting Chamber

The fire in the staff tower crackled gently. It was past curfew, and the castle was quiet — except here, where three people sat in deep discussion, their silhouettes golden in the lamplight.

Minerva McGonagall sat with her hands folded, her expression stern but attentive. Across from her, Albus Dumbledore leaned back with his usual unreadable twinkle, eyes fixed on the third figure in the room: Pandit Anirudh Pandey.

The maestro wore robes of deep russet, the color of autumn leaves, and his silver hair was bound with a cord of white thread. His voice was calm, but not soft — every word settled in the room like a bell struck true.

“You do realise,” McGonagall said, “that your training schedule for Miss Granger is… formidable. She wakes at four in the morning.”

“She requests it,” Anirudh replied simply. “And she does not waver.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched — part disbelief, part admiration.

“She has done more in three months,” Anirudh continued, “than many of my older disciples accomplish in three years. That is not praise. It is observation. The music — it sharpens the mind, yes. You are beginning to see the results in her coursework.”

“We have,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers. “Her Arithmancy professor wrote to me last week, wondering if her parchments had been ‘ghost-edited.’ And Flitwick is certain she may duel in three years if she keeps her wandwork up.”

“She has the spark,” Anirudh murmured. “But more than that — she listens. She does not resist silence. Children who grieve often run from silence. Hermione… listens to it.”

There was a pause. Then McGonagall asked softly, “Do you think Hogwarts can serve her?”

Anirudh looked out the high window, where stars blinked above the mountains.

“Hogwarts is a powerful place,” he said at last. “But it is built on Western frameworks. Logic, charms, structure. Hermione’s path walks the inward spiral — the raag, the breath, the unseen current.”

He turned back to them.

“If the school can make room for her to remain herself, then yes. She will flourish.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “And if not?”

“She will flourish anyway,” Anirudh said quietly. “But it will cost her.”

Another silence. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

McGonagall’s voice broke it. “She has made friends. Padma Patil, Theo Nott… even Luna Lovegood sits near her in the library. She is not alone.”

“No,” Anirudh said. “She is not.”

He stood.

“I will continue to come each weekend. But I will not always protect her.”

McGonagall looked up sharply. “From what?”

“From herself,” Anirudh replied. “Or from the expectations others will put upon her.”

He turned toward the door.

“But she is ready for whatever you deemed to train her for since she was born”

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet – Special Political Edition
15th April, 1992
Headline: “Ministry Faces Backlash Over ‘Preservation Bill’ Backed by Credence Selwyn”
By Rita Skeeter, Senior Political Correspondent

In a controversial move that has rattled both magical and Muggle-born communities, Senior Undersecretary Credence Selwyn has introduced a proposed legislative bill that would reserve a percentage of Ministry posts exclusively for wizards and witches of “proven traditional lineage” — a phrase critics are already calling a thinly veiled synonym for “pure-blood.”

Selwyn, known for his ties to several prominent Wizarding families, presented the “Preservation of Magical Tradition Act” during yesterday’s session of the Wizengamot, citing the need to “ensure cultural continuity and safeguard ancient magical customs from dilution.”

“We risk losing who we are,” Selwyn stated. “This bill is not about exclusion. It is about remembrance. It is about honouring the families who have sustained our world for centuries.”

The proposed bill would create a minimum 25% quota of entry-level Ministry jobs for applicants from “traditional magical households,” with priority placement in departments such as Magical Transportation, Regulation of Magical Creatures, and even select divisions of the Department of Mysteries.

Outrage and Opposition

Reaction was swift and fierce. Muggle-born and half-blood communities have condemned the bill as discriminatory and regressive.

“It’s an insult,” said Euphemia Proudfoot, senior Healer at St. Mungo’s and a half-blood witch. “They are wrapping blood supremacy in heritage and calling it preservation.”

But what has stunned many is the number of young pure-blood witches and wizards who have expressed tentative or vocal support for the bill. Among them: Scion of the Malfoy family, Lucius Malfoy, who called the proposal “a responsible effort toward tradition,” and Lady Oriana Parkinson, who lauded it as “a necessary correction to current imbalance.”

Even several Hogwarts students from influential families have taken to public owl posts and private discussions supporting the measure — leading to an emerging fracture line among the younger generation.

One Voice Rising

The most visible counter-response has come not from the Ministry — but from Hogwarts.

Nine-year-old Hermione Granger, the prodigious student of legendary musician Pandit Anirudh Pandey and a Muggle-born first-year in Hufflepuff, issued a statement through Headmaster Albus Dumbledore after her weekly lesson this morning.

“Magic is not inherited in blood. It is awakened in hearts. This bill doesn’t preserve magic — it imprisons it. We are all children of the same stars, and no one should be denied the right to serve our world because of their birth.”

Sources within the Ministry say Dumbledore himself has voiced “private dismay” at the proposal and is expected to oppose it if the bill reaches formal debate.

Meanwhile, protests have already begun to form outside the Ministry’s North Entrance. Students, activists, and concerned families have planned a candlelit vigil on the 17th, coinciding with the Spring Equinox — symbolizing what one flyer describes as “a light that belongs to all.”

As the magical world watches closely, one thing is clear:

The fault lines are no longer just old. They are alive.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy wasn’t supposed to be alone.

But here he was — sitting on the cold edge of the Astronomy Tower, the wind worrying his blond hair like a scolding hand, his green and silver tie loosened and dangling.

He had folded the Daily Prophet neatly beside him, but the headline echoed anyway:

"Preservation of Magical Tradition Act Proposed: Pure-Bloods Prioritised in Ministry Roles"

His father’s name glowed in bold beneath Selwyn’s. Not as the architect — but as one of its “honourable supporters.”

Draco stared at the sky. Stars looked different tonight. Like cracks in something once whole.

He didn’t cry. He wasn’t the crying type. But something was crawling in his throat. A thickness. A shame he didn’t have words for. He wasn’t even sure what part made him feel worse — the fact that his father backed the bill…

…or the part of him that used to believe in everything his father said.

Footsteps. Light, careful.

Draco didn’t move.

Padma sat beside him first. She said nothing for a long time. She didn’t need to.

Then came Hermione. She didn’t sit right away — just stood behind them with her hands clasped, her face unreadable in the starlight.

“I don’t believe in this either,” Draco said suddenly. His voice cracked around the edges like splintered glass.

Padma nodded slowly. “We know.”

Silence stretched between them, thick as fog. Finally, Hermione moved forward. She didn’t speak, just placed something beside him: a small, folded piece of parchment. A diya charm was drawn on it — flickering softly with a transfigured warm glow. Comfort light.

“I’m sorry,” Draco muttered, voice rough. “Not just for… this. Just… for how I used to talk. To you. Both of you.”

Padma’s hand found his without drama. Hermione, after a moment, sat down beside him. Her hair was braided back tonight, her shoulders draped in a soft shawl Padma had given her after Diwali.

“You’re trying,” Hermione said simply. “That counts.”

And under the April stars, for once, they didn’t argue.

They just sat — three very different children from three very different worlds — quietly sharing the weight of one.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet save for the scratching of Hermione’s quill.

Padma and Theo watched from nearby, trying to read her expression — half fire, half restraint. A diya flickered beside her parchment, casting a golden sheen over her steady hand.

“I think you’re mad,” Theo whispered.
“She’s always mad,” Padma replied. “That’s what makes her brilliant.”

Hermione dipped her quill once more and continued.

To: Lord Lucius Malfoy
Subject: Regarding the Preservation of Magical Tradition Act

Dear Lord Malfoy,

You do not know me well, though we met once — briefly — at the Chennai Winter Ball, where I was the small girl in blue who spilled pineapple punch onto your dragonhide boots. You said very little, but your eyes were sharp. You were watching everyone.

So I write to you now — not as a Hufflepuff, not even as a Muggleborn — but as someone who has learned to watch as well.

Your name holds power. Weight. Tradition. And I believe you understand that power can shape or destroy — and that legacy, real legacy, is not built by fear but by foresight.

This bill will not preserve our world. It will suffocate it.

If you continue to support it, the younger generation — my generation, Draco’s generation — will inherit something broken. Fragile. Divided. If that happens, what will your name truly be remembered for?

I ask not as an opponent. I ask as a child of this world — like your son. Like me.

Withdraw your support. Show them what a real pure-blood legacy looks like.

Sincerely,
Hermione Granger

She folded the letter with care, pressed her seal into the wax — a lotus carved into music lines — and sent it with her tawny owl, Shakti.

The Daily Prophet – 19th April, 1992
Front Page Headline: “Lucius Malfoy Withdraws Support from Selwyn Bill”

By Marla Diggory

In a stunning turn of events, Lucius Malfoy, longtime patron of the Ministry’s Pure-Blood Initiatives, has formally rescinded his support for the proposed Preservation of Magical Tradition Act.

His public statement was concise:

“I have reconsidered the implications of this legislation and no longer believe it serves the future of wizarding Britain. My loyalty is to the survival and strength of our world — not its stagnation.”

Sources inside the Ministry report the move has rattled key allies of Selwyn, particularly as Malfoy’s influence was seen as central to the bill’s initial momentum.

Anonymous insiders confirm that Malfoy received a personal owl days before his announcement — from a “young voice that made an old argument obsolete.”

When reached for comment, Draco Malfoy of Slytherin House declined to say much. But he was seen giving a faint nod toward Hermione Granger across the Great Hall that morning. She simply returned to her toast.

Chapter Text

30th June, 1992 — King's Cross Station, Harry's POV

The train whistle blew, loud and final, signaling the end of the school year. Platform 9¾ buzzed with laughter, trunks tumbling off trolleys, parents waving and hugging. Owls hooted from their cages overhead, and the warm scent of soot and sweets clung to the air like memory.

Harry stood by the door of the train for a moment, watching everyone reunite.

It had been... a year.

When he’d first arrived, Hogwarts had felt like a dream — a towering castle of spells and secrets, where his name meant something and his scar still whispered at night. He’d made friends — real ones — in Draco and Aelius. Together, they’d navigated everything from moving staircases to surprise Potions tests, to nearly getting detention for flying a stolen broom. He smiled at the thought.

He was a Seeker now. The youngest in a century. And he'd scored the final goal in the House Cup Quidditch Match. That had felt like flying in more ways than one.

Still...

His eyes flicked toward the crowd, landing on her.

Hermione Granger. Brown curls, calm posture, yellow-trimmed robes. She stood between Padma and Theo, her trunk levitating with barely a flick of her wand. They were laughing at something Luna had said — the four of them like some odd constellation that made its own perfect sense.

She hadn’t noticed him. Or maybe she had. Hard to tell with her.

She had surprised everyone this year. First for being so young. Then for how brilliant she was. But also for the way she sang at dawn, for the way she carried herself like she was made of music and fire and mourning. The way she lit up Diwali with her voice and protected herself against a Death Eater using lullabies.

Harry didn’t quite understand her. But... he wanted to.

Not that he’d ever admit that to Draco. Or Aelius. Especially not Aelius — who seemed to think Hermione was more goddess than girl.

Still. There was something there. A thread. A tug.

He’d figure it out next year.

Maybe.

The Daily Prophet – 1st July, 1992
Top Hogwarts Students Announced
Compiled by The Hogwarts Board of Governors

In a remarkable display of academic brilliance and extracurricular achievement, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has released the list of the top-ranking first years of 1990–91.

This year, for the first time in decades, the top spot is a tie — between two students known for their intellect, creativity, and magical talent:

1. Hermione Granger (Hufflepuff) & Padma Patil (Ravenclaw) – tied for first place.

2. Theodore Nott (Slytherin)

3. Aelius Black (Ravenclaw) & Harry Potter (Gryffindor) – tied for third place.

4. Draco Malfoy (Slytherin)

5. Luna Lovegood (Ravenclaw)

Sources say Granger's magical music training and Patil's prodigious charmwork set them apart, while Nott’s quiet mastery in spellcraft and Potter’s surprising talent in Defense and flying kept things competitive.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore commented,

"It has been a remarkable year. These students represent the best of what magic — and community — can inspire."

With these names already rising in reputation, next year promises even more magic in the making.

Chapter Text

31st August 1992 — Temple of Saraswati, Uttarakhand

Hermione Granger turned ten years old surrounded by the scent of mogra and sandalwood, the echo of temple bells, and the laughter of her closest friends carried high across the Himalayan breeze.

The sun was soft that morning — gentle as it filtered through the deodars, dappling the marble of the Temple of Saraswati. Strings of marigold and jasmine framed the steps and railings, while tiny enchanted diyas flickered even in daylight, hovering above the stone courtyard like fireflies frozen mid-dance.

Padma and Parvati Patil arrived at dawn, each in bright silks and twin smiles. Their lehengas shimmered like monsoon peacocks — royal blue and sea green — while Hermione wore a deep maroon one with gold trim, gifted by Daadi from the village below. Theo arrived not long after, in a crisp cream kurta with gold buttons and a small tilak dabbed shyly on his forehead by Parvati, who grinned wickedly as he scowled.

They teased, they laughed, they shared sweets — warm peda and laddoos — and helped arrange the flower offerings for the temple puja.

When the aarti began, silence fell like snowfall.

Hermione stood at the center of the sanctum, flanked by the Patil twins. The silver aarti thali glittered in her hands as she circled it before the deities — Saraswati in white veena-bearing grace, Lakshmi radiant with gold coins, and Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, smiling peacefully.

She sang.

It wasn’t raag this time — not the precision of training or the push of magic — just her voice in devotion, unadorned and tender. Her Guruji watched quietly from the courtyard, his arms crossed but his eyes soft.

After the ceremony, the four of them ran wild through the temple hills — barefoot over soft grass, their anklets jingling, curls and dupattas flying like kites. They climbed up to Daadi’s hidden temple nestled in the rocks, where Hermione lit a diya and told her grandmother all about Hogwarts, about her trio, about Guruji’s lessons, and the boy with green eyes who annoyed her.

"She’s talking to a tree," Theo whispered, wide-eyed.

"It’s a shrine, not a tree, you walnut," Parvati snapped, pulling him by the wrist to bow.

They returned to the temple by sunset, streaked with hill-dust and stories, cheeks aching from laughter.

next dat at dawn, Guruji joined them by the temple steps.

“I suppose you’ll all need to be at King’s Cross in… precisely in an hour,” he said mildly.

Padma groaned. Theo flopped backwards onto the stone steps.

Guruji raised an eyebrow, then tapped his staff once.

A portkey — a silk scarf embroidered with golden stars — shimmered into view.

Hermione looked back one last time. The temple bells were still ringing faintly. The last diya flickered on the wind.

She closed her eyes.

And touched the scarf.

Chapter Text

The second year at Hogwarts passed by in a blur — fast, chaotic, and in many ways, easier than the first. The novelty had worn off, but the magic was still there, buzzing under my skin, in my bones. I had a rhythm now, a routine.

Hermione, as always, seemed to thrive. She threw herself into everything — from joining the Christmas choir with Flitwick, to starting her very own music club. It was part of who she was now: the prodigy, the girl who seemed to find magic in everything, whether it was in the complex movements of a violin bow or the careful steps of a spell.

The trios were still the same. Draco and Theo often paired off in the same classes, as Slytherins often do. Aelius and Padma, naturally, were drawn to each other in Transfiguration and Charms, both Ravenclaws. And Hermione and I — well, we couldn’t stay apart, no matter how hard we tried. It wasn’t that we didn’t have our differences, but there was something between us that just… clicked. Whether it was a shared sense of competition or something deeper, neither of us could deny the tension, the energy we had together.

“Do you ever stop?” I muttered one evening as Hermione rushed through a stack of notes for Charms, preparing for another study session we’d planned with everyone.

“Don’t you dare slow down on me now, Potter,” she said, giving me that sly grin of hers. “You know you need the help.”

The study sessions were almost a ritual now. The six of us — our little trio and theirs — would gather in the library or one of the common rooms, pairing off for whatever classes we had. The rivalry was still there, but it was starting to feel less like competition and more like a camaraderie. Draco and Theo snickered over whatever prank they were planning. Aelius and Padma exchanged thoughtful glances over the intricacies of magical theory. Hermione and I… well, we argued a lot. But somehow, we got things done.

It wasn’t long before Hermione found herself making a proposal to start something bigger than just studying — a society for the equality of magical beings, SEAMB (Society for Equality and Magical Beings), focusing on the rights of house-elves.

It wasn’t an easy topic. A lot of people didn’t want to listen, especially the older generations who felt that tradition should stay intact. Hermione’s determination only made me more concerned. I knew how dangerous it was to rattle the status quo, and I hated to see her putting herself at risk.

“Are you sure you want to go this far?” I asked her one evening as we sat outside the castle under the stars.

She looked at me, her face a mixture of exhaustion and resolve. “It’s time, Harry. Someone needs to make a stand. We can’t keep ignoring them.”

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. “Just… be careful. You have a lot of enemies now.”

Hermione had her stubborn streak. It was the same one that had kept her up studying all night for our exams, or pushing herself to be the best in every class. But it also meant she was determined — determined to change the world, to make it better, even if she had to fight for it.

That’s why, when she finally came to me asking for flying lessons, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I thought you said you didn’t care about Quidditch?” I teased.

“I don’t!” she snapped, but I could tell there was something more there, something unspoken. “But I can’t keep letting you all fly circles around me.”

That was enough for me. I wasn’t about to let her struggle. So, the whole group pitched in. We spent the next few weekends teaching Hermione how to fly — Theo would give her tips on balance, Aelius would show her some tricks, and I’d help her with the basic control. It wasn’t as easy as it looked, but after a while, she got it. And she didn’t just get it — she soared.

But there was something else on my mind as the year went on.

Lockhart. The new DADA professor.

Something about him rubbed me the wrong way. He was always talking about himself — his accomplishments, his “heroic” deeds. It didn’t take long to see that he was more interested in fame than actually teaching.

When we found out about his true nature — that he was a fraud, a bigot hiding behind a fake reputation — I was furious. Hermione, on the other hand, was calculated. She’d figured it out before any of us. And she didn’t wait. She wasn’t the type to sit around when she knew what had to be done.

We gathered the evidence, we plotted, and before long, Lockhart was out in the open — trying to obliviate us all in a last-ditch attempt to save face.

We fought back, using their knowledge of spells and counter-curses to keep us safe . As Lockhart tried to erase our memories, Hermione held firm. Her resolve was stronger than any spell he could cast.

When it was over, we were left standing in the wreckage of the DADA classroom, breathing heavily.

“Are we all in one piece?” Draco asked, looking around like he’d just survived a war.

Hermione glanced at him, a small smile forming. “I think we’re fine.”

But my eyes were on her. She hadn’t been scared. Not once. Even in the face of danger, she was always thinking, always calculating. And as we filed out of the room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was growing into something much more than just the smartest witch of our age.

The Daily Prophet — 25th June 1993
Hogwarts End-of-Year Awards

Top Students of the Year (Second Year):

1. Hermione Granger 

2. Padma Patil (second only by 1 mark, to be noted)

3. Aelius Black & Harry Potter & Theodore Nott — Tied for Third Place

4. Draco Malfoy

5. Luna Lovegood

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger's POV
Late Spring, 1993

It was strange, how a part of me always feared that the music would leave me behind one day. In the Christmas break of my second year at hogwarts i had completed training of my fifth year of music training and started my sixth, now well into three months of my sixth year it was proving to be challenging 

I feared that music would leave me behind Not because it would grow bored of me, no. But because I was growing — stretching in every direction — and the more I learned, the more it began to feel like my Guruji was quietly stepping away. Not vanishing. Just... standing further back.

He no longer corrected every motion, every note. He simply watched, occasionally nodding, sometimes offering one simple word — “Again.” Or “Better.” Or, on rare days, “Perfect.”

But the rest was mine.

We had entered the final phase of training — the weather work.
It was not easy. Raag Megh Malhar, Raag Miyan Ki Todi, Raag Desh — all linked to rain, wind, storms, sun. It wasn’t just technical mastery anymore. It was control, patience, emotion channeled into precise intention. Singing to summon clouds was one thing. Singing to calm them? Far harder.

“It is the most powerful because it is the most unstable,” Guruji had said. “Nature listens, but it does not always obey.”

The hill temple in Uttarakhand had once again become my home over the Easter break. We’d walked barefoot on the grass heavy with dew, meditated at sunrise, sung raags to the rising light. And even then, I knew — this was the beginning of the end. His part in my training was nearly complete.

He never said it aloud. But I knew.

I didn’t want it to end.

Back at Hogwarts, everything moved too fast.

Clubs had opened up for second years, and suddenly we were everywhere. I’d started my own music society — a real one, open to all years, all houses. We had eight members by the end of the first term and had performed two pieces already, one of them a Raag Bhairavi adaptation for strings and harp. Professor Flitwick had been delighted.

Alongside that, our little six-person study group had hardened into something serious. Padma and Aelius thrived in Transfiguration, Draco and Theo had a natural cunning for Charms, and Harry and I — well, we couldn’t stop competing. If he asked one more smug question in Charms before I could, I might hex his quill.

But also… we worked. The six of us were tireless. We had agreed to help each other prep for everything — DADA, Charms, Transfiguration — every weekend. And strangely, it made us closer. Even if we still kept score.

“Flying,” I had declared one evening, staring across the fire in the Hufflepuff common room. “I need to learn properly.”

Theo blinked. “You hate flying.”

“I hate not knowing how to do something,” I retorted.

Which is how I ended up on the Quidditch pitch with all five of them, on a breezy Saturday afternoon. It was humiliating — until it wasn’t.

Until Harry, uncharacteristically quiet, flew beside me and said softly, “You don’t have to be brilliant at everything.”

And I had smiled.

“But it’s fun trying.”

The world outside Hogwarts had grown darker.

When I started SEAMB — the Society for Equality Among Magical Beings — I’d imagined meetings, petitions, small change. But my proposal for house-elf reforms in the Ministry triggered more backlash than I expected. Harry had warned me. So had Padma.

Even Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not wrong, Miss Granger,” she’d said, “but you are early. Be careful whom you anger.”

I hadn’t told them about the anonymous letters. About the whispers. But I’d told Guruji.

And he’d given me only a look of quiet fire.

“This,” he said, “is the part where your strength is no longer only in your song.”

By the time Lockhart was unmasked — by us, of course, Padma, Theo, and I — the year had already felt like a century. He’d tried to Obliviate us. And failed.

He had underestimated us.

People always did.

And when the final exam results came out and I saw my name again at the top — just one mark ahead of Padma — I shrugged but was happy still.

Not because I had beaten anyone.

But because I had done it without letting go of the music.

Because now I had both — the storm in my voice, and the fire in my wand.

And I knew exactly who I was.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger’s 11th Birthday
Temple of Saraswati, Uttarakhand

No letters. No friends. No celebration.

Hermione didn’t want any of that.

This year, she had asked for only one thing: to spend the day with her Guruji, in the temple where it had all begun — in the place where her mother’s memory felt closest, where the music felt like home.

She wore a soft cotton lehenga in pale pink, her hair braided neatly and adorned with jasmine. There was no grandeur. Only the rustle of the trees, the gentle chime of the bells swaying in the temple breeze, and the soft smell of sandalwood that seemed to always linger in these hills.

She lit diyas with her own hands.

Sang her morning raag to the Saraswati murti alone.

And when she turned to find her Guruji waiting behind her on the temple steps, two cups of hot ginger chai in hand, she smiled.

They sat together in the courtyard, legs crossed, birds chirping around them like flute notes in the distance.

For a long time, they said nothing.

Then, softly, Guruji said, “Your daadi was a storm. Your mother... was the calm after it.”

Hermione turned her head slowly toward him. He was looking ahead, his eyes far away.

“She learned from me for three years,” he continued. “I was older — nearly done with my training — but she caught up fast. Too fast, sometimes. There was fire in her, but also grace. She was like you, but... quieter. Like the last note of a raag when it vanishes into the air.”

Hermione’s hands tightened around the cup. “You never told me you taught her.”

“I didn’t. Not officially,” he smiled faintly. “But we sang together. And when someone sings with you long enough, they leave an echo in your soul. That’s how I remembered her. And that’s why I took you in.”

Her throat closed a little. The weight of the chai cup felt heavier in her hand.

“Did you love her?”

Guruji chuckled. “In the way music loves silence — always returning, never staying.”

They sat in silence after that, the sky turning golden above them. As the breeze picked up, carrying the scent of rain and marigolds, Guruji placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“This coming New Year,” he said, “your formal training will be complete.”

Hermione looked down. A strange emptiness rose in her chest.

“But I don’t want it to end.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “I know. But it’s not an end. You’ve crossed into the part where no teacher can follow. The music is yours now — you’ll shape it in ways I never could.”

She looked at him, eyes shining. “Will you ever take another student?”

He shook his head. “No. You were the first one who truly came for the music, not the magic. You’ll be my last. And my favourite. Always.”

Something broke in her. But gently — like a string cut free from a kite, rising instead of falling.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t reply. But in the stillness that followed, the temple bells rang softly — as if Saraswati herself had heard.

Chapter Text

The first day of third year began with a storm—real, not magical. Fitting, she thought, watching the grey clouds roll across the sky as the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade. There was something in the air this year, a quiet pressure that weighed heavier than any luggage.

Her bag was lighter this term—no cello, no tanpura. Those instruments were now sacred objects kept safe at the Temple of Saraswati. Only the flute and a travel harmonium accompanied her now, and even those were mostly symbolic. Her training had passed the stage of techniques. Now, it was about mastery, will, control.

The final test loomed like a mountain peak she could see but not yet climb.

The Electives

Hermione had, naturally, taken all five electives. The Time-Turner hung beneath her uniform like a secret heartbeat.

Arithmancy and Ancient Runes quickly emerged as her favourite pair—a language of numbers and precision that soothed her mind after music. She sat beside Padma in both, and the two often studied together late into the night, books spread like wings between them.

Care of Magical Creatures was always an adventure. Sometimes literally. Hagrid had acquired a new set of creatures—capricorns with celestial horns and stormy eyes. Hermione found herself drawn to them, strangely in sync with their tempestuous nature.

Muggle Studies she barely attended—Professor Burbage had been kind enough to let her manage the readings and assignments independently. Hermione felt guilt at first, but soon accepted that priorities were essential.

Divination, however, was trickier. She disliked the subject, found its dreamy vagueness frustrating. But Professor Trelawney insisted there were key lessons Hermione needed to attend—"stars you must sit beneath"—and so she turned back time twice a week, sitting through both Divination and Arithmancy, careful not to cross paths with herself. She didn’t like it. Guruji had warned her: Time is a river, not a staircase. Dip your feet, but never try to swim upstream.

She was careful.

Mostly.

Padma and Theo remained her constants. Their trio had solidified in second year and only grown deeper. Theo, sharp and sarcastic, was her steady sparring partner in logic. Padma, graceful and reflective, was the anchor that kept them both from burning out. Together, they worked through assignments, swapped theories, and occasionally snuck down to the kitchens for chocolate biscuits and silent rebellion.

Her relationship with Harry, Draco, and Aelius, though... had shifted.

Harry was still friendly—friendly and infuriating. He had grown more confident, more skilled. The boy who had once shrugged at Ancient Runes now debated wand theory over breakfast. And he smirked at her whenever he beat her at anything. Which wasn’t often, but once was too much.

Draco was colder this term, withdrawn. His father’s political involvement had cast a shadow over him. She didn’t know whether to offer sympathy or a challenge. They had grown... wary of each other.

Aelius Black was still an enigma. Brilliant, quiet, and watchful. He laughed with Draco and Harry, nodded at her in corridors, but there was always a wall between them she hadn’t tried hard enough to breach.

There was no animosity. Just space. And time. And secrets.

Every morning, without fail, she rose at four.

The castle was silent then, save the wind slipping through the stone. She’d light a diya by her window, inhale the dawn, and step into the Room of Requirement—now transformed daily into a miniature echo of her temple. There, she would practise. Not to improve, but to remember.

The music was inside her now. It only needed breath and will. The ragas of weather, of memory, of protection.

She had begun to feel the shifts in the air when she sang. The pressure before a storm. The hum of static. She hadn’t conjured rain yet, but she could feel it trembling on the edge of her voice.

To her surprise, Dumbledore had begun giving her books on wandless magic. Not music. Not healing. Pure defence.

"You may not always have time to sing, Miss Granger," he said, eyes twinkling and grave. "But your magic listens to you now. Train it to respond to silence as well."

So she did. Small spells, silent wards. Her room crackled with quiet power when she worked.

Theo called it "invisible Hermione magic."

December arrived in a flurry of snow and final essays.

On the last evening before break, she packed her travel satchel and met Padma and Theo at the edge of the Hogwarts gates. Guruji arrived with a warm shawl and a portkey shaped like a lotus blossom.

The world turned.

And they were home.

The Temple of Saraswati was bathed in winter sunlight, saffron marigolds strung like garlands between carved stone pillars. All her gurus were there—Pandit Ishaan of rhythm, Amma Meera of voice, her tabla and flute instructors, and the quiet, sharp-eyed priests who had first taught her the magic behind sound.

The final test was simple.

Sing. Call the rain.

She stood barefoot in white on the stone dais at twilight, with her guru beside her and her friends in the audience. The air was heavy with expectation and the scent of incense. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began Raag Malhar.

It started soft. A murmur. A memory. Then grew, weaving through the wind like a ribbon of thunder.

The sky responded.

Raindrops fell like blessings.

After the applause, after the offering, after the temple bells had stilled—Guruji placed his hand on her head.

"You have completed your sixth year. My teaching ends here."

She felt her throat tighten.

"But your journey continues. My temple will always be open to you. You are my last student, Hermione. My most devoted. My favourite."

The final diya flickered in the rain.

And she bowed, tears blending with the sky.

Chapter Text

Something was… off this term.

At first, Harry couldn’t quite name it. Hogwarts had returned to life just like always, warm and chaotic and full of whispers and wind through stone halls. But something had changed in the air. Or maybe in Hermione.

She wasn’t quite the same.

The Hermione Mystery

It wasn’t anything obvious. She still rolled her eyes at him, still snapped answers before he could finish his questions in class, still had ink on her fingers and frustration in her sighs when she didn’t score perfectly on a Transfiguration assignment. But there was something beneath her now. Something sharp. Something distant.

Her schedule was a nightmare.

Padma mentioned she was taking all five electives. That alone would’ve been enough to make anyone else collapse under their own ambition—but Hermione seemed to have more time and more energy than everyone else. She was always in the library, always in class, always at meals—but Harry swore she was also not there half the time. It was like she’d figured out how to multiply herself.

“Something’s off,” Aelius said one evening over chess, his voice low.

Harry nodded.

“She’s glowing,” Draco muttered, chin in his palm, staring across the Great Hall. “Like a bloody lighthouse.”

They watched Hermione lean over to whisper something to Padma, then laugh with Theo. She had dark circles under her eyes but looked brighter than ever.

That, too, was strange.

The Lucius Problem

Meanwhile, Draco had become colder, too. Not cruel—just closed.

Harry and Aelius had both heard the whispers about the Selwyn Bill, about the pureblood preservation campaigns still lingering like poison beneath the floor of the Ministry. Lucius Malfoy had publicly stepped back from Selwyn, a move that had shocked almost everyone. But Harry wasn’t naïve enough to think public image meant private conviction.

"Does he actually believe in what he's saying now?” Aelius asked one night in the common room, voice like smoke.

Draco just glared at the fire.

Harry wanted to press, but didn’t. There was a heaviness in Draco these days. Like he was trying to walk straight in a world tilting beneath him.

The Theo Situation

Theo Nott had gotten... friendlier. With him. At first, Harry thought it was just proximity—they shared DADA and the after-hours study sessions Hermione had insisted on. But lately, Theo had lingered.

"You're not bad at dueling," he said once, shrugging.

"You're not bad at sarcasm," Harry had shot back, and Theo had smirked, and Harry had felt something in his chest tighten.

Theo laughed easily. He was dark and clever and had the worst handwriting Harry had ever seen.

And he was Hermione's best friend.

And Harry didn’t like how that made him feel.

Padma and Draco?

Even weirder—Draco and Padma had reached some kind of truce. They didn’t snap at each other anymore. They spoke in low voices in the corners of classrooms. One afternoon Harry walked into the library and saw Padma pass him a folded piece of parchment, and Draco actually looked… grateful.

“What’s happening?” Harry asked Aelius after that.

“Something you’re not involved in,” Aelius replied without looking up from his Arithmancy notes.

December – The Potters’ Christmas Table

It was snowing when Harry arrived home for Christmas.

Godric’s Hollow was warm, the fire always lit, the house full of music and spiced cider and laughter from Sirius and Remus, who were visiting from London. But dinner that night turned quiet halfway through, when his mum brought up Hermione.

“I can’t believe she’s only just eleven,” Lily said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “She seems… older. So much older.”

“She always did,” James agreed, then turned to Harry. “She used to come round when she was tiny, you remember? You used to try and steal her violin.”

Harry blinked.

“Wait—what?”

“You don’t remember?” Lily smiled, a little sad. “It was before her parents… passed. she was four. She’d come over with her mum and her papa. You wouldn’t stop trying steal her cello case.”

“Her mum was luminous, and her dad looked at both of them as if they'd hung the stars” James added softly.

The table went quiet.

“She might have” Harry muttered before he could stop himself.

Lily looked up.

“What was that, love?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, and took a long drink of cider.

Returning to the Castle

By the time the train pulled out of King’s Cross again in January, snow still clinging to the windows, Harry had made a few decisions.

He didn’t trust the Selwyns.

He didn’t understand Draco.

He didn’t know what to do about Theo.

And Hermione Granger might be glowing and mysterious and five steps ahead of everyone else—but he was going to figure her out.

Even if it took all year.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s POV | January 1994

I hadn’t brought my flute back this term.

Or my veena.

Or the tanpura.

Only the cello and the violin. I couldn’t bear the rest. Not yet. Not when each note still sounded like goodbye.

Back at Hogwarts

The train ride was noisy, the castle was colder than I remembered, and everything smelled like parchment and roasted root vegetables again. And yet it didn’t feel like coming home.

It felt like waking up from a dream I wasn’t ready to leave.

Guruji had placed his hand on my head before I left, murmured a blessing I’d heard a thousand times and would never get tired of. “You are my most dedicated student. You will always have a place in my temple.”

I hadn’t cried until I’d stepped through the Portkey.

Now, every corridor felt lonelier.

Cryptic Comfort

Luna found me near the greenhouse on the first Tuesday back. She tilted her head and said:

“You look like a star that’s been turned into a girl.”

I blinked at her. “Sorry?”

She smiled dreamily. “You’ve lost something sacred. But it’s still with you. Like sunlight in your bones. That’s how it works with music magic, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer, but I felt my chest ache in the way it only does when someone really sees you.

Luna just hummed and floated away like she hadn’t said something devastating.

Eyes on Me

Theo and Padma were watching me.

Constantly.

During meals. In the common room. Across classrooms. They exchanged glances I couldn’t decipher. Padma always had that look on her face like she was this close to dragging me into a lecture. Theo had the kind of eyes that silently screamed, “Spit it out.”

They were both infuriating.

Harry and his little gang—Draco and Aelius—were no better. I’d catch them looking over during meals. Draco always narrowed his eyes. Aelius smirked like he knew a secret. And Harry…

Harry Potter looked at me like I was a puzzle. Not the kind that annoyed him—no, the kind that he wanted to solve.

I hated how my stomach flipped at that.

The Blowout

It happened on a Thursday.

We were in the library, supposedly working on our Charms essays. Theo was pretending to read. Padma had stopped pretending.

“Hermione,” Padma said flatly, closing her book.

“No,” I said, not looking up.

“Hermione,” Theo repeated, already standing.

“No.”

Five minutes later I was being dragged—one by each arm—into an empty Defense classroom.

“Alright,” Padma snapped. “Spill.”

“About what?”

“The time-turner, you maniac,” Theo said, crossing his arms. “The one you’re using so recklessly I swear your aura has started stuttering.”

“…Excuse me?”

“And the wandless magic you’ve been quietly trying,” Padma added, “and failing, because you’re too tired to focus properly.”

“I—how—”

“And the way you’re mourning your guruji without saying a word to anyone because you don’t want us to worry.”

My throat closed up.

“And,” Theo said softly now, “the way you keep looking around like someone’s supposed to be here and isn’t.”

I sat down on the nearest desk, suddenly exhausted.

“I just…” My voice cracked. “It’s like—every person I love goes away. Mum. Dad. And now he’s not really gone, but it feels like he is. And I’m still here, still pushing, and trying to be okay and I’m—God—I’m so tired.”

I buried my face in my hands.

And then—of course—the door banged open.

The Other Trio Joins In

“WHAT THE HELL—” Harry’s voice rang out, then cut off. “Wait—why are you crying?!”

“She's finally crying,” Padma deadpanned. “We were wondering when.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Took long enough.”

I tried to look up but found myself surrounded—Harry crouching beside me, Aelius on my right, Draco awkwardly hanging back near the wall.

“You okay?” Harry asked softly.

“No,” I sniffled. “Obviously.”

“Just checking.”

I huffed a laugh, then felt warm hands squeezing my shoulders—Theo. Padma brushing back my hair. Aelius passing me a handkerchief without a word.

Draco stared at the ceiling like this was all beneath him.

Then—

“Well, someone owes me a Galleon,” Padma announced smugly.

“What?” I blinked.

“She bet us it was a time-turner,” Draco muttered, digging into his pocket.

“You—bet on me?!”

Harry flushed red. “I didn’t! I just—lost the bet.”

“I won,” Padma sang, holding out her hand. Aelius dropped two Galleons into her palm without even blinking.

“You’re all insane,” I muttered.

Harry just smiled—really smiled—and reached out to take my hand.

“I was the last to figure it out, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” everyone said in unison.

Even Draco.

I rolled my eyes and sniffled again. “You’re all terrible.”

“We’re your terrible,” Padma said, dragging me into a tight hug.

Theo pulled us both in. Aelius stepped forward. And after a moment of pretending he was above it all, Draco joined too.

Harry, still holding my hand, didn’t let go.

It was a mess of limbs and laughter and something warm pressing against the sadness in my chest. Not fixing it—but making space for it to soften.

I missed Guruji.

But I wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

Music Magick: An Exploration of Intent, Resonance, and Natural Law

By Hermione Granger, age 11.

Professor Babbling had laughed when I’d handed it in. Not unkindly—more in surprise.

“You do realise this reads more like a mastery thesis than a third-year essay?”

I had shrugged. “It’s only the start.”

Three days later, The Daily Prophet ran a story about it. A full column beneath an op-ed on blood status reform. Apparently someone in the Department of Mysteries had come across it through a Hogwarts liaison and passed it along.

“Muggleborn Prodigy Hermione Granger Explores Ancient Magical Theory through Sound and Song”

A third-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Granger has submitted a paper that reopens long-dismissed magical disciplines. Blending rigorous Arithmantic equations, musical theory, and spells woven through raags, Granger’s research has caught the attention of at least three departments…

I’d skimmed the rest.

All I could think of was: I wish Guruji had read it first.

Riyaaz

I woke at 4:00 AM every day.

Not because Guruji was here—he hadn’t been since December—but because I didn’t know how not to.

My dormmates were used to it. Susan and Hannah would mumble good morning if they stirred, and I’d tiptoe out with my violin.

I played in the Hufflepuff common room by the fireplace. Not loud—just enough to breathe.

Riyaaz was more than discipline. It was devotion. Every note was prayer, every scale a memory.

I sang softly into the quiet:

🎵 Raag Bhairavi in the still before dawn, my voice threading into the sky… 🎵

Sometimes I closed my eyes and imagined him there, correcting my pitch with that exacting kindness, nodding when I finally caught the curve of a difficult meend.

By the time the castle stirred, I’d feel lighter.

He wasn’t gone.

Not really.

Afternoons of Theory

Evenings, though—those were harder.

Music now was only saved for my mornings evening occupied magical theory and wandless and nonverbal magic, nonverbal was still doable but well.

I kept going 

But wandless magic was… defeating.

Nothing obeyed the way music did.

"You’re Overthinking It," Theo said one night, sprawled on a squashy yellow chair beside the hearth.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, tossing a cushion at him. “That’s very helpful.”

Padma rolled her eyes from her perch on the rug. “You have made progress!! you are 11 for merlin sake how much pressure are you going to take? and you have a wand when you do magic as a conduit, you voice or vibrations of your instruments in music magick but wandless? you need to find a conduit maybe similar like music magick it could be your feelings or intentions you know? Oh my god!!! hermione you need to meditate!!”

“right” I muttered.

“Don't be stubborn stubborn,” she replied, smirking.

We made a habit of it.

Every other evening, the three of us would gather in the Hufflepuff common room. Theo claimed the fireplace, Padma claimed the best light, and I sat cross-legged with scrolls around me and my wand shoved behind my ear like a pencil.

The Hufflepuffs never complained.

Justin Finch-Fletchley brought us biscuits once. Ernie Macmillan helped me transcribe a bit of Arithmancy that was being temperamental. Megan Jones grinned at us when we were loudly arguing about directional force vectors and invited Padma to the next Herbology Club meet.

I liked it here.

Warm yellow light, gentle laughter, a cello humming in the background. A fire crackling. Spells failing and books tumbling and my friends teasing me every time I muttered under my breath.

I missed Guruji.

But now I wasn’t drowning in that ache. Not anymore.

I had found a way to carry him forward—note by note, spell by struggling spell.

It wasn’t just about becoming powerful anymore.

It was about becoming whole.

Chapter Text

Late February 1994 | Hermione’s POV

It had started, as many things did, with frustration.

“I don’t understand how the Ministry still—still—refuses to acknowledge how House Elves are treated.”

Padma and Theo had stopped pretending to read. We were at our usual corner in the Hufflepuff common room, parchment spread out between us, biscuits half-eaten.

“I wrote a paper,” I said, trying not to crumple it. “Footnotes, citations from half the law books in the library, Arithmantic models showing the economic impact of fair labour wages—”

Theo interrupted. “Did you send it?”

“To the Department of Magical Beings, yes. Twice. No reply.”

Padma gave me a flat look. “You’re eleven.”

“Almost twelve.”

Theo looked up at the ceiling like he was praying for patience. “I say this with love, Granger, but what’s your endgame here? It’s the Ministry. They don’t listen to adults, much less students.”

I was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “They listened to me about music.”

SEAMB

Society for the Equality of All Magical Beings.

The name wasn’t perfect. Padma said it sounded like a government agency. Theo said it sounded like a spell gone wrong.

But I liked it.

We made badges. We made a charter.

We even held one meeting before exams took over everyone’s lives again.

I hadn’t meant for it to be a big deal.

Until the Prophet picked it up.

Muggleborn Witch Advocates for Magical Being Rights

By Clarissa Wilkes

Hermione Granger, a third-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has submitted an unprecedented proposal to the Wizengamot, demanding a review of current labour laws for magical beings, including House Elves, Goblins, and Centaurs. The young activist’s paper, written alongside her recent research on Music Magick, has been passed to the Department of Magical Law Revision by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore himself…

When I’d asked Professor Dumbledore about it, he’d only smiled.

“I have always believed Hogwarts should be a place where new ideas are born, Miss Granger. You are not the first student to see injustice and choose to act. But you may be the youngest to do so with such clarity.”

“But will they listen?” I asked.

“To some,” he said, “they already have.”

The Letter

It arrived in the middle of Charms class.

An official letter bearing the seal of the Wizengamot, addressed to me. Not my parents. Not the school.

Me.

Padma shrieked. Theo looked smug.

Professor Flitwick looked like he might cry.

Excerpt from the Letter

We have received your petition and are in the process of reviewing its contents. While tradition binds our structures, progress has always depended on minds like yours. We would like to formally acknowledge your efforts and request, should you be willing, a follow-up document detailing proposed integration measures within Hogwarts and other academic institutions…

Later that night, I played my cello under starlight.

I played for Guruji. For my daadi. For every being told they didn’t belong.

The music soared, bold and aching.

And for the first time in a while, I felt… steady.

Like maybe I had a place in this world.

Not just as a student or a singer.

But as someone who could change things.

Chapter Text

Late February 1994 | Harry’s POV

It was Aelius who dropped the newspaper on our table in the Great Hall.

Not dramatically, like Draco might have. Just placed it, very deliberately, in front of me, as if I wouldn’t have noticed the enormous headline otherwise.

"Hogwarts Student Petitions Wizengamot—Rights for Magical Beings?"

There was a picture under the headline.

Hermione Granger. Cello slung behind her like a sword. Windswept robes, ink-stained fingers, wand tucked behind one ear like she’d forgotten it was there.

I blinked. “She—what?”

Draco leaned over and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, I don’t know, Potter. Just rewriting the laws of magical Britain. You know, as one does in third year.”

Aelius raised an eyebrow. “She’s not even trying to be subtle about changing the world anymore.”

I wasn’t really listening.

I was still looking at the photograph.

She wasn’t smiling in it. She looked… determined. Like she had something to prove.

Like she always had something to prove.

“Do you think the Ministry will listen to her?” I asked.

It was late. We were in the common room. Aelius and Draco had fallen asleep. I was still rereading the article.

Ginny, sitting nearby with a textbook, looked up. “They’d be stupid not to.”

“She’s only eleven.”

“Doesn’t seem to stop her,” she said, with a shrug. “I mean, have you ever seen her not working? And besides… she’s not just smart. She’s right.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that.

Because she was.

Later that week, I caught a glimpse of her in the courtyard.

Theo was walking beside her. Padma on the other side. They weren’t talking. Just walking like they belonged there, like they were already older than the rest of us.

Hermione’s braid caught the wind, the kind of wild, half-tamed thing that looked like it had no business following rules.

I watched her laugh at something Theo said. A rare, bright laugh. Her head tipped back. For a second, she looked like a kid again.

And then she saw me.

Her eyes narrowed.

Mine did too.

And just like that, it was on.

She beat me in Charms the next day. Again.

I knocked her off the top of the Defence leaderboard the week after. Barely.

We passed in corridors like duellists.

Exchanged quips like spells.

I didn’t like her. Not really. She was intense and impossible and always doing things.

But I couldn’t stop looking at her, either.

And I was starting to think maybe that was the problem.

Chapter Text

From Hermione’s perspective, the last stretch of third year passed like one long, blurred symphony—each note woven with exhaustion, triumph, and the odd unexpected harmony.

The six of them—two trios turned a weird, chaotic collective—still studied together. Still argued. Still teased. Still bantered. Harry and Hermione’s bickering had settled into a rhythm of eye-rolls and quiet grins. Especially since Harry had a girlfriend now.

Cho Chang.

One year older, graceful, kind, and an excellent flyer. Hermione wasn’t remotely bothered. “I’m eleven,” she’d muttered to Padma and Theo when they asked about it. “He can kiss whomever he wants. I’m trying to change the world.”

And she was. Even when her wandless spells fizzled out more than they landed. Aelius started helping her with theory—quietly, almost shyly—after she found him practicing nonverbal spells in the library at dawn. Turned out, he was as obsessed with the subtle mechanics of magical will as she was. Their quiet conversations became more frequent, more comfortable. And when he told her about his father, Regulus Black, and his uncle Sirius, and about his mother who had died of a blood curse when he was five—Hermione just nodded. “I understand,” she whispered. “My parents are gone too.”

With Draco, it came after a long walk one Sunday. She found him alone near the greenhouses, staring at nothing.

“You’re not your father,” she told him.

He didn’t say anything for a long while. Then, finally: “He’s changed, at least publicly. But people still whisper.”

“Let them whisper,” Hermione replied. “We know who you are. That’s what matters.”

And she meant it. Padma and Theo did too. That quiet understanding stitched them tighter together than ever.

Meanwhile, Hermione’s wandless magic was improving—slowly, imperfectly. But she kept at it. Every evening, after her study sessions, she'd light candles and practice, sometimes failing, sometimes not. Aelius joined sometimes. Theo and Padma more often. And, in typical Hufflepuff fashion, her housemates let them in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

March brought warmer skies and quickened breath. April brought heavy rains and quiet celebrations for a successfully cast nonverbal Shield Charm. May was studying. June was flying.

Hermione finally joined them in the air. Harry had tried teaching her first—he was patient, to be fair—but when all five of them got involved, it became more of a party. Theo whooped like a maniac whenever she managed to turn without wobbling. Padma kept pace with her calmly. Aelius gave her detailed flight correction suggestions. And Draco pretended he wasn’t smiling, even when she caught him grinning.

Even Harry had to admit, “You’re not half bad, Granger.”

She stuck out her tongue at him mid-air. “I’m a menace on a broom. Just wait.”

Chapter Text

Fourth year brought with it a hush of expectation.

Trelawney was gone. Not abruptly, but almost… poetically. A soft farewell over the summer, a few tea cups left rattling in the breeze. The towers felt clearer, quieter, and slightly more grounded.

And in her place came Pandora Lovegood.

Tall, serene, with starlight in her eyes and a voice like the hum of the universe, she glided into Hogwarts as if she had always been meant to be here. Her first class was not in the North Tower but on the Astronomy Tower, beneath the stars themselves. The students were baffled—until she began to speak.

"We have forgotten," she said, eyes twinkling. "That Divination is not merely looking forward. It is also looking inward. That the future is seeded in us already—like stories we haven’t finished reading."

Even Hermione, who had scoffed at Trelawney’s brand of fortune-telling, found herself oddly attentive. There was something about Professor Lovegood that made you listen. Like she knew truths.

And slowly, subtly, it began.

A whisper of a dream. A flicker of a vision in a crystal bowl instead of a ball. A pattern repeated in stars and tea leaves and numbers.

Hermione didn’t understand why she kept hearing the same line in her dreams.
"One born of music and mourning shall bring the storm and silence it."

Luna, half in her own world, half perfectly aware, stared at her one morning after class and simply said,
“You’re humming again. It’s trying to remember through you.”

"What's trying to remember?" Hermione asked.

"The world," Luna said. "Before it breaks."

And then, during a Saturday evening class that only a few signed up for—Theo, Padma, Hermione, Luna, Aelius, and surprisingly, even Harry—Pandora placed a copper dish of moon water before them and said gently,
“Tonight, we listen. We do not look. The stars are speaking. One of you will hear.”

And someone did.

The water shimmered. Luna’s breath caught.

So did Pandora’s.

Her voice shook as she stood, her hands tightening around the rim of the copper bowl. “A thread just trembled in the Weave.”

No one moved.

Hermione’s music stirred unbidden in her blood. Harry’s scar prickled for the first time in months. Theo frowned, sensing…something. Padma’s runes textbook flipped a page of its own accord.

And Pandora Lovegood, smiling gently now, said,
"The prophecy has begun to awaken."