Hermione Granger was overjoyed.
Just minutes earlier, though, she had been tense with anxiety.
When Professor McGonagall appeared at her home and performed several Transfiguration spells right in front of her family, Hermione's entire worldview was shaken. Yet that shock didn't last long—she quickly became utterly fascinated by the idea of magic.
She had always believed in logic and science. Her motto had been simple: if something exists, it must be real. Now, magic was undeniably real, and that meant it could be studied.
But Hermione wasn't naive. She understood that her Muggle-born background was her greatest disadvantage.
That fact became even more obvious during her visit to Diagon Alley. There, she had seen Peter Weasley casually perform a spell with just a snap of his fingers. No incantation. No wand movement. It was so natural, so effortless.
To make things worse, Professor McGonagall mentioned that Peter was a year older than her. Hermione's birthday was September 19. If she had been born just twenty days earlier, she would have started Hogwarts a year sooner.
That realization made her scalp prickle.
How terrifying.
Her future classmates from wizarding families had been immersed in magic since early childhood. They had been practicing spells, learning magical creatures, hearing bedtime stories about potions and enchantments. And what had she done? Memorized science facts, read Muggle literature, and written essays no one in this new world would care about.
It felt like she had wasted twelve years of her life.
Rounded off, it may as well have been a century.
She remembered herself that evening, curled up in bed, clutching her head in despair, overwhelmed by the looming sense of inadequacy.
But Hermione wasn't the kind of girl to let that fear consume her.
So she threw herself into her studies. All summer long, she read every magical textbook she could get her hands on. She practiced spells alone in her bedroom, tried wand motions in front of the mirror, recited magical theory aloud like incantations. It was hard without a proper teacher, and most of the spells didn't work, but she refused to give up.
The closer the school term came, the more determined she became. And when she finally boarded the Hogwarts Express, she wasted no time. She began moving from compartment to compartment, trying to talk to other first-years—especially those from wizarding families. Maybe she could learn a little more, hear a few firsthand stories, or even catch a glimpse of a real spell.
Things actually started off well.
Hermione settled into a compartment with a cheerful, chatty girl named Susan Bones. Susan had fiery red hair, a confident voice, and wasn't shy about telling everyone that her aunt was Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic.
To Hermione, she was the perfect study subject.
She listened attentively, soaking in every detail Susan offered, even the things she didn't fully understand. She made mental notes to look them up later. For a while, she forgot her worries entirely.
But beneath it all, there was one name that kept resurfacing in her thoughts.
Peter Weasley.
The boy who had casually performed a wandless spell. The one Professor McGonagall called exceptional. The one every wizard child seemed to recognize.
Hermione hadn't met him yet.
And now, at last, here he was—standing just down the corridor.
He looked older in person, more composed than the other boys. There was something quiet and observant about him. As she stepped closer, she realized she was gripping her wand too tightly, her fingers slightly clammy.
She took a deep breath to steady herself.
Then she smiled, raised her voice slightly, and called out.
"Peter... Weasley?"
But everything began to unravel when Hermione tried casting a simple Repair Charm in front of Susan and attempted to strike up a conversation about her study progress.
Susan stopped responding entirely.
Hermione couldn't understand what she had done wrong. She had only wanted to exchange notes, compare wand techniques, maybe ask a few theoretical questions. But the moment she demonstrated her magic, Susan's polite smile faded into awkward silence.
The conversation ended there.
Not long after, Hermione ran into another red-haired boy toward the back of the train—Ron Weasley.
He was proudly showing off his brand-new wand to none other than Harry Potter. Yes, that Harry Potter, the same boy who had been written about in Modern Magical History. And now, in the same compartment as him, were two living legends: the Boy Who Lived and the "terrible" youngest Weasley boy, whose name she'd seen written in the margins of several spell books... usually in ink and doodles.
To Hermione, this was an incredible opportunity.
She immediately invited herself in and asked Ron to perform a spell.
It didn't go well.
Let's just say… she'd rather not talk about it.
The last person she met was Neville Longbottom. She had caught him mid-celebration, hugging his lost toad and kissing it with such passion that Hermione had momentarily questioned whether wizarding families really prioritized proper education.
"I don't know anything about magic," Neville stammered when Hermione asked him about basic charms. "If it weren't for my Hogwarts letter, my gran would've thought I was a Squib."
Hermione stared at him, stunned. "But… you live in a magical household. You've been around magic since birth. How could you not know anything?"
Neville shrank under her gaze, holding his toad tightly like a life preserver. "Why don't… why don't you go talk to Peter Weasley? He's the one who helped me find Trevor. He's in the corridor... right over there."
Peter Weasley.
The name that had haunted Hermione's thoughts all summer.
She had spent weeks imagining what it would be like to meet him. How it would feel to speak to the boy who casually waved his wand and made objects fly, who the professors already praised before term even began.
And now, after an entire afternoon of observing her classmates—after seeing where she stood among them—Hermione finally felt ready.
She was no longer the girl panicking in her bedroom over her lack of magical upbringing. She had studied, practiced, and earned the right to lift her chin and walk forward.
Following Neville's hesitant directions, Hermione turned the corner and spotted him.
There he was.
Tall, thin, with unmistakable red hair, Peter Weasley strolled down the corridor, absentmindedly twirling a wand between his fingers.
Hermione took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"Peter… Weasley?"
For some reason, just calling his name made Hermione's heartbeat quicken. She had been so sure of herself only moments ago, but now, seeing Peter Weasley turn toward her, her confidence wavered.
The moment his handsome face came into view—
Thump-thump... thump-thump...
Her heart felt like it was going to leap out of her throat.
Was this what people called... presence?
The girl who usually had nothing in her mind but books suddenly heard a strange buzzing in her ears.
Peter, on the other hand, wasn't surprised to see her. The Hogwarts Express only had so many carriages, and he had expected to run into her sooner or later.
He smiled politely and nodded. "Hello, Miss Granger."
Hermione had prepared for this moment the whole summer. She had rehearsed lines in the mirror: she would challenge him to a duel of spellcasting, recite potion formulas from memory, and perhaps even mention that she'd read about his early achievements in wizarding newspapers.
But when she met his gaze, her mind turned completely blank.
She responded stiffly, "Y-you too, Mr. Weasley…"
Peter tilted his head slightly. "What is it, Miss Granger?"
"I..."
Hermione was just about to find her voice when someone shoved past her from behind.
It was a pale boy with slicked-back platinum hair, flanked by two large, lumbering boys. His sharp, pointed face was twisted in a sneer as he barely spared Hermione a glance.
"Out of the way, you filthy Muggle brat," he snapped.
Hermione stumbled back a step, stunned.
The boy then turned his attention to Peter, giving him a slow, scornful look.
"Another Weasley? Ugh. I just saw one earlier—dirty, poor, and hanging around with Potter, who looked like he'd dressed out of a trash bin. And you... you're even more ridiculous than him."
His lip curled as he finally glanced sideways at Hermione, then quickly looked away again like the sight of her offended him.
"And you, honestly... making friends with this freak? Your hair looks like it's been dipped in a cauldron, and your teeth—what are you, part rabbit?"
Before he could finish his next insult, Peter interrupted coldly, "Draco Malfoy?"
Malfoy blinked in surprise, then smirked. "Well, I suppose you're more educated than your brother. At least you've heard of me."
Peter said nothing at first. He looked at Malfoy the way one might look at a noisy insect.
"If I were you," Peter said evenly, "I'd walk away now. There's no mum or dad here to protect you."
A flush of anger rose on Malfoy's pale face. He snapped, "What—do you want to fight me? Crabbe, Goyle, teach him a lesson!"
The two goons behind him grinned as if they'd just been given a birthday present. With a grunt, they lunged forward.
Hermione let out a startled cry.
But Peter didn't flinch.
He raised his wand calmly.
"Impedimenta."
The air shimmered.
Crabbe and Goyle froze mid-charge. Their bodies lurched as if they'd slammed into an invisible swamp. The force pinned them midair, their limbs stretched awkwardly, like frogs stuck to a glass window.
Their roars turned to shrieks. "Draco—help!"
But Malfoy had already turned ghostly white.
Peter's wand shifted toward him.
"Expelliarmus."
A flash of red light shot out.
Malfoy's wand flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor.
He stood frozen in place, humiliated and wide-eyed.
Hermione stared, speechless.
Peter tucked his wand back into his sleeve and turned to her with a calm smile. "Are you alright?"
With a loud thud, Draco was hurled backward by an invisible force. The world around him blurred as the walls of the train corridor seemed to streak past in a flash of motion.
The next thing he knew, his back slammed into a wooden partition with a painful crunch.
His mind went blank. The wind had been knocked out of him. But before he could even groan in protest, another spell rang out:
"Densaugeo!"
Draco felt a strange, unbearable tickling sensation inside his mouth. His eyes went wide in horror as he watched his front teeth grow rapidly, stretching past his lips and curling upward like bent ivory tusks.
In an instant, he looked utterly ridiculous.
The pain, the shame, the sheer absurdity of it all overwhelmed him.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
He didn't dare say another word.
Without looking back at his so-called friends, Draco turned and fled—stumbling, wheezing, and finally dropping to his hands and knees to crawl away toward the back of the train.
The corridor behind him filled with whispers and muffled laughter as curious students peeked out from their compartments, drawn by the noise.
Peter stood calmly, lowering his wand.
He glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, who were still suspended awkwardly midair like limp dolls.
With a quiet flick of his wrist, he released the spell.
The two bullies collapsed onto the floor in a heap, scrambled to their feet, and fled after Draco, their sobs echoing down the corridor.
Peter dusted off his sleeve as if nothing had happened.
Then, he turned toward Hermione, who was still frozen with her hand covering her mouth.
"Sorry you had to see that," he said gently.
She blinked, then whispered, "You were amazing."