Chapter Text
Document #001: The Alien Baby
Status: Mildly traumatised
I, Dr. Wendell Granger, hereby declare that I am of sound mind and reasonably sober. At precisely 3:13 this morning, a small child materialised in the middle of our living room. There was no knocking. No crying. No doorbell. Just a fwoosh, a shimmer of light, and then there she was.
Floating. Making direct eye contact. And holding a slice of toasted bread.
We stood frozen. The child cooed. The television exploded.
I repeat: the television. Exploded.
I am not one prone to hallucinations nor delusions, but I’ve seen Superman and ET and I know aliens when I see them. THE GOVERNMENT PEOPLE WILL TAKE HER. So we agreed to raise her as our own. The baby now responds to the name “Hermione.” I tried “Zorgon,” but she only spit up at me. Her favorite activity is levitating spoons. Her second favorite is telekinetically summoning the neighbour’s cat.
P.S: I am hiding this journal behind the toothpaste samples in the upstairs cabinet in case anybody comes searching.
The station was loud, bustling with families and barely-restrained chaos. A frizzy-haired girl stood proud between her parents, chin up, clutching Hogwarts: A History like a lifeline. Somewhere between the industrial ceiling and gleaming railway signs, she knew magic waited — somewhere stupid like the third brick wall from Platform 9.
Her mum fretted about, hands busy adjusting her daughter's backpack, hair, and face. Hermione tried swatting her off after witnessing her mother swipe her fingers on her tongue to scrub an imaginary smudge from her cheek. A futile effort.
Her dad, meanwhile, stood sentinel — eyes darting like a paranoid meerkat on espresso, scanning the crowd for signs of imminent abduction and fully ignoring his daughter’s repeated “Ack!”s and “Mum, please!” in the background.
“We still don’t know if this isn’t a Ministry of Defence ploy,” Wendell muttered, clutching a camera and probably picturing himself as the last line of alien resistance. “Could be a sleeper cell. Could be clones. Could be—”
“Not again, Wendell dear,” said his wife calmly. “Remember that extremely detailed presentation Hermione made on why she should be—”
“Yes, yes, don’t remind me…” her father shuddered, then visibly baffled. “So... we just let you walk into a brick wall again?”
A thoroughly groomed Hermione sighed, “Yes, Dad. Third time’s the charm.”
Honestly, how was she supposed to know which side of a perfectly normal pillar was secretly a portal to magical enlightenment? The poor cart carrying her luggage already sported two visible dents, and she really couldn’t afford the third lest the authority became alerted to this accidental destruction of the station's property. If they could hide an entire magical pub from Muggles behind an illusion, they could at least put a glowing Muggle-unseen sign somewhere, right?
Wendy Granger then pulled her daughter into a tight hug. “Oh, you’ll be brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, our Hermione. Just—try not to correct your teachers too much. Or hex anyone unless it's absolutely necessary.”
“I don’t even know how to hex anyone. Yet,” Hermione replied cheekily.
She had just settled into a corner seat with a stack of alphabetized books at her side for light reading when the compartment door slid open again. A round-faced boy with anxious eyes peered in. “Sorry—h-have you seen a toad? I’ve lost mine. His name’s Trevor.”
Hermione looked to her right first, then left. There, perched like a little judgmental lump beside her water bottle was the toad.
“Oh,” she said. “He’s here.”
Neville’s eyes widened. “That’s him!”
She scooped the toad up gently and handed it over. “Animals really like me,” she added dryly, as if finding strays and runaway pets were a common occurrence to her.
The boy looked grateful, if a bit confused. “Thanks. Er... do you mind if I stay for a bit? Everywhere else is kind of full.”
“Of course,” Hermione said brightly. “I’m Hermione Granger. First year?”
“Neville Longbottom. And yeah.”
Internally, she sparkled — the rare chance of making a proper friend unfolding like the first page of a promising book. Now the right course of action should be to ease into it and not intimidate or overwhelm them, as Mum always says — but she really wanted to ask about the toad’s spiritual connection with the boy, or what subject he most looked forward to, or even the possibility of Trevor being a shapeshifting demon monster in disguise waiting to strike when they least expect it. Surely these are perfectly acceptable topics?
Her eyes glittered with barely restrained enthusiasm. She was one breath away from asking the last — obviously the most important — question when the door creaked open again. Two more boys stood there now: one with bright red hair and a discernible smudge on his nose, and the other with round glasses and a scar shaped like lightning, looking windswept and unsure.
Wait—Hermione knew that scar.
“Oh!” she said, springing to her feet. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
Harry instantly looked alarmed. His redhead friend appeared like he was considering jumping in front of him.
“I’ve read all about you,” Hermione added quickly. “I mean, I’ve read all about everything, and one of them is about you. I’m Hermione Granger. This is Neville Longbottom.”
She extended a hand with the briskness of someone who’d practiced the gesture in front of a mirror many, many times.
“Harry,” said Harry awkwardly, shaking it. His face appeared guarded, wary, as if he was expecting a dreaded follow-up. It wasn't hard for Hermione to see the weariness in his face, the poor boy must have been pestered nonstop due to his celebrity status. She shuddered to think the questions he'd been asked—most probably about the night his mother and father were murdered , as if it was the most casual thing to ask an orphaned boy. Honestly these people...
“Ron Weasley,” said the redhead next.
“Oh, I read your name in Modern Magical Families by Runcorn and Aubergine,” Hermione said to Ron, eyes lighting up. “Sixth of seven children, right?”
“Er, yeah.” Ron looked both impressed and unnerved. Harry blinked, almost confused, if not, amused now that he was not in the spotlight.
“You’ve got cracks on your glasses, Harry,” she added suddenly, and before Harry could register being addressed yet alone on her statement, she whipped out her wand.
“Oculus Reparo!”
There was a flash — sharper and brighter than it needed to be. The lenses snapped into smooth clarity, and the frame turned more solid, more polished and more… glittery? Harry blinked. It happened all so suddenly, with one moment thinking the girl distracted with Ron's genealogy, only to be whiplashed with a free upgrade on his deteriorating spectacles. Who is this girl?! “Oh — thanks! You didn’t have to.”
Ron and Neville’s reactions, however, were more visceral. “Blimey, Harry. She didn’t just fix it, it looks way better than it probably was when you first got it,” said Ron. Neville remained silent, jaw dropped in amazement.
Hermione beamed happily. “I’ve been practicing on windows and spectacles all summer. Mum told me to keep the shenanigans outside, but Dad gave me more glasses that he could find. Some of them even stopped exploding.”
There was so many things to unpack from that response. Ron looked like he was about to ask about something but before he could do so, another shadow fell in the doorway. A pale, slick-blond, pointy-faced boy stood there, flanked by two boulder-sized boys. His grey eyes flicked over the room, then narrowed in on Neville.
“Longbottom,” greeted the boy, casually brushing past him.
Neville flinched and Ron blanched, both recognizing the snub being committed against the both of them.
The blond's priority became immediately known because he turned to Harry, cool and confident. “I heard you were on the train. Harry Potter, right?”
Harry nodded warily.
“I’m Draco Malfoy,” the boy said, holding out a hand like it was a royal favour. “You’ll find some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”
With this, his sharp eyes cut to Ron.
Ron bristled. Harry appeared to be pondering, but didn’t take the hand. “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.”
Hermione, still seated, watched amusedly as Draco’s hand slowly lowered. Her eyebrows lifted as he glanced at her, and as if realizing that someone else was in the room aside from the boys, his lips thinned.
“Well,” he said to Harry, voice clipped. “Didn’t take much to know which House you belong to. I know I’ll be in Slytherin, of course. Where the better sort goes.”
He turned on his heel and swept away, henchmen in tow. When the door slid shut behind him, Hermione muttered just loud enough to be heard, “Prat.”
Harry snorted. Ron grinned. Neville just sat down again, cradling Trevor like a lifeline.
She folded her arms and harrumphed. “I know exactly which House I’m not joining. Imagine having to share common space with him for seven years.”
The Great Hall was dazzling and overwhelming and exactly how it was described in Hogwarts, A History. Hermione craned her neck to take it all in, her heart pounded in her ears. She prattled off some obscure facts about the ceiling to Neville — but he probably wasn’t even listening since his nods were stiff and his eyes remained locked on the ratty cloth at the front.
“Ravenclaw, then?” she heard from Harry behind her.
“No way, she’ll be in Gryffindor. You'll see,” replied Ron.
“Granger, Hermione!”
Hermione Granger took a deep breath and marched forward. The moment the Sorting Hat touched her head, her world narrowed.
“Ahhh,” a wizened voice purred in her mind. “Another ambitious one. And smart, so very smart. You’ve got your nose in ten books and your heart in twenty worries. That’s usually a Ravenclaw... but what’s this? Oh. Oh my.”
Hermione sat very still.
“Not one trace of Muggle blood in your magical core. And yet… you were raised by Muggles. How curious. You’ve been claimed, and reclaimed, and claimed again. My dear, you are a library of rituals wrapped in one girl.”
What does that even mean? she thought, suddenly queasy.
“Slytherin would fit you well. Power, determination, linea—”
“No.”
“Oh? But you’d thrive.”
“I’m not going into the same House as that boy. He was rude to Neville, insulted Harry and Ron, and I know he tried to pretend I wasn’t there. I refuse.”
"Ah. Yes. Family reunions can be rather awkward, I suppose.”
“Excuse me?”
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Let’s go with your choice then, Miss Granger. Choices, such powerful things they are.”
“GRYFFINDOR!”
The Hat was yanked from her head as if it couldn’t wait to be rid of her. She rose slowly and made her way to the Gryffindor table, heart hammering like hooves against hollow stone. Somewhere behind her eyes, something buzzed like a wasp in a bottle. Probably just nerves, then, Hermione reasoned, as she slid in next to a redhead upperclassman who introduced himself as Percy Weasley — the fifth-year Gryffindor prefect set to become the Head Boy and youngest Minister of Magic. He had ambitions in abundance, but Hermione would have to rate this introduction a 6 out of 10 for sheer pompousness in his deliverance.
“You sound like a Slytherin.”
Percy visibly sputtered and was probably about to reprimand her, but she didn’t give him any reprieve, “But you’re loads better than this boy I met earlier. Although I imagine one of the reasons you’re here is because the colour combination will make you look like a walking Christmas tree and nobody will take you seri—”
“I told you she’d be Gryffindor,” said Ron to Harry, effectively distracting her from ever finishing her argument with Ron's older brother ( Oh, when did they get here? ). He seemed smug for the correct assumption at first before eyeing her with suspicion. “Even if she talks like Percy.”
Hermione, still riding the high of academic and moral superiority, gave him a beatific smile. “That’s a compliment. Percy’s a Prefect.”
Across the hall, her eyes locked briefly with Draco Malfoy.
He looked furious.
She tilted her chin.
He scowled deeper.
She tilted it higher.
He looked like he’d bitten a lemon.
And then— A loud bang made several students jump. A fist had slammed the staff table.
Hermione jerked upright, startled — and she wasn’t alone. Heads were turning like owls across the Hall. Old McGonagall frowned. Flitwick dropped his fork and didn’t (couldn't) retrieve it. Quirrell (Percy supplied, “the turban guy”) was clutching the edge of the table, face ghostly pale. His eyes darted — wide, wild.
“I — I’m s-so sorry!” Quirrell stammered. “There was a — a spider — on the table. I — I hate spiders.”
The moment passed for everyone else, but Hermione didn’t look away. Something stirred beneath her ribs — warm and fluttering, like the first wingbeat of a spell not yet cast. It hummed even more now that she was in direct eye contact with the personification of social anxiety in the form of a garishly-turbaned professor. She was certain he was zeroing in on her just like she was on him.
Quirrell visibly frowned. Then gaped. Then frowned again, deeper. Then he finally tore his gaze away — and the moment snapped like a bubble. Draco Malfoy was still glaring at her from across the hall but Hermione had a feeling she didn’t mind it one bit.
Because this day kept getting stacked with meeting one peculiar person after another.
Because growing up she had been told by her parents of her alien ancestry, and not even Professor McGonagall’s visit had managed to deter that belief. But now she’d reached the conclusion: These were just people — full of strange, human quirks and all-too-familiar foolishness, like the blond prat’s arrogance, Percy’s blatant bragging, Ron’s atrocious table manners, Harry’s evasiveness, even Neville’s timidness, and whatever on earth Quirrell was.
It was never aliens.
It was just Magic.
Oh boy. Her father — who strongly presumed “School of Witchcraft & Wizardry” in the offer letter to be a euphemism for “Galactic Learning Institution” — would really not take this well.
Still, as she sat among floating candles and ghosts with opinions, Hermione had to admit — aliens or not, this place was already weirder and far more interesting than she ever imagined. She’d survived one Sorting Hat identity crisis, two Weasleys, a rotten blond, and at least one unhinged professor. Tomorrow could bring dragons, time-travellers, or sentient teacups — and honestly? She couldn’t wait!
When she was finally tucked in later that night, a thought suddenly came to her: What did the Hat mean by awkward family reunion with Draco Malfoy?