Isaac tore open the envelope and unfolded the heavy parchment, reading every line with careful attention.
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards) Dear Mr.
Waldore, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September.
We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress The moment Isaac learned Grindelwald’s real identity, he knew exactly which world he’d landed in.
The second his gift started showing him future scenes, he’d been waiting for this letter.
Now the Hogwarts owl had finally pushed open the door to the magical world.
He stared at the parchment until his eyes unfocused.
A vision that didn’t belong to this moment bloomed in front of him.
“Huh?” Isaac had no plans to play the clueless Muggle-born family.
He already knew magic was real.
Hogwarts professors were stretched thin every summer.
Plenty of Muggle-born students arrived each year.
A single professor might handle two or three families in one day—convince the parents, show a bit of magic, then escort them to Diagon Alley for supplies.
Isaac decided to save them the trip.
But the vision had shown an important visitor tomorrow.
An elderly man who loved sweets.
“Anthony?” “Yes, Master Isaac.” The butler stepped forward from the shadows.
“Tomorrow afternoon we’ll have an important guest.
Older gentleman.
Very fond of sweets.” “Understood.
I’ll prepare everything.” Anthony had long since stopped being surprised by his young master’s gifts.
In his eyes Isaac was every bit as remarkable as Mr.
Grindelwald had once been.
After giving instructions, Isaac returned to his room, wrote his reply, and handed the letter to the waiting owl.
The bird had already been fed and spoiled by the butler.
It gave a short, happy hoot when it saw Isaac again.
“Thanks for the delivery, messenger.” Isaac stroked the soft feathers once, then watched the owl launch out the open window.
He waited in the living room for Grindelwald, but the old man never appeared.
Muttering under his breath about a hundred-year-old man getting shy about seeing his former flame, Isaac went to bed early.
— The next morning, at the Granger house.
Right on schedule, Professor McGonagall knocked on the front door.
Hermione sprinted to answer it.
“Hello, ma’am?” The moment she saw the professor, Hermione straightened like a soldier, her voice suddenly steadier.
McGonagall’s presence hit like a wall.
The witch standing there was tall, ramrod straight, radiating quiet authority.
Her black hair was scraped back into a severe, perfect bun.
Square glasses framed a stern face that didn’t know how to smile.
When she looked down at the “well-behaved” Hermione Granger, McGonagall’s expression softened by a fraction.
Hermione let out a tiny breath of relief.
Mr.
and Mrs.
Granger stepped up behind her.
One glance at McGonagall and they were sold.
As parents, they wanted their daughter’s future teacher to look properly formidable.
McGonagall’s appearance checked every box on the ideal-educator checklist.
“Good morning, Mr.
and Mrs.
Granger.
Miss Granger.” She nodded to each of them in turn.
Every summer McGonagall dealt with Muggle-born families.
She knew exactly how to handle parents from different backgrounds.
For a comfortable, professional family like the Grangers, a small demonstration of real magic usually sealed the deal.
She gave them one now.
When the Grangers nervously asked for proof that magic was real, McGonagall performed a simple Transfiguration.
To her it was nothing.
To the Grangers it was pure wonder.
She also explained the dangers of untrained magical children.
Mr.
Granger agreed immediately that Hermione should attend Hogwarts.
Just as McGonagall was about to escort them to Diagon Alley, Hermione spoke up in a small voice.
“Professor McGonagall, do children from wizarding families all have special talents?” “What?” McGonagall stopped, genuinely surprised.
That wasn’t a question she heard often.
Muggle-born students rarely asked about it unless they’d already met other magical children their age.
But… was that possible?
“I mean, do wizard-born kids have gifts the rest of us don’t?
Like… prophecy?” Hermione had narrowed it down to prophecy specifically.
McGonagall turned fully to face her.
If the girl had listed several different talents, McGonagall would have written it off as an over-imaginative child.
But she’d mentioned only prophecy.
That changed everything.
Prophecy meant Divination.
Divination meant Sybill Trelawney—the laziest fraud on the Hogwarts staff, in McGonagall’s opinion.
Years of service and not one accurate prediction worth mentioning.
As for Hermione… she had probably met a young wizard who’d pieced together enough details to confirm her identity, then “prophesied” her Hogwarts letter.
McGonagall had seen every flavor of prank and every kind of troublemaker in her decades as Gryffindor Head of House.
In her eyes, the boy Hermione had met was at most an honest kid.