“No, Miss Granger.
Whether a young witch comes from a Muggle family or a wizarding one, my experience tells me their natural talents don’t differ all that much.
Wizard-born children do not possess any special gifts the rest of us lack.” “As for the prophecy talent you mentioned, I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Believe me, Miss Granger—if you want to achieve anything in the magical world, hard work after you arrive will matter far more than any supposed gift.
Hoping for talent alone is the most foolish idea imaginable.” McGonagall’s face stayed stern as she spoke, but Hermione felt the knot in her chest finally loosen.
This was Minerva McGonagall.
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.
She wouldn’t lie to her, right?
“I understand, Professor!
I’ll work hard!” Hermione’s eyes shone as she looked up at McGonagall, pure excitement spilling out.
McGonagall felt a rare warmth.
This girl was a good child—far better behaved than the little hellions in her own Gryffindor house.
She hoped Hermione would be sorted into Gryffindor.
But that was the problem.
No one sorted into Gryffindor was ever low-maintenance.
The house had a way of infecting even the most sensible students until they were causing chaos right alongside the rest.
In McGonagall’s long experience, the students who looked like they didn’t belong in Gryffindor at all were usually the ones who caused the biggest messes.
She swallowed the “blessing” she’d been about to give.
“Miss Granger, do you remember anything about the person who gave you that ‘prophecy’?
A name, perhaps?
Or any distinctive features?” McGonagall was already planning to settle accounts later.
The real issue wasn’t the fun of it.
Hermione Granger had been given information about the magical world before she even knew she belonged to it.
That brushed dangerously close to the International Statute of Secrecy.
Since Hermione was in fact a witch, the boy hadn’t technically broken the law.
But if she hadn’t been magical, telling her about the wizarding world would have been a clear violation.
The penalties were severe.
Snapped wand.
Expulsion from Hogwarts.
In the worst cases, a one-way ticket to Azkaban.
The boy had danced right on the edge of the law.
If he was already a Hogwarts student, McGonagall would be the first to use her holiday disciplinary powers.
If he hadn’t started yet, he would receive very personal tutoring the moment he arrived: one-on-one lessons on the Statute of Secrecy, complete with copying the text and writing essays.
She would also cover the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and, if he still had energy left, the full Education Decrees.
She would not let any student of hers end up in Azkaban before he even finished school.
“Of course I remember.
I’ll never forget it!” Hermione huffed, still annoyed at being tricked.
“He said his name was Isaac Waldore.
My mom and I saw him on the street near our house.
He was running a ‘prophecy experience’ stall right there on the pavement!” “Mr.
Waldore?” McGonagall searched her memory.
No current student carried that name.
But she had personally signed and sent an acceptance letter this year to a boy named Isaac Waldore.
Which meant the boy who had “spoiled” Hermione’s future was also an incoming first-year.
“He has short platinum-blonde hair,” Hermione continued.
“And his eyes are two different colors.
He also said the thing I was worried about would be answered today…” Isaac’s prophecy had been the perfect catch-all.
Mrs.
Granger had been worried whether the magic school was even real.
McGonagall had just proven it with Transfiguration.
Hermione had been worried that wizard-born children all had special gifts like Isaac.
McGonagall had just reassured her they didn’t.
The prophecy was either genuine talent or extremely clever wordplay.
The problem was that he had correctly predicted the exact timing of McGonagall’s visit—before the Grangers had even received their reply from Hogwarts.
A cold shiver ran down McGonagall’s spine.
To most young witches and wizards, platinum hair, heterochromia, and the word “prophet” might seem like an odd combination.
But to someone who had lived through Gellert Grindelwald’s reign of terror across Europe, those three elements together were more terrifying than Voldemort himself.
That was Grindelwald’s signature.
Two of the three elements already matched.
Was the third one real too?
McGonagall made her decision instantly.
She needed to return to Hogwarts and pull Isaac Waldore’s file.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Granger.
I had planned to take you and your parents to Diagon Alley for your school supplies today.
Unfortunately I must return to Hogwarts at once.
Another professor will come to escort you shortly.” She gave Hermione’s shoulder a quick pat, then hurried out the door.
The second she stepped beyond the wards, McGonagall Disapparated with a sharp crack.
She couldn’t Apparate directly onto Hogwarts grounds, but she could get close enough and walk the rest of the way.
“Mom, did I say something wrong?” Hermione asked, voice small.
Mrs.
Granger shook her head.
Mr.
Granger stepped over and gently ruffled his daughter’s hair.
“No, Hermione.
You didn’t say anything wrong.
I think your words just gave Professor McGonagall a very big clue…” The sudden change in McGonagall’s expression had been obvious.
Something important had clicked into place.
What could possibly rattle a woman that stern and steady?
Hermione stood there for a long moment, then looked up at her parents with quiet sadness.
“So… the magical world really does have prophecy gifts, doesn’t it?
Does that mean Isaac Waldore is actually a real prophet?” Her understanding of the wizarding world was sliding exactly where she had hoped it never would.