August 1991.
London.
The sun broke through the clouds, cut the fog, and lit the wet pavement.
A tabby cat crouched at the corner, studied the street sign for a moment.
Then it was gone.
“Mr.
Prewett.
Thank you for the reading.”
A man hunched his shoulders, sitting at a fortune-telling stall on the corner.
“My wife… she really was unfaithful.”
“Oh, right.
The agreed payment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Hylan Prewett sighed with practiced sympathy and pocketed the money without missing a beat.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what do you plan to do?
I can offer guidance, if you’d like a reading on it.”
“No need, Mr.
Prewett.
I’m going to forgive her.” The man rubbed his hands together.
Hylan kept his face regretful.
Inside, he rolled his eyes.
Doormat.
He saw the man off, then counted the money.
About twenty-five pounds.
With the loose change from earlier, he now had twenty-eight pounds and seventeen pence.
The money was secondary.
What mattered was the prompt that had appeared.
His eyes settled on the virtual screen in front of him.
[You have completed a deception]
[Silver Tongue: Level 1 (34/100): Proficiency +1]
[Description: Go on, talk to them.
Say anything.
They’ll believe you.
Mind your tongue, though.
Words cut both ways.]
[Effect: Your words reach deeper.
People trust them more easily.]
He couldn’t actually read fortunes.
The whole stall was a con.
Hylan had already learned about the man’s unfaithful wife through the kids at his orphanage.
Then he’d steered the man to his table and delivered the news under the guise of a Tarot reading.
He was only eleven.
The man hadn’t believed him at first.
Until the facts lined up exactly as Hylan had said.
Still, it wasn’t the outcome he’d hoped for.
He’d planned to work the angle three ways: first, charge for exposing the affair.
Then charge the husband for advice on handling it.
Then find the wife and charge her for advice too.
Instead, the man chose forgiveness.
Maybe she was different?
“Hylan.
I knew I’d find you here.”
A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.
“Miss Granger.”
Hylan stashed the money.
His expression shifted instantly to something polite and warm.
Around Hermione, he was always gentle and kind.
“Call me Hermione.”
Hermione Granger sat down across from him, elbows on the table, chin in her hands.
“How was business today?”
“All right.”
Hylan shuffled the Tarot deck, the cards’ starry backs flashing between his fingers.
“Want a reading?”
Hermione looked at his pale, thin face and felt a pang of sympathy.
“Sure.
I want to know which school I’ll end up at.”
She was eleven now, secondary school age, and it had been weighing on her.
Partly the choice itself.
Partly the thought of being far from the boy who’d sat beside her in class for six years.
Hylan was different from the other kids.
He never made fun of her bushy hair.
When she talked about the things she’d read, he didn’t turn away impatiently.
He listened.
He’d grown up in an orphanage, but he was kind and gentle.
And he never lied.
Hermione was sure of it.
“Have you gotten any letters lately?” Hylan asked.
Hogwarts sent owls before the start of term.
Hermione came from a Muggle family, so a professor would visit in person later.
“Letters?” Hermione frowned.
“What kind of letters?”
“My parents were complaining the other day about some nonsense scam letters.
One of them actually had my name on it.”
The Grangers had dismissed them, Hylan realized.
That happened often with Muggle families.
It was why the professors made house calls.
Few parents would ship their child off to some unknown school based on a single letter.
“Never mind.
Let’s begin.”
The star-backed Tarot cards shuffled between his hands, broke apart, and came together again.
“You’re the focus.
Draw one.”
Hylan held the deck with four fingers and fanned the cards in front of Hermione.
The spacing was almost unnaturally even.
He took the chance to study her properly.
Bushy brown hair.
Brown eyes.
A touch of earnest bookishness.
None of that mattered.
What mattered was her name.
Hermione Granger.
She looked almost exactly like the girl from the Harry Potter films.
It was because of her that Hylan, years after being reborn into this world, had finally realized where he was.
Hermione pulled a card from the middle of the spread and turned it over.
An old man stood on a snowy peak, holding a lantern and a staff.
“The Hermit.” Hylan took the card and examined it.
“It means you seek wisdom.
You love reading.
But it also makes you feel alone sometimes.”
Hermione nodded.
That fit.
“Still,” Hylan went on, “I think the core meaning here is that you’ll pursue hidden knowledge.
Maybe you’ll end up at some secret magic school.”
He said it like a joke.
Hermione laughed.
“I wish you could come with me.”
She didn’t take it seriously.
She blinked at him and finally got to the real reason she’d come.
“I forgot my money when I left the house.
So… come over for dinner?
As payment for the reading.”
Girls always needed an excuse when they were being kind.
Ever since she’d learned Hylan had no parents and lived in an orphanage, she’d invited him over often.
Partly because she liked him.
Partly because she wanted to look after him.
He looked so thin.
She worried he wasn’t eating enough.
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Granger.”
“Just Hermione.” She stood up from the stall and said it again, firmly.
“Hylan, you’re always so formal.”
Her house wasn’t far.
They gathered his things and walked over in a few minutes.
“Mr.
Granger, Mrs.
Granger.
Good evening.
Sorry to intrude.”
“Mr.
Prewett!
Welcome.”
“Come in, come in.”
The Grangers had long since warmed to the polite, well-mannered boy.
They were all fond of him.
“You two have fun.
Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Come on.
Let’s go upstairs.”
Hermione led him toward her bedroom.
“Not too many snacks,” Mr.
Granger said from behind his newspaper, the dentist’s reflex.
“Bad for your teeth.”
“My dad bought me a picture book last week.
I actually read it back in Year Three.
He never remembers which books I’ve already finished.”
“I think it’s because you read too fast.”
“It’s because I never have anything else to do.
You never come over.”
“Sorry.
I’ve been…”
“No, I should apologize.” Hermione fidgeted with a stubborn lock of hair, embarrassed.
“I forgot you have to work at your stall.”
“It’s fine.
Earning a dinner now and then isn’t so bad.”
She laughed at that and led him to her bookshelf, crammed with every kind of book, and launched into an eager tour.
She was still going when Mrs.
Granger knocked.
“Is it dinner already, Mum?
It’s still early.”
“No…”
Mrs.
Granger hesitated.
Her eyes went to Hylan.
“I’m sorry, Hylan.
I’m afraid we can’t have you over tonight.”
“Why?” Hermione’s voice jumped, indignant.
“We have an important guest.
Something very important to discuss.
It’s about your schooling, Hermione.” Mrs.
Granger’s tone was apologetic.
“That’s all right.
I’ll head off.
See you later, Hermione.”
Hylan smiled, walked over to her, and said goodbye.
At the door, he glanced back at her, just long enough to show a careful hint of reluctance.
It made Hermione feel miserable and guilty.
“Goodbye, Mrs.
Granger.”
Watching him go down the stairs, Mrs.
Granger felt a pang of guilt herself.
The boy had a hard life, and he was always so well-behaved.
That was what made it heartbreaking.
But what the visitor downstairs had told them was too important.
They had to send him away, just this once.
“Goodbye, Mr.
Granger.” Hylan reached the bottom of the stairs and spoke politely, but his gaze slid to the other person in the living room.
A severe-looking woman with square glasses.
Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun.
She wore an emerald-green cloak.
That must be Professor McGonagall.
Here to escort Hermione to Hogwarts.
Hylan placed her from his memories of the story.
“Just a moment, Mr.
Prewett.”
Mr.
Granger looked embarrassed.
Turning away his daughter’s friend hadn’t been his intention.
“These sandwiches are from Hermione.
Please take them.”
Prewett.
McGonagall paused.
The name was uncommon in the wizarding world.
In the Muggle world, it was just a name.
Nothing remarkable.
Plenty of Prewetts in London.
But hearing it, she thought suddenly of the Prewett brothers.
Killed in the wizarding war.
The Prewett family was an old and respected pure-blood line, staunch supporters of the Order of the Phoenix.
In the fight against Voldemort, the family name had nearly been wiped out.
Molly Weasley had been a Prewett before she married Arthur.
McGonagall studied Hylan with a flicker of curiosity.
Dark brown hair.
Brown eyes.
Surely not.
She kept her eyes on him anyway.
When he turned toward her, she saw his face straight on.
That brief look made her heart skip.
The boy had Fabian Prewett’s features.