The Sugar Quill
Author: Hematite  Story: My Very Own Secret  Chapter: My Very Own Secret
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A story


My very own secret

By: Hematite


“All right, class. How are you all doing today?” the high-pitched voice of the teacher questioned.


“Good, Mrs. Arlall,” came the already-bored response.


Hermione Granger looked up at the teacher, her frizzy hair surrounding her face, and said clearly, “Wonderful.” She was nine years old and was thinking to herself, if this is what school will be like this year then I might as well quit now. The teacher was already treating them like babies.


But Hermione Granger never was a quitter.


The teacher spoke again. She had a falsely sweet voice and she was wearing too much pink. Hermione sighed, and began to take notes.


“This year we have a timetable we will follow. This may be new to some of you. We’ll start with 20 minutes of settling in before we go straight to art, and then come back here for writing. Then we have PE, and come back for maths before we go to lunch. After lunch, we will have science, then head out to music. When we’re done filling our heads with tunes, we’ll come back here for a snack and then have playtime before it’s time to go home. What does that mean, class? That means we have art right now! We have to go next door to Mr. Rand’s classroom, where the art equipment is, so we’ll be working with his class as well. Okay, let’s go!”

Hermione closed her notebook and stood up, waiting to go last in line like she always did. No one shot her a glance, because they were all too busy acting like babies, wanting to be the first in line. She rolled her eyes and got ready for another year.




The day passed normally. In art, Hermione’s work was exceptional, much better than anyone else’s, which won her praise from the teacher – something she was used to.


When they went back to the classroom, Mrs. Arlall handed out papers for the class to fill out. They had to set goals for the year and explain how they could use the time at school to improve. Even with her high grades, Hermione still had to use a separate sheet of parchment so she would have enough room to answer the questions.


PE was one of the only lessons she didn’t do so well it. Never very athletic, Hermione often got angry when she was shoved aside, or when she missed a pass. This day, she was in a dress for the first day of school and had to sit out. The PE teacher was angry with her for not wanting to borrow PE clothes. He claimed to have washed them.


“They still smell,” whispered Hermione to herself.


At maths, she excelled, raising her hand for every question and answering everything correctly. At the end of the lesson, she stayed a few extra minutes to do bonus questions and check the answers. This made her late for lunch – but that didn’t matter, she wasn’t holding anybody up. She spent every lunchtime sitting alone, often reading. She pretended not to care, though, as she leafed through the pages of the book, wondering what they would learn in the next lesson – science.


She was disappointed when she found that they only had to answer questions about what they already knew. To make things worse, it took the whole lesson.


“Time for music,” Mrs. Arlall said.


Hermione frowned; she didn’t like music. It was one of the few subjects she didn’t do too well in and she didn’t like subjects she wasn’t able to succeed in.


During snack-time and playtime, she sat in the corner doing her homework and asking the teacher for extra work. Finally, it was time to go home where her parents would pick her up and take them to their office and she would sit for another couple of hours of reading.

The year was turning out to be exactly like the last – and that’s saying something, considering this year she was going to a private school because she was too clever for her old one. This one was supposed to be more difficult and advanced. So far, it seemed pretty much the same.




One week later Mrs. Arlall came to pick them up from art with a surprise.


“This next month, we’ll be writing stories.”


“About unicorns?” one girl piped up.


“Or dragons?” a boy asked.


“No, outer space!” another kid yelled.


“No,” announced the teacher, “we’ll be writing about something only we know about ourselves. Something real - something that’s a secret.”


While they walked back to the room, Hermione thought of what she’d like to write about.  She was at a loss when she fell. A boy had tripped her up and began to laugh. Hermione let out an annoyed groan and pushed herself up, mad, ignoring the few pains she had. With a startled yell, the boy flew up in the air and landed, with a small thump, on the floor a few feet away. Hermione pointedly looked away, but she could feel his terrified eyes on the back of her head. Now she knew exactly what she was going to write about.




The next month was spent writing. Every English lesson was devoted to creating their stories. Everyone was writing about things like tricks they or their pets could do. Or places they wished they could go. Hermione was unique. She was writing about something special.




When they got their creations back, the air was tense. Everybody wanted a ten as a mark on their story, and many people got one. Hermione was excited – this was her first piece of work that she’d ever got a mark for.


Mrs. Arlall came up to Hermione’s desk with a frown. As she passed the papers back, she whispered to Hermione, “You didn’t follow the rules. I told you to write about something real.”


Hermione glanced down at her paper and gasped before looking up to protest. Mrs. Arlall, however, had moved on. She looked back down. Next to the title was a four. Tears stung her eyes as she shoved it in her lunch bag, wanting to go home right then and there.

When the day was over and she went home, she angrily threw the story in the wastepaper basket. Later on that night, a sparkling gust of wind passed through the house and picked it up. It floated through the air, dancing in the light of the stars, and landed in a pair of wrinkled old hands at the top of a tall tower. The hands were open, as if they were summoning it. The man was wearing deep purple robes and had a long silver beard. He passed his hand over the story and changed the mark to a ten. In Hermione and Mrs. Arlall’s minds, the mark changed as well. The two knew nothing of it, but Hermione smiled in her sleep.


The man chuckled as he read it, and muttered, “In good time, Hermione Granger, all in good time”




My Very Own Secret

By: Hermione Granger

Hermione Granger is a very unique girl. She does very well in school, but doesn’t have many friends. This is because people can sense her secret. They can tell she is different, and she is – in a good way.


Hermione is a witch. She can do magic, but she doesn’t scoff about it because she’s not positive – just 50% sure. She knows she may be wrong. Whenever she’s mad or angry or hurt, the person who caused the pain suffers one way or another.


For instance, just the other day she was mad at a boy who pushed her. She was so mad that the next thing she knew, the boy was on the other side of the room. Thinking it was her fault, she tried not to let the guilt show on her face.


But no one ever suspects Hermione of doing these things because she’s well behaved and quiet, and why would she hurt anybody?


She doesn’t hurt people on purpose. It just happens and there’s no way to tell that was the one who did it. There’s no way to tell, except that she knows. Whenever this happens she can tell it’s her. She gets a feeling of power that she doesn’t have when she feels normal. When she feels normal, she’s usually upset from people teasing her.


Someday she’ll be around people who care about her in society because she will be famous as a witch. People will wish they were her and she will be loved because she’ll be a great witch. She’ll be happy at last.


Won’t she?




A/N: Please Review. This is my first fic on SQ and I need reviews…





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