Veil of Time: Chapter 2

On the flip side, Hector was oddly self-sufficient—unlike kids with autism or other quirks. Sure, he couldn't chain complex tasks, zoning out fast, but he nailed quick needs and routines like a reflex on a worn groove. Always staring off, though, making everyone fret hard. Fret, yeah—but to an outsider, it's a grim sight.

Hermione, like her folks, wrestled with Hector too. At seven, when it clicked he'd flop without help, she jumped in—easing her parents' load so they could focus on him. She didn't want to; she pitched in around the house, tackled homework solo, hunted info to crack her kid-sized but big-deal woes. Deep down, she nursed a smidge of resentment—Hector was a problem magnet, a worry vortex! He hogged her parents' time, or so it felt. Even if that wasn't dead-on, kids see it skewed.

And Hermione had a whopper secret. She could pull off wild stuff—mostly by fluke, no reins. Telekinesis and odd tricks she hid from her parents; they had enough on their plate.

July 4th, '91, rolled in—no one braced for weird. Another quiet bash, low-key. Hector'd munch cake with us, snag drawing kits as gifts—his "lucid flickers" didn't stretch past that. Then he'd retreat, and the family'd exhale, toasting another rough year. Hermione'd spiel her school wins, duck her eyes at the "friends" bit—no pals, no time.

It hummed along like that—Hermione eyeing her knees at the table as the question dropped. Then, bam—an off-key doorbell chime cut in.

"I'll get it," Robert said, a fair-haired, mid-height guy—family dad—rising and heading doorward.

Emma, a striking brunette with a short crop, set her teacup aside, ear cocked to the door chatter. Hermione mirrored her. The girl took after Mom's face, but her hair—curly, wild, a blond mash-up of both parents—spanned dark to near-white.

Minutes later, Robert trudged back to the set living-room table, trailed by a tall, poised woman in an emerald floor-length dress under a black robe. Age? Hard to pin—faint wrinkles and gray streaks pegged her past Emma, but casually, you'd swear under forty.

She announced herself as Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. A slick wand flick sold magic's realness—Hermione lit up; her parents blinked, stunned. Short version: she'd brought two Hogwarts invites—for Hermione and Hector.

"Professor," Robert's face shadowed, "Hector might be a snag."

"What's that?" McGonagall asked, surprised, settling at the table and sipping offered tea. "Where's the boy, anyway?"

"He's in," Emma replied.

We all rose, trekking to the second floor, pausing at a door. Emma spoke again.

"You know autism?" she asked.

"I've a notion," McGonagall nodded, her stern gaze flicking between Emma and Robert.

"Close, but not it," Robert said, nodding as Emma pushed the door open. We stepped in.

A simple room, light-toned. Neat bed—always. Chalk and plastic boards plastered the walls with cryptic symbols, signs, diagrams—sprinkled with odd familiar digits. A wardrobe stretched from the far corner to the window; beside it, a low table for floor-sitting—Hector only used chairs when forced, like in the kitchen. Slumped against the wardrobe, a black-haired boy sat, blue eyes vacant, staring nowhere. McGonagall flinched—his face was oddly cherubic, but blank, no ticks of mental strain—just a mask, stirring unease deep down.

"Let me check," she said after a minute's quiet. "Does Hector ever perk up?"

"Rarely—not much," Emma said.

"Since birth, or post some hiccup?" McGonagall pressed.

"Birth," Robert answered. "We ran every test, saw every expert—only got 'abnormally high brain activity' out of it."

McGonagall pursed her lips, nudging her glasses with a finger.

"I'd suggest a St. Mungo's healer," she said.

Blank stares from the adults and girl prompted her to clarify.

"St. Mungo's—a magical hospital," she explained. "Our healers might help, or at least chart a fix."

Robert alone caught the sad flicker on her face—she'd seen this before, but probing wasn't wise.

With a nod to summon aid—since the Grangers couldn't—McGonagall conjured a ghostly cat, whispered to it, and it bolted, fading mid-air. A healer'd come, she said. Two minutes later, the bell rang. A stocky, older guy stood there—gray streaks in dark, short hair, plain dark robe—calling himself Healer Smethwick.

For half an hour, he orbited the still-as-stone Hector, wand dancing, muttering, his face alight with curiosity and zeal. Robert's fists balled; Emma patted his shoulder.

"Now you get how those other parents felt," she said, "with you hovering, yapping, 'What a case!' during exams."

Smethwick stowed his wand soon after, stepping to the watching adults.

"What'd you find?" McGonagall asked.

"Odd, rare—not dire," he said, a faint smile tugging. "He's sharpened some over time, yeah? I see it. No weirdness—magic flares, anything?"

"Nor Hermione," Emma added.

She'd caught her girl's quirks—easy to tag as powers—so McGonagall's pitch didn't jar. But like Robert, she wondered: would Hermione dodge this fate—or how?

Smethwick eyed Hermione—blushing red—and grinned.

"Something we missed?" Emma asked, smiling, though it hinted at a sit-down later.

"Not quite…" Smethwick started.

"Not the point," he cut in, facing the parents again. "He's fit, if thin—low activity, I'd wager. Issue's his brain and magic—they're tied up on a bigger gig. Like he's patching his soul's wholeness."

"Soul wholeness?" McGonagall nabbed the question from Emma and Robert's lips.

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