A well-pressed daisy

The deeply black robe hung on the door of her wardrobe, just as it had since she’d retrieved it from the dressmaker’s shop. Hermione sighed happily, just stopping herself from going over to pat the heavy poplin. It represented everything she’d worked for — all those sleepless nights and cram sessions and essay drafts — for so many years. She sat down on her bed and hugged a pillow, dinner suddenly sitting heavily in her stomach. 

Her dream, fulfilled. 

Oxford.

As she thought the word a thrill coursed through her. 

She was going to Oxford. Magical Oxford. Her matriculation was under Sirius’ sponsorship, but that only got her considered for a spot. The acceptance letter said it all “due to your own hard work and diligent scholarship”. 

Diligent scholarship. Without Voldemort, she’d had time for that. Time to explore and grow and research and read and experiment, not just problem solve on the fly.