Ouroboros

by gnomenclature108

Summary:

Hermione’s life changes irrevocably when she discovers herself a witch.

In this reimagining of the series, follow our swotty heroine as she balances her muggle & magical lives; contends with both casual & life-threatening bigotry after being sorted into a house infamous for it; peruses a cursed diary possessed by a spellbinding, young megalomaniac; and charms one spoiled, blonde prat who she wishes to simultaneously kiss and set on fire.

Chapter 1: Obliviate

The boy was blonde, beautiful, and his laughter was as full-bodied and melodic as the day Hermione first fell for him. The sun was low in the sky behind him, transfiguring his bright locks into a golden halo. He fisted the note, plucked from her hands, to a tight ball and tossed it into the creek.

“I told you, Travis,” warbled another voice, close to her ear. “I told you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the beautiful boy scoffed. “I owe you five quid.”

“Help me out then!” The bully behind her gripped her wrists. While contorting in his grasp and stomping on his toes wasn’t enough to free her, it was enough to fluster him. “She’s a slippery little bitch!”

“Eugh, no, don’t make me touch her.” Travis’ face warped, uglier than she had ever thought possible. “What if she likes it?”

Her captor sniggered. “Oi, Granger? Does he make you feel all hot and bothered? I’ve an idea how to cool you down.” The hands holding her began to tug and twist backward. “Suck it up and grab her!”

The once-beautiful boy advanced, sneering. He snatched the front of her shirt with one hand, her bushy curls in the other, and helped his horrid friend wrestle her closer to the creek. A hot and rainless week had left the water low, sickly green and mucked with algae, the stagnant surface dotted with rotting trash.

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until he began to scream.

She fell to the ground, legs twisted beneath her. The halo wreathing Travis’ hair burst into a corona. The other boy, caterwauling in key, tackled him and rolled heavily atop his flaming head.

It all transpired within a matter of seconds. Travis curled into the grass, sobbing, and his friend pulled himself up, trembling. Hermione took advantage of their shock, found her footing, and sprinted home at full speed.

 

---

 

“I didn’t do it!” She lied. “I didn’t! I swear,” Hermione’s wail was muffled by her father’s tear-dampened jumper. “I don’t know what happened…”

“We’re not saying you do, love.” Nigel Granger possessed no skill in disguising his emotions. His assurance came out a squeak.

His wife, Samantha, was palefaced and pacing in circles. She made no attempt to hide how upset she was. “Yes,” she spat, “but what were you doing with those boys in the first place? I don’t know them to be your friends.” She didn’t say, As I know it, you have no friends.

Hermione swallowed her sobs, schooled her features into a tragic mask, and lifted her face out the crook of Nigel’s arm. “They weren’t yet,” she sniffled. “They asked me to the creek, wanting somebody new to play with over the summer. They were nice! I didn’t do anything.”

She was being at least a little honest. It was their final day of school before summer holiday. Hermione had been inflicted with a nasty little crush the moment she set eyes on Travis: a childish fancy, enough to color her daydreams for years. He had never spoken to her, which was in his favor, really, as all the other children delighted in teasing her. She thought he was different - well… indifferent maybe, until he passed her the note: If you feel what I feel, meet me by the creek before sundown.

“Well,” Samantha stopped pacing and turned to look at her, “Then why are they saying you lit that boy’s hair on fire!?”

“They… they had a lighter. They were burning bits of grass and trash.” She babbled, knowing it was a decent enough cover for most parents, but perhaps not hers. “I didn’t do it. It was an accident! They just don’t want to get in trouble.”

There was a time when her parents wouldn't hesitate to believe her, but this was far from the first unexplainable accident. Drinking glasses shattered, out of reach; bathwater boiled that moments ago had been tepid. Hermione’s cousin, Delilah, once stuck gum in her curls during church, and her own hair suddenly turned puke green. Samantha suggested it could’ve been triggered by the chemicals in her shampoo. This wasn’t even the first fire, but it was the first time another child had been burned.

“We understand it was an accident,” Nigel muttered, “but…”

“But why are you angry with me?”

“Oh, Hermione.” Her mother came close and crouched down. Her words lost some of their bite. “We’re just worried. You could’ve hurt yourself… Those boys could’ve hurt you.”

“We just need you to be more careful,” Her father supplied.

Hermione’s indignation flared. “Careful? I just wanted a friend.” She pushed farther away from both her parents. “How am I to get them without talking to anyone? Without going out to meet them? I didn’t do anything wrong! They’re the ones who -”

“Who what?”

“Who lit their own stupid hair on fire!”

“Love,” Nigel jumped in. “These things… they only happen when you’re upset. Just tell us what happened… before he set his hair on fire.”

She understood that they needed to know nothing too cruel was done to her, but she was just so embarrassed that these things kept happening. Hermione’s parents loved her so much, adoring and encouraging how inquisitive and precocious she innately was. But everybody else - other children, her relatives, teachers, even - found it insufferable.

It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t insipid, like some. She was only mean when people deserved it. She had never really hurt anyone… except for a few minor burns, starting today.

“They were playing with that stupid lighter, like I said.”

The elder Grangers sighed in tandem.

They were far from done discussing it, but they knew their daughter needed a night’s rest to cool down. She brushed and flossed her teeth, donned her nightie, and crawled into bed to pretend to sleep. A quarter of an hour later, she crept down the hall to eavesdrop, ducking into the darkened doorway of the guest bath.

“…not just a friend thing… it’s a Hermione thing.” She heard the cork of a wine bottle POP. “What’s that Stephen King novel? With little Drew Barrymore in the film?”

“Nigel, please!” Her mother choked down a sob. “Be serious for once in your life.”

“Sorry, hon…” The loveseat groaned as he sat. His voice fell an octave. “I’m trying to say there’s no easy fix to this. We can’t just magic away the problem by sending her to a new school.”

“I know, I know.” Her mother’s indignation sounded much like Hermione’s own. She seemed to only half-hear what her husband implied. “I’m sure some other kids in some other place could see how wonderful she is, and that things will get easier for her with time, but we can’t say for sure that’ll happen all at once if we send her off. What if we’re not around to protect her? What if it gets really, really bad?”

“Things are really bad here and now, Sam. The neighborhood kids are awful to her. Even their parents spread nasty gossip.” Her father - who she swore never got truly angry - was incensed. “The teachers don’t tell us anything. When they do it’s just worthless drivel, and I’m not sure I even want them to notice-”

“Nigel.”

They were quiet for a time. When he spoke again, her father had calmed down considerably, but his words were vaguely cold, “We’ll talk to Hermione in the morning, and let her decide what she wants most.”

 

---

 

Weeks later, Hermione lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, with a collage of brightly-colored brochures fanned out on the living room floor around her. As she combed through her horde, she marked in a green spiral notebook the pros and cons of each school vying to recruit her.

Her grades exceeded expectations for any and all admission standards, her record was spotless, and it would remain so for the time being as Travis’ family decided not to pursue the baseless accusation that she lit his hair afire. Thus, any school she chose would be lucky to have her. Her parents insisted she take as much time as needed to find the perfect one.

The schools that seemed farthest away from her current life felt like the ones with the most promise. She got offers from all across the UK; two in France as well, but she promptly eliminated both from the running. L'Académie des Filles de Madame Rousseau was an all-girls school. Blech! In Hermione’s experience, girls were even nastier than boys when they ran in packs and had nobody but each other for company. L’Académie de Beauxbâtons could have potential… if it had sent her any useful information. There were no course listings, notable alumni, or pictures - there wasn’t even an address. All it supplied was an invitation to interview at an unspecified location, one week from now at 2PM sharp. It came with a pendant of the school’s crest and a note that the shiny bauble was the ‘key to attending her appointment.’ She figured the school’s admission coordinator mistakenly left out other necessary documents for her letter while stuffing envelopes en masse. It was their loss, and they had such a silly name anyhow - beautiful sticks? Was it a school for aspiring supermodels?

AaachOO! Nigel was on his knees in the corner, his curly head bowed over a dusty case of cassette tapes. He buried his face in the sleeve of his jumper, frantic to avoid spraying his collection with spittle.

“Gesundheit!” Hermione chirped.

“Thanks, love.” After recovering, he sat back on his haunches and turned to his wife. “You’ve any idea where Jethro Tull is?”

Samantha sat primly on the loveseat, back straight, knees tucked beneath her. She kept her eyes glued to the tele, absentmindedly replying, “The shed, dear, left-corner shelf.” Like Hermione, she held an inordinately sharp memory; she could often recall the exact location in the house of any random object you were after, no matter how long ago she had seen or accounted for it. She’d remember the winner of the cricket game she was watching - and likely the score - for years to come.

“You can’t keep Jethro in the shed!” He sputtered.

She turned from the match to give him a sharp look. “It’s safely stored. Nobody’ll break into the shed to steal your -”

A musical knock, tappity tap-TAP, cut the air.

Nigel struggled to his feet and his knees gave a hearty pop. “Damn solicitors always come on Sundays,” he groaned. “I’ll cheerfully sneer at them till they go away.”

Yet, the woman at the door didn’t give him the chance. The moment it swung open, she waltzed right past him and into their home, carrying a colorful tote bag that looked ready to burst at the seams. She lifted both arms in greeting, spreading her fingers wide, “Huuu-llOOO, Granger family!” The tote fell to the ground, forgotten, and burst into a flurry of paper and tumbling projectiles. Hermione yelped and rolled away from the blastzone.

“Oh, bollocks! No matter how many times… ” She huffed. “I always forget, despite how heavy it is! I still don’t understand how you mugg- how you all don’t have huge, muscular arms, having to always carry all this without - anyways!” She waved her hands dismissively, bending to collect her spilled letters and books and knicknacks… and scrolls? What sorts of oddities did this stranger wish to peddle on them?

The woman herself was an oddity. Her clothes were mismatched and layered nonsensically. She wore ripped blue jeans, topped with a yellow pencil skirt. An Iron Maiden shirt - peculiar for a woman who appeared to be in her sixties - was partially hidden under a vivid red, faux-leather jacket, adorned with chains and studs. It was all topped with a pea green baseball cap, turned backwards. Her silver hair reached all the way down to her bottom. Although most of it flowed freely, odd strands throughout were braided and held with multi-colored ties - blue, red, yellow, and green.

She turned her bright eyes on Hermione, shell-shocked and splayed amidst the mess. “You must be Miss Granger! Aren’t you darling! Such a wild-looking little thing!” She took a gander about and gasped dramatically upon seeing the Beauxbâtons pendant forgotten near her feet. “Oh, ho, ho, ho! Those frogs have already come a’ croaking! We can’t have that, no, no, no!”

“EXCUSE me?” Hermione’s mother recovered from the shock and shot up. Her hair, always coiled tight in a neat bun, was coming loose and falling across her reddened face. “Who are you!? What gives you the right to just barge in?”

“Oh! So sorry! I should’ve introduced myself properly.” She had inelegantly shoved all but one letter and one scroll back into her bag, jumping to extend her free hand to Hermione’s mother, who simply stared at the offending appendage, mouth agape. The stranger plowed on ahead, unfazed, “I am Professor Charity Burbage, and I’ve come to invite young Hermione to continue her studies at the best school in all of Europe - perhaps the whole world - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

The silence held for a few moments until Nigel, still holding the front door ajar, was shaken from his stupor. “Hogwarts School of Whozitt, Whatsitt?”

“Oh! Sorry, sorry! I’m just dreadful, I know.” Professor Burbage cackled, popped the wax seal on the scroll, and unrolled it with a quick wink down toward Hermione. “Let’s establish what we are, shall we?”

She began to scan the yellowing parchment, “Hmmm, let’s see…” Nigel gently closed the door, and Samantha shot him a look that screamed, Why aren’t you throwing this loon out?

“Broken glass? No, no, too unsafe, and I’ve already made such a mess.” Burbage swivelled her head back and forth, “Any cups of water lying about? No? Nothing to boil, then.” Her eyebrows shot up at whatever she read next. “Oh, Miss Granger, you devious little tot! I can’t very well light anything afire inside your beautiful home! Ah, wait… Here we are! This one’ll do!” She tossed the scroll aside and then pulled a thin, knobby stick out the inner pocket of her jacket.

She pointed it at her temple, and her silver hair instantaneously dyed green. It was the same hue as her baseball cap. Hermione gasped, Nigel yelped as if bitten, and Samantha’s eyes widened.

The old woman waited for them to say something. Nothing forthwith, she sighed with relish. “Well, I suppose that one’s not too impressive. Something those muggle magicians - charlatins -,” she spat this last word, “could pull off with some misdirection and a few tricks of the light!” She grinned wide and waved her stick about. “How’s this?”

One-by-one, the brightly-colored brochures advertising rival schools lifted into the air, folded themselves into airplanes, and flew in wide circles above their heads.

Hermione’s mother - always one to roar and shout - released an uncharacteristic, high-pitched scream, lasting so long that she ran out of breath and collapsed to the couch near-faint. Her pale husband, limbs shaking, stumbled over to offer support.

The young witch for whom this whole visit concerned still had her gaze fixed upward, struck with wonder, following the flight of her magicked mail. “You’re like me,” she whispered.

“Yes, dear,” Professor Burbage replied, “I’m a witch, just like you.”

“A w- A what?” Samantha, though an alarming shade of purple, recovered enough breath to begin babbling. “A witch? What do you mean a witch? How did you do that? How did you know about the hair, and- and the fire!? Who are you?”

“I told you, dearie! I’m Professor Charity Bur-”

“We know your name!” This time it was Nigel who cut in, hardfaced but still shaking. “What do you want?”

Charity, sensing the tension at last, spoke more evenly, “I know this is a mighty shock, but I really don’t mean to frighten you.” She smoothed out the letter she’d been clutching. “First and foremost, I wish to deliver this.”

She extended it to Hermione, who reached out slowly, reverently. Before taking it fully in hand, she looked to her parents, who were rigid but not poised to stop her. Only then did she snatch it, rip it open, and read the first page aloud:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

While Hermione read, Burbage pulled an entire porcelain tea set out of her bag, miraculously unharmed and already hot, without showing signs of having spilled at all in transit. She poured four cups, but the three for the Grangers went untouched. “As I said, Hermione is a talented, but untrained, young witch.” She sipped her tea. “The word witch perhaps never came to mind, but surely you know she’s special. You’re not nearly as stupefied or quite as fearful as those families who remain in the dark as to their children's natures. ‘The hair,’ you said, ‘the fire!’ You knew what I was on about.”

Nigel considered this a moment, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he found his next words. “Of course, we know Hermione is special, but…” He threw a fast, uneasy glance toward his daughter. “The things that have happened - the things that make her special… they’re often quite troubling, quite… destructive.” He tried to catch his wife’s eye, but they were fixed downward. “Is that something we wish to encourage?”

“That is precisely why she would benefit from her time at Hogwarts. As of now, her magic flows out uncontrollably, chaotically, spawned from her heaviest emotions. We would teach her to conquer it.” She clapped her hands together at the word conquer. “She’ll train to use magic to create rather than destroy. Instead of causing harm, she could improve on or even save lives as a powerful, respected, and magnificent witch.”

Hermione, vibrating from excitement, crawled over to her parents on the couch. She didn’t need to say anything. Her father saw the fire in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the nervous furrow at her brow, like she’d encountered a challenging math equation and was desperate to prove she could solve it, or like her teacher had scoffed, This book is a bit higher than your reading level, don’t you think? He admired his daughter’s pertinacity, but it could be… unnerving.

“What exactly will she learn at this school?”

“Oh, a little of everything, of course!” She began counting off on her fingers. “Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, Potions, Defense Against-”

“Charms, Potions…?” Nigel seemed to spiral back into bewilderment.

“Yes, Potions! Think of it like muggle chemically!”

“Muggle chem… Chemistry?

“Ah, yes, muggle chemistry!” She snapped her finger and chuckled. “So close! But yes, you add a little of this, a little of that, apply heat, stir it around, and wala! A new concoction entirely.”

“But what d’you mean, muggle? You’ve said it before.”

“ You, of course! Muggle means non-magical folk. It may sound a little silly, but it’s not meant to be a mean word.”

“Okay, then. So…” Nigel looked more uncertain as the conversation progressed. “Do they learn their maths, biology, languages? The ordinary… muggle subjects?”

“Well… no,” Burbage admitted. “Most children in our world learn whatever non-magical subjects are deemed necessary in the years before they acquire their wands and ship off to Hogwarts. From what I know of muggles - and I do know more than the average witch, thankyouverymuch - they tend to go much deeper than we do. Muggle scholars and their ghastly technologies aim to replicate magic. Why learn chemistry if the job can be done by a simple potion? By a spell? Why learn to build one of those aeroplanes if you can just ride a broom or enchant a portkey?”

“Sorry, ride a broom!? You mean-”

“I’ll learn all that normal stuff during the summer, I promise!” Hermione cut in, wrestling their attention back and gripping her father’s knees in desperation. She whipped back around to face Burbage. “A wand? Is that… is that the stick you’ve got?”

“Yes, dearie!” Her bubbly demeanor was reinvigorated by the child’s interest. She proudly held her wand aloft for inspection. “Thirteen inches, stiff and knobby, fashioned of ivy with unicorn hair at its core. You’ll get your own, though it will be uniquely yours! No two wands are the same, in fact-”

“This is a trick.”

Samantha had been silent for too long. Her face was bloodless, clenched fists white-knuckled and trembling, eyes still glued to the floor.

It dawned on Hermione that her mother had never truly acknowledged that she was - as the professor put it - special. She didn’t ignore what occurred right before her eyes, but she never said anything outright and grew quickly flustered whenever her father went any further than his vague jokes. She made excuses, crafted theories, and tended to focus on the causes of Hermione's outbursts, not the results.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it, let alone why, but it’s just a nasty trick.”

“Now, hon-” Nigel reached for her, but she leapt up and away, knocking into the coffee table and spilling their tea.

“Why are you entertaining this- this nonsense!? Wands? Brooms? Magic?” She snarled. “This is absurd.”

Burbage disappeared the mess with a wave of her wand. Nigel and Hermione startled at this new spell, but Samantha didn’t even spare it a glance, instead whirling on the caster in a fury.

“You! You know that boy’s family, don’t you?”

“Dearie, I’m afraid I don’t-”

“Don’t ‘dearie’ me! That’s how you know of the fire, right? Now you're here to trick- to torment my daughter, just like everybody else!” She stomped forward, stopping when their faces were only inches apart. “You know what? That brat probably deserved worse than some singed hair.”

Burbage paled. Nigel shuddered, “Sam, please-”

“Get OUT!” She grabbed the old woman’s upper arm, ready to drag her away. “Get out of my-”

BANG! A jet of red light erupted from the wand, and Samantha Granger hit the floor, face-first, with a dull thump.

“SAM!” Nigel howled, “What the BLOODY-”

BANG! Another blast took him in the chest. He flew backward onto the couch. With eyes closed, mouth open, and head inclined back, he looked as if he had knackered out while watching the tele.

“Oh, shite!” Burbage cried. She dropped to her knees to haul Samantha’s prone form right-side up. “I’m so- I’m so, so sorry! I just- I don’t know- I’m SORRY!”

Hermione was limb-locked, wide-eyed, and barely breathing. She noticed her mother’s nose was bent, bleeding from the nostrils and a rip at its bridge. When Burbage pointed her accursed stick at her mother’s broken face, she gasped and shot forward, albeit having no clue what she could do to stop another assault.

“Episkey!” With a sickening crack, Samantha’s nose realigned and knit itself back together. Hermione froze, hovering above her mother and the witch. After steeping in quietude a few seconds more, the professor rasped, “Be a dear and find us a tissue?”

Hermione just stared at her. She wanted to throttle the crazy old woman. To claw her eyes out. To shove the letter, still crumpled in her fist, down her throat. But more than all else, she needed to know her parents were okay. “What- what did you-”

“They are fine, dear. I promise. They’re just stunned.” She hid her face in her hands. “I’m so dreadfully sorry. And your mother’s poor, pretty nose - ugh! I fixed it, but there’s still some blood. So, about those tissues-” She barked out a nervous laugh and slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh, silly me! It’s the stress, I suppose.” She lifted her wand once more, “scourgify!” and the blood vanished. Then Hermione’s mother floated gently off the floor and over to the couch. She was lowered onto the seat beside her insensate husband.

“Now that it’s just the two of us, ” The professor lifted herself up and smoothed out her rumbled skirt. “We can have a proper chat.”

“A proper chat?” Hermione squalled. “You just KO’ed my parents!”

“I didn’t mean to do something so drastic,” the old woman crooned, “but I don’t like being man-handled, you see. I’m a sensitive sort of witch.” She rubbed her arm and scrunched her nose as if to prove a point. “They will be just fine, as I said, but I do apologize for making things so much harder for you. I’m afraid I should’ve noticed your mother’s agitation sooner…”

“Harder? Make what harder?”

The professor lifted her brow and looked at the child as if she had said something quite dense, “Attending Hogwarts, of course!”

Hermione turned from the witch to regard her parents. Then, she lifted her eyes to consider the paper airplanes, still circling overhead. “Oh.”

“Come, dear, let’s have a sitdown,” Burbage turned from the couch and its comatose cohabitants, “...in the kitchen, perhaps?”

At the table, she summoned her tea set once more and poured them each a fresh cup. Hermione failed to keep her hands from trembling as she took a sip.

“You looked so awfully excited back there.” The professor fixed her with an expectant look. “Tell me - do you still wish to attend Hogwarts?”

Hermione turned inward. She’d spent the previous weeks in a state of oscillation, whipping at terrible speed between hope and trepidation, there and back again. Fleeing far away to a new school could bring about a wondrous change, further ruin, or simply the mundanity to which she was accustomed. Maybe, maybe, she could turn her life around at one of those ordinary schools… but even so, no matter how much better things got, it would never be quite enough. Her father had said, “it’s not just a friend thing… it’s a Hermione thing,” and he was absolutely right. Her entire life felt driven by this notion, this premonition, that she was destined to be more. Her prodigious desire to learn and challenge herself was born of that belief. She’d spent her whole life holding her breath, waiting.

And here it was.

“Yes.”

Professor Burbage sighed in relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” She slapped her chest theatrically. “I feared I scared you off! You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes,” Hermione straightened. “I’ll do whatever I must to be a witch.”

“Alright, yes, good! Then-” The old woman grew anxious, dropping her gaze and wringing her hands. “As I see it, you have two… options.”

Hermione leaned forward as the professor continued, “First, the deadline to accept your admission is July 31st, so you’ve got two weeks to try your hardest to convince your parents to let you,” she lowered her voice, “...but this is not ideal. Your parents are… a bit stressed - thanks to how I fumbled it - so I’m afraid they may react badly upon waking… If that were to happen, you and I would suffer the consequences.”

“Badly, how?”

“Badly, in the sense that…” Burbage collected her thoughts. “It is of utmost importance that the existence of magic remains a secret. If your parents have a large reaction, it may threaten that secrecy.”

“And the… consequences?”

“Nothing too drastic, dear. I’ll be thoroughly chewed out, no doubt.” Hermione thought the heedless old witch perhaps deserved that. “But there’s a chance it could jeopardize your admission to Hogwarts.” Well, nevermind then, she conceded.

“But I cannot recommend that someone such as you stay in the muggle world. Magic, unchecked, can be dangerous - to others and yourself. Your accidental magic has already led to the injury of a muggle child. You pose a risk.” The professor shrugged. "Even if your parents keep you from our world, wizarding authorities may need to intervene in the future. This all must be contained, tightly controlled, for the well-being of witches and wizards everywhere.”

“Okay, I- I understand.” Hermione fidgeted in her chair, perturbed that the explanation sounded deliberately vague. “So… option two?”

Burbage flashed a wry smile that failed to reach her eyes.

They later found themselves back in the Granger’s living room. The old witch approached the slumbering couple and shot one last questioning look toward Hermione. The child showed no signs of wavering. She lifted her chin and nodded.

The professor used her thumb to tentatively lift the lid of one of Samantha’s shuttered and sightless eyes, pointed her wand so that the tip was mere centimeters from blinding her, and whispered, “Obliviate!”

Notes:

My very first fanfic! So, OF COURSE I chose an epic-length canon rewrite. I exclusively read long works, so I just couldn't bring myself to feel motivated to write anything short. Besides, the whole point of this venture is for me to write more consistently, for a long time. So yeah! Join me on this new, exciting, and trepidatious first project!

Needless to say, being anything but a lurker here is brand new for me, so bear with any formatting weirdness!

I aim to spice up our Mondays with weekly updates. Book I will be 10 chapters!

Please let me know what you think! & you can find me on Tumblr, @butterscvm

Chapter 2: Hogwarts: A History

Charity Burbage reappeared on the Granger’s doorstep in mid-August, wearing - to Hermione’s great surprise, relief, and annoyance - unremarkable clothes. Her eclectic get-up was replaced with a knit coral jumper and a drab grey skirt. Her hair was still braided oddly, but she ditched the colorful hair ties and replaced the ballcap with a woven hat wreathed in fake flowers. Samantha was the one to greet her this time, and when the professor extended a hand to reintroduce herself, she shook it without hesitation. 

“How wonderful it is to meet you, Mrs. & Mr. Granger!” The silver witch crooned, “And there’s the studious little tyke herself! We are just so excited to have your daughter join our esteemed school. I pledge that you’ve made the right choice!”

Hermione’s mother betrayed no signs of recognizing her, nor of having been given no choice in her daughter’s future. Nigel hovered behind her with a hand atop Hermione’s head, smiling stupidly.

It was both frightening and fascinating to watch them forget it all - the invitation to Hogwarts, the revelation that she be a witch, and the professor’s attack, all obliviated from their minds, quite literally. They didn’t seem to even recall the fire or the fears impelling them to pack Hermione off to boarding school in the first place. 

Their behavior was almost ordinary, until her upcoming school year got brought up and their eyes glazed, their jaws slackened, and they appeared to think only half-thoughts and spoke in only half-sentences. They’d recover at once upon stumbling into a new topic. Even so, her mother stuttered at other moments, growing rather absent-minded and rubbing her temples. Just the other evening, Hermione caught her pinching the bridge of nose, mumbling and crossing her eyes in consternation.  

“Well, off we go!” Burbage shrilled. “Best to beat traffic!” 

“Quite! You can’t be late to your… orientation,” Nigel agreed. “Have fun, love.” 

It was tremendously disappointing to discover that the witch had driven there in a boring, old sedan. Hermione couldn’t help but quip, “What, no broom?”  

“No, dearie! No magic carpet either,” the old bat cackled. “I’m not one for flying, and I’d rather your breakfast not make an unwelcome reappearance during your first foray into the wizarding world.”

Burbage had no keys; she used her wand to start the ignition. “And honestly, I might as well quit my job right now if I couldn’t drive a muggle automobile.” The car accelerated and the steering wheel turned all on its own. The pseudo-driver didn’t even turn away from her young charge to check if they were headed in the right direction.

Hermione had enough questions to last a cross-continental road trip, but the first to leap forth was, “If you know how to dress properly, why’d you wear those weird clothes last time?”

“Those are all muggle garments gifted by my students! I suppose they’re good luck charms,” she smiled wistfully. “Visiting new muggleborn families can be daunting, so wearing them brings me comfort. Besides, if I’m going to inform somebody that their child is a witch or wizard and that I wish to carry them off to some magical castle in the Scottish Highlands, the last thing to worry them will be my Iron Maiden shirt!” 

“Muggleborn?” 

“Yes, like you! Witches and wizards from muggle families. You’re a rarity, my dear; we only get a few every year. Most of your classmates will instead come from magical families.” 

“Oh.” Hermione didn’t know how to feel about being different - a rarity, even - among other witches and wizards. “If magic is genetic, how’d I turn up a witch?”

“It’s a mystery!” The professor began gesticulating wildly, as if delivering her lecture to a room of captivated students. “Isn’t that exciting? Conversely, some children born of long wizarding bloodlines fail to develop magic at all. We can’t say for certain that magic is genetic. At the very least, there are gaps in our knowledge. It’s one of the many reasons I find muggles and muggleborns so fascinating!” 

“Is that why you’re the one to visit?” Hermione couldn’t help but think the task was better suited for someone less eccentric. 

“Yes! Smart as a whip, you are! Headmaster Dumbledore - a great wizard, you’ll see - thought it most fitting that the Muggle Studies professor captain that ship. Honestly, I would’ve volunteered had he not suggested it!” 

“That’s what you teach? Muggle Studies?” Hermione was aghast. “You mean students waste their time learning-” 

“It’s not a waste, Miss Granger!” Burbage’s voice cracked like a whip. “It may be hard for you to see - being immersed in all things muggle from birth - but most witches and wizards would benefit from expressing a bit more interest in our non-magical brethren! We share this world. Separation and secrecy may be in our best interest, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing worth learning. Even those posh pureblooded blokes who think they’re so cultured haven’t ingested any art or music past the 17th century! What of Keats? What of The Cure!?” 

The curious young witch, poised to ask what she meant by pureblooded, was cut-off as the car screeched to a sudden stop. “Here we are!”

Hermione looked up, expecting to perhaps be met by a magnificent, glowing portal. “Is this a joke? This grubby, old pub ?” 

“You’ll quickly learn not to trust your senses, dear! Not everything in our world - especially in such close proximity to your world - is what it appears to be.” She blew out an exasperated sigh, “But yes, this grubby, old pub is the doorway to magical London. Come along, now! Let’s not waste any more time with your tiresome incredulity.”   

Hermione scoffed, scrambled out of the car, and scampered after the old witch.

She would bet the inside of the place was just as dirty as the outside, but the lights were dim enough to leave her feeling dubious about the exact degree of filth. A few patrons wearing floor-length robes and peculiar pointed hats occupied the bar, guffawing noisely, and one pair of hooded figures had their heads bowed close, murmuring in one of the farthest, darkest corner booths. 

The only soul to raise his bald head at their approach was the bartender, grinning toothlessly as he fruitlessly polished a mug with a dirty-looking rag. “Charity, welcome! And is that a new little witch you’ve got in tow?” 

“Indeed! Meet Miss Hermione Granger.” Burbage fanned out her arms, gesturing to the girl in question as if she were showing off ‘a brand new car!’ on The Price is Right. “She’s here to visit Diagon Alley for the very first time. Hermione, meet Tom, the proprietor of this here Leaky Cauldron!” At this exclamation, a greying wizard at the end of the bar pivoted and took in Hermione’s clothes - a blouse, jeans, and trainers - with a quick, menacing appraisal. He snorted before turning back. 

“Hullo,” She squeaked, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Well met, Miss Hermione,” Tom returned. “Hope to see more of you here in the Leaky - once you’re old enough to imbibe, that is! New customers are always welcome.” He seemed to direct these last words toward the other patrons. 

She was promptly ushered out a backdoor and into a walled-in courtyard, housing nothing but scraggly weeds and an over-flowing trash bin. “Ready, dear?” Hermione did nothing but raise an eyebrow and scowl.

 The professor lifted her wand and tapped the wall three times. With a great shudder, the bricks began shuffling and turning in on themselves until they folded open to create an archway. Beyond, the world bloomed into vivid color and a cacophony of squealing children, hooting owls, and ministrating vendors: “ Mummy, you said I could get a new owl if I passed Potions! Diogenes can hardly carry-,” “We’ve got Manticore Spleen, twelve sickles an ounce! It’s a steal, folks! Get some before-,” and “Why, have you seen Quirinis since his sabbatical? The man was positively quaking-” 

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Miss Granger! A one-stop-shop for most of your wizarding needs - certainly for your school shopping.” Burbage swung in a circle, arms open wide. Hermione allowed herself an instant to absorb it all but swiftly shook away her shock and awe. She was a young woman on a mission, afterall, and she now belonged to this strange, new world. She would never again be caught wide-eyed, slack-jawed, and stumbling like her poor, bewildered, and bewitched muggle parents. 

“Do I need a special kind of money? I brought a little-”

“No need! Not this time around,” She pulled a pouch from her pocket. Heavy coins jingle-jangled within. “We’ve a fund to take care of muggleborn students on their first trip here, since it’s all so new to you! Sellers may try to take advantage and upcharge you if you start mixing up your sickles and knuts! Now, you’ve got that list?” 

“Obviously,” She pulled the back page of her Hogwarts letter from her pocket and passed it off to the professor. “I memorized it.” 

“Well, aren’t you clever,” Burbage winked before turning her attention to the parchment. “A wand first, then? Ollivander’s is right up here!”

“Actually…” Hermione pulled up short. “Might we pick up my uniform first?” 

The old witch looked puzzled for just a split second, but then a flash of understanding rippled across her features. She wiped it all away, replaced with her signature overenthusiastic grin. “Sure. That’ll be just around this corner!” 

The sign above the door read, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. A squat woman with elegantly coiffed grey hair beamed at them from behind the front counter. “Good morning! Always a pleasure to see you, Charity.” She turned to the unfamiliar young witch, “...And?”

“Granger,” she returned. “Hermione Granger.”

“Wonderful to meet you, Miss Granger!” The shopkeep skipped over and extended a hand. “Prudent to send your measurements ahead. I’ve already got your order wrapped up here! And oh my, you’ve got such lovely curls.” 

“Thanks.” Hermione was glad to encounter someone friendly, but she also doubted this woman’s honesty if she was to compliment her obviously horrid hair. “May I use your dressing room?”

“I promise they’ll fit, darling. Unless you’ve glutted yourself since!”

“Er… I-” 

“I believe she wants to get a feel for them. Break them in before the term starts,” Burbage interrupted. “Am I right, dear?”

Hermione nodded, appreciating the batty, old witch for once. She supposed escorting enough young muggleborns had given her some insight into their insecurities upon venturing forth into the wizarding public.

The dressing room appeared ordinary at a glance - that is until the mirror sang out, “They sell a marvelous hair potion to tame that frizz just around the corner, darling!” Hermione was offended enough to fight off surprise. See, it’s horrid!

She unwrapped her new clothing, noting that she’d been given multiple robes - some lighter and more breathable, others thicker and clearly designed to keep warm. There were a few crisp, white button-up blouses and pleated, knee-length grey skirts. It was indiscernible from a typical school uniform, excluding the robes. No tie, she noticed. Perhaps I bring my own? She donned a summer robe and wrapped it up tight until it hugged her frame, ensuring it completely obscured her outfit beneath. 

I look a proper witch now, she thought. 

After taking another minute to school her features, upturn her nose, and smirk with confidence, she exited the dressing room and observed carefully as the professor counted out silver coins - sickles, she noted - to pay. 

Next they made their way to a narrow, worn storefront, tucked away at the end of the lane. Faded gold letters over the door read, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

“382 B.C.!?” She had once read that the oldest operating business in the U.K. was established in the 800s A.D.

The professor just snickered at her, “Come along, dearie!”

The shop was dim, cluttered, and - AaaaCHOOO! - quite dusty. Little rectangular boxes lined the wall to each side, stacked all the way up to brush the ceiling. A solitary chair stood sentry at the back, occupied by a pale, spindly old wizard. He rose to greet them, and at a closer glance, she noticed that his pale blue eyes were a bit rheumy but brimming with soft intelligence. 

“Hermione, meet Garrick Ollivander, the greatest wandmaker of our world.” 

“Oh my…” The wizened shopkeeper chuckled. “I believe some would disagree.” 

“Nobody worth listening to!” Burbage squawked. 

“Charity, you’re always so… charitable. I still remember when you came for your own wand in… ‘38? ‘39?” Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. How ancient was this wizard? Certainly past the age for retirement. “How could I forget? Ivy wands so rarely leave my shop… You must forgive this old man for his reminiscence. Let us return to the present and find the one belonging to Miss Hermione.” He cantered down the shop’s length, plucking random boxes here and there. She feared the entire structure would topple down upon them like a lost game of Jenga. 

Though his hands appeared somewhat arthritic, he pried the first box open smoothly and with ease. “11 ½ inches, walnut, with a phoenix-feather core.” He held the wand aloft for Hermione’s inspection. It was a darker-colored wood compared to the professor’s wand, straight rather than knobby. “Go ahead, child. Give it a whirl.”

As soon as she took it in hand, Ollivander’s white tufts of hair caught fire. Hermione gasped, Burbage gave a dismayed cry, but the old man simply smiled, took the wand back, and doused the flames calmly with a flick of his wrist. “Ah, I needed a trim. Thank you, my dear, but I do not think this is the one.” He repackaged and put it aside. His hair still emitted wisps of smoke, and the smell of it made her feel ill. 

“12 inches, a flexible maple-build, with unicorn hair.” He passed the next along, but before anything could happen, snatched it back out of her hands. “No, no.” 

“But I didn’t get to try it,” She whined. Yet, she got the sense that he was right. No, that’s not mine, she thought, absurdly. 

The third wand was pale wood with exquisite carvings curling from handle to tip. “10 ¾ inches, vinewood, with a core housing the heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail.” 

“A Hungarian…?”  

“A dragon, dear,” Burbage supplied. “A rather vicious one!”

Ollivander mistook her shock and quickly assured, “Ethically sourced, of course.” 

Hermione had no idea how to even ask how one ethically sources the internal organs of a fire-breathing beast - particularly one she considered mythical only moments ago. Instead, she accepted the proffered wand. A subtle jolt of warmth spread from the tips of her fingers, all the way up her arm, and settled with a pleasant, reassuring weight deep in her chest.  

“A flick or a wave, if you will.” The old wizard beamed, but they both knew  without any further tests that this was her wand.

She flicked it, and a bright green serpent burst forth to hit the floor with a thud. It hissed in irritation and made its escape by slithering through a gap in the wall of stacked packages. Burbage paled and Ollivander’s mouth twisted pensively, but Hermione just grinned. “It’s perfect! Thank you, sir!” She couldn’t help but bounce on the tips of her toes. “Sorry about the snake though. Do you need me to-”

“Oh, no.” He waved a hand dismissively, still lost in thought. “It should disappear not long after you leave.”     

Professor Burbage promptly made it known that performing magic was prohibited outside of school until she was of age, but Hermione still insisted on keeping her wand proudly in-hand as they continued their shopping. 

The old witch teased, “What do you suggest we buy next, Miss Cinders and Serpents?” Hermione was pleased with this new moniker.  

“The books, of course.” 

Visiting a normal bookshop was a wondrous adventure for her on any other day, but a magical bookshop? She could think of little else leading up to this trip. Were wizarding books like regular books? Could they read the text aloud, like a bewitched audiobook? Could she simply tap the cover and absorb its contents in an instant? Did the store organize using the Dewey Decimal system? That’s not to even consider the topics to explore: books brimming with spells, historical tomes of a past she never knew existed, encyclopedias classifying all the beasts she once thought mythical, like unicorns, phoenixes, and Hungarian Horntails! She was positively foaming at the mouth with excitement when they entered Flourish & Blotts, especially upon seeing gold-embossed spellbooks the size of paving stones decorating the front window. 

She’d spent the entire day in a whiplash between wonder and disappointment; this unfortunately fell upon the latter sentiment. Professor Burbage made a beeline for the front, and the young shopkeep simply handed her a stack of books, bound together tightly with twine. “Here’s the whole lot for first-years!” Hermione noticed there were many such stacks lined up behind the counter, all waiting for students who likely visited en masse throughout August for their assigned schoolbooks. 

“Alright, dearie! A cauldron next, I suppose? Or we could…” Burbage finally caught her crestfallen expression. “Or… since some of these items aren’t too riveting - glass vials, scales, pah! - I could leave you here to peruse as I nab them alone?” 

“Yes!” Hermione perked right up, and her affection for the old witch - no matter how irksome she could be - grew just a bit more. “I’d love that very much, professor!”

She watched Burbage shuffle out, their prior purchases floating in tow, before pivoting back toward the maze of bookshelves. They climbed all the way up to brush the ceiling - which was much higher than her view of the building from outside suggested even possible - thus required a system of wheeled ladders to reach titles at the top. 

Scattered signs floated between the shelves, guiding customers to topics of interest. She did not see familiar categories such as Fiction, Biographies, Children, etc. She instead saw Potent Potions & Promising Potioneering Practices; Curious Charms & Chastising Curses; Books on Beasts (Beware, Some Bite); and Muggles, Muggledom, & Other Mundanities. The proprietors seemed more concerned with having alliterative flair than actually organizing the texts in a sensical fashion. 

Her eye caught the sign, Schools, Sects, and Societies (Secret or Otherwise), which felt a worthy starting point. Her introduction to the wizarding world would be through Hogwarts, after all - why not prepare accordingly? She had to mount a ladder and ascend alarmingly high to reach the section on wizarding schools. On the way up, she passed titles such as, Defense of the Consortium of Goblinary Finance & Red-Nosed Wizard Investors; La Fraternité Hippogriffe & Its Contributions; The Alliance & Its Associated Acolytes; and Rise & Fall of the Death Eaters: Thirteen Years of Terror. 

Shakily stepping up another rung, her line of sight leveled perfectly to fall on Hogwarts: A History by Bathilda Bagshot. 

Thank heavens, she thought. No more climbing, please! She secured a copy under her arm, allowing herself a minute to catch her breath and ready for a steady descent. She wondered if there was a spell to summon the books she wanted without having to casually risk her neck, meanwhile letting her eyes wander down the titles naming other wizarding schools: Durmstrang, Castelobruxo, Beauxbâtons, Ilver-

Beauxbâtons!? 

Hermione was not thinking clearly as she lunged for L’Histoire de L’Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons. Her error became evident; she could either lose her hold on Hogwarts: A History, letting it fall, or , she could let herself plummet to uncertain death - but certain agony - along with the blasted book. It was an easy choice. 

The tome careened downward, pages fluttering. In her panic and effort to hug tighter to the ladder, she smacked rather than grabbed the Beauxbâtons text. The shelf had no back panel separating itself from the row of books behind it. It tumbled through a gap and nearly hit another peruser who just so happened to be on another ladder on the opposite side. 

“Excuse me! Watch what you’re doing, will you?” 

A hand emerged through the gap to grab the offending book, pulling it toward themselves. Hermione dipped her head to peer through the opening and was met with a single grey eye. It was a very peculiar eye - with irises so pale they blended near imperceptibly into the white. She thought a wraith may be staring back at her. 

“Sorry!” 

“Right.” The eye narrowed as its beholder scoffed. “Stay there.” It disappeared. 

She figured that meant, Stay in that aisle so I can come find and yell at you; not, Stay on that rickety deathtrap 20ft in the air because you deserve a punishment for narrowly knocking me off my own ladder! Thus, she started her slow climb down. 

He was somehow already waiting for her at the bottom. From the view above, she first spotted his blonde hair, so light as to nearly be white, bled of all color just like the rest of him. A wraith, indeed.  

As soon as her feet hit the floor, she resisted the urge to drop to her hands and knees in relief. Instead, she coolly met the boy’s gaze and intoned, “Sorry for nearly killing you.” Giving him no chance to reply, she shot out a hand and continued, “I’m Hermione Granger.” 

She guessed he was near her age, as he was only a little taller. His eyes were even more peculiar in context of the rest of his face. Their natural shape lent a sly slant as if they were permanently narrowed in suspicion. He had a long nose and sharp jaw, giving the whole of him a sense of pointiness. She could say his appearance was somewhat rat-like, weasel-esque, or ferret-y, but such sentiments seemed much meaner than she meant them. He wasn’t bad looking - just odd. Besides, her own over-large front-teeth had elicited many rodent-based insults over the years, and she had no wish to inflict that on anybody else. 

“Oh, er… Malfoy.” He wrapped her hand in his own. The skin of it was so fair and paperthin she could trace the veins snaking up his wrist. “Draco Malfoy.” 

“That’s a strange name,” she blurted out. It was quite menacing for an adolescent. She couldn’t imagine looking down at a pale, plump little baby and thinking, Ah yes, this wee thing invokes a dragon, don’t you think? He’s positively draconian! Then again, he looked more like a tiny man than a child. With a stiff collar, prim and pressed robes, hair slicked back, and - was that cologne?     

“Wha-,” he sputtered. “Hermione is a strange name.” 

“It’s from a play by Shake-”

“Yes, yes. I know where it’s from. It was strange in The Winter’s Tale too.” He flashed a crooked grin, “And you did not nearly kill me. I could’ve caught it. I’m an excellent seeker.” She had no idea what that meant, but he said it smugly, so she figured it was some sort of hobby or sport. “Regardless, the whole store is packed with cushioning charms. If either of us had fallen, we’d be fine.” 

He gestured behind her, where she found Hogwarts: A History floating and bobbing a foot off the ground, unharmed. “Oh, thank goodness! I was loath to damage any books on my first visit - or ever, really.” 

She bent to pick it up and on rising, found him holding out the Beauxbâtons text . “Here, I’m returning the weapon with which you thought to kill me… You said it’s your first time here?” He sounded suddenly uncertain. 

“Yes.” Eager to deflect, she pushed ever onward, turning up her nose and adopting a haughty tone, “Do you know L’Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons? It’s a magical school in France. I almost went there, but I chose Hogwarts in the end. ” 

“Of course I know Beauxbatons,” he scoffed. His uncertainty vanished, upended by a smirk. “I almost went to Durmstrang, but it looks like we’ll be together at Hogwarts after all. So, you’re not from around here?”

“I suppose you could say that,” she admitted.

“I was wondering why I’ve never seen you before,” he shrugged. “Thought the name Granger sounded familiar. Anyway - you’re using the ladder wrong, you know?” 

“Using it wrong? It’s a ladder. You climb it.”

“If you want a bit of exercise, sure.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Just name the book, author, or topic, and it’ll take you up.” 

“Oh,” she mumbled. “I didn’t… I didn’t think it was one of the ones that did that.” 

“A bit rudimentary, but it’s sort of fun to take a ride.” He looked up at the tall shelves fondly. “Of course, in my library, you can summon books at the front without having to wander the stacks at all.”

“Wait… your library? You have a library? Like… in your house?” He could have said he owned a private island or multimillion dollar corporation and it wouldn’t evoke the same level of awe and envy Hermione felt right then. “That’s amazing.”

 His self-satisfied smirk couldn’t have been more smug. His ordinarily bloodless cheeks were flushed pink. “It has a much better selection than this place; it even rivals the library at Hogwarts - especially where certain topics are concerned.”

“If it’s so much better, what are you doing here?”

“New quidditch publication.” He held up a thin book. The cover showed a young woman riding a broom - actually riding a broom - as in, the picture was moving. Her ponytail whipped violently in the intense winds of a thunderstorm. A brown, leather ball was tucked tightly under her arm. “Oh, neat,” was all Hermione thought to say. 

“Figured I’d grab it while Mother finishes her errands, but I really came for this.” He fished around inside his robes and pulled out a wand with great relish. It was about the same length as hers, with a distinct onyx-colored handle that faded into the soft brown of un-dyed wood as it reached the tip.  

“Oh!” She dug her own wand out of her pocket. “Me too!” 

“Mine’s Hawthorn, with…” He scrunched up his nose. “Promise not to laugh?” 

“Never,” she assured him.

“...with unicorn hair.” Hermione hadn't a clue what could be funny about that. Perhaps unicorns were too girlish ? They were only confirmed real for her as of today, after all; for all she knew, they could be blood-thirsty, terrifying beasts who delighted in impaling their victims. “Mother says I shouldn’t fret though. They’re meant to be very faithful wands. Consistent. Sounds a bit boring, to me. What about yours?”

“The heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail!” She smiled wildly, eager to impress this pale and posh boy who was talking to her as if she were already a friend.    

“Wicked!” He wished to take a closer look, so they traded. She immediately got the sense of what he meant by the wand being faithful; it seemed unhappy to have left his hands, and she guessed that if she were to try a spell, it may misfire, snapping back at her rebelliously. “What magic did you produce in Ollivander’s shop? Mine sprayed water and nearly doused Mother,” he sniggered. 

“I, uh… lit his hair on fire? With the first wand, that is.”

Draco just stared at her for a few moments. Then, he doubled over with laughter - a joyful, kindred sort of laughter, devoid of the mockery to which she was accustomed. “What… what-,” he struggled to form words between giggles. “What did he say? Did he scream?”

“No! He said that it wasn’t the right one,” she tittered, “and that he was due a haircut anyways.” The boy was wheezing at that point, looking near-faint. She neglected to tell him this was not the first time she magicked someone’s hair aflame. “With my wand, I conjured a snake, which was terrific… Although, he did look startled at that, now that I think about it…” 

 “I bet that means you’re meant for Slytherin, like me.” His laughter finally dried up and left him suddenly serious. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that old fool were biased. That’s why he clammed up.”

“Biased?” She shook her head, deciding to backtrack a bit, “Better yet, what’s Slytherin?”

“Wow, I guess you really are new. Slytherin is just the greatest house in all of Hogwarts; don’t let anyone tell you differently! Many of the most powerful wizards in history hailed from there, including Merlin! Bagshot will surely talk about it,” he gestured to Hogwarts: A History, “but I hear she’s close to Dumbledore, so keep an open mind in case she’s a Gryffindor-loyalist, bleh!”

“If it’s so great, why the bias? Why the… loyalties?” She was still confused. House? What house? Gryffindor? Were there other houses? There was just too much she didn’t know about her new school. She hugged Hogwarts: A History tighter to her chest, the book on Beauxbâtons all but forgotten. She needed it - not just to flip through idly while perusing the shop, but to take home and devour front-to-back, more than once perhaps! To take notes, even! 

“Slytherin values cunning and ambition, which apparently spooks those with nobler aims,” he jeered, wiggling his fingers derisively. “Too many of us have a fondness and proclivity for the Dark Arts - some would say," he added casually, inspecting his nails.

“And what about you?” 

“Hm?”

“Do you have a fondness and proclivity for the Dark Arts?” 

He grinned, malignant and playful, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

She wanted to ask what he meant by the Dark Arts - like, mean magic? Spells meant to hurt people? - but something at the front snagged his eye. She turned to see an older, aristocratic witch with golden hair and a familiar pinched face, smiling warmly and waving from just outside the shop’s display window. “Mother’s here.” He sounded mildly disappointed. “Accompany me to the counter?”

“Er… one moment.” Hermione turned back to the dreadful ladder, reattached herself reluctantly, and mumbled, “Magical schools?” The rungs shot upward of their own accord, catapulting her 20ft in a matter of seconds. She gratefully suppressed a scream. The Beauxbâtons text returned to its home on the shelf, and she grudgingly ventured, “The ground?,” before plummeting - safely? - back down. She wondered how much velocity was needed to make a cushioning charm irrelevant.

As she and Draco drifted to the front, she conspired to obtain Hogwarts: A History. Professor Burbage failed to mention if the muggleborn fund could go toward items off the required supply list. She did say they could go for ice cream after their shopping was done; maybe she’d let Hermione forgo a cone in exchange for the book? 

“Give that here.” Draco held out a hand, palm-upward.

“What?” 

“The book. I’ll buy it for you, as thanks for keeping me entertained while Mother dallied.” He gestured impatiently, “Well?” 

She handed it over, and he paid with a fat gold coin. The shopkeeper was visibly annoyed at having to make Draco’s change with so many smaller coins. He returned her book and smiled mischievously.

“Read it all before we see each other next,” he demanded. “I expect you to find me on the Hogwarts Express, Granger.” 

Notes:

Thanks so much to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos on the first chapter! I'm honestly shocked the story already has subscribers!! :o

Enjoy Chapter 2 ~

Don't you just love bratty Draco? Hermione is like a shiny new toy to him. We'll have to see how he reacts to learning its the sort of toy he's not allowed to play with... And yes, he was loitering in Flourish & Blotts simply to ride the ladders up and down.

Chapter 3: Mudblood

King’s Cross had always seemed magical to Hermione, but never more so than on the day she departed for Hogwarts. It was quite crowded, and all the muggles were utterly blind to the odd travelers garbed in cloaks and pointed hats that gawked about the platforms. Her mother didn’t even flinch when a boy nearly rode her down with a cage housing a colossal owl. 

She wondered, had there been trips to the station in her past where she’d been just as bewitched and benighted as them? Stumbling about dumbly without seeing the true depth of the world?

Professor Burbage had the foresight to provide her with a fake ticket for a real train set to leave from Platform 9 only 15 minutes before she was needed on the Hogwarts Express. In lieu of a trunk, she had two massive rolling suitcases that she could lug around by herself, albeit with some difficulty. She was packed and dressed and ready to rock before sunrise. Sleep had eluded her the night before, yet she was still crackling with energy and feverish with excitement. 

Nigel dropped to his knees, teary-eyed, gripping his daughter’s shoulders. “Listen carefully, love.” He jostled her playfully for emphasis. “Repeat after me! Study hard, have fun, write often!” She humored him, repeating the mantra. 

He fixed her with a look both loving and solemn, “I know things have been hard on you lately; people have not often shown you the kindness you deserve.” She couldn’t help but nod her head in agreement. “But it’s still your job to accept other people for who they are, and to show them kindness despite it. The best of them will do the same for you.” This sounded a bit too saccharine for Hermione - perhaps pilfered from the pages of some dull, didactic novel - but she nevertheless promised to try. 

“And for those who won’t accept you,” he shrugged. “Don’t waste your time.”  

She then turned to her mother, who was anxiously shifting her weight from foot-to-foot. Samantha Granger loved her daughter dearly, but she was not one for affectionate theatrics. It was a lack her husband made up for in spades. Her signs of endearment took the form of stern but significant lectures, impromptu but informative field trips, meticulously prepared, nutritious meals, and many, many gifted books. Hermione felt herself a similar sort of person, so she accepted this easily and without complaint.

Samantha reached out to brush a stray curl from her daughter’s face. Her voice took on a tenor common to one of her lectures, but her cheeks reddened slightly, “Don’t hesitate to impress them, Hermione,” she ordered. “Chase the things you want, and don’t allow anyone to treat you poorly.” 

Despite the brevity, this struck the right chord, so Hermione tucked it away deep inside herself to recover when needed most. 

Time was up, so she wrapped each of her parents in a tight hug and then deliberately boarded the wrong train. She observed them from a window. They smiled, waved, and loitered on the platform for about a minute before a dazed look crossed their features, and they mindlessly bumbled their way out of the station. Once out of sight, Hermione lugged herself and her luggage off the train. 

Professor Burbage emerged from the crowd with a gaggle of other children in tow, waving enthusiastically and motioning for her to join them. Hermione briefly assessed the three newcomers; she didn’t need to be told they were also muggleborns. There was a tall and gangly, dark-skinned boy wearing a West Ham jersey; he flashed a bright, white smile as he offered, “Dean Thomas.” The other boy had curly hair and crooked teeth; he exuded an excited but nervous energy as he piped, “Finch-Fletchley! Justin Finch-Fletchley!” The last was a girl even shorter than Hermione, with thick-rimmed glasses and pigtails. She mumbled, “Amanda.” 

“Alrighty then!” Introductions out the way, Burbage gathered them in a huddle. “Time to make our way to Platform 9 ¾! Keep close and follow me!”

As they shuffled through the masses, the two boys drifted together on instinct and began babbling about sports. Since Hermione couldn’t care less about that, she slowed and matched her gait to chat up Amanda. She broke the ice with, “ Platform 9 ¾? What’s the deal with that? Is it invisible or something?” 

The tiny girl was quiet for several seconds and kept her gaze fixed ahead. “Dunno,” she shrugged. “Same sort of nonsense we’ve seen so far.” She picked up the pace and sped ahead, clearly uninterested in conversation. 

Hermione scoffed and thought, Fine then. 

She wasted no more time before scanning the station for a familiar flash of white-blonde hair. Draco was here, waiting for her. She complied with his order to read all of Hogwarts: A History, though she would've done so regardless. Not only that - she rushed to read all the assigned books. She walked about in a daze for all of August, thinking, Potions that can poison, knock you instantly into a deep sleep devoid of dreams, that can change your whole face with just one swallow; Charms that render items weightless, change their color and shape, that can amplify one’s voice to be heard for miles around; Brooms that fly and fireplaces that spit you out in other homes hundreds of miles away; Giants, vampires, and werewolves - oh my!

Although she couldn’t practice magic yet, she still read the incantations aloud without her wand, or conversely, mimicked the prescribed wand movements without speaking the incantations. She only allowed herself these practices on occasion, as it made her feel a bit twitchy. It was as if her magic built-up inside her and was denied release. She burned with it. She suspected she’d start setting stuff on fire again if she did it too frequently and feared what wizarding authorities would do if she lost control. Regardless, she couldn’t wait to show Draco what she learned.    

She had so much to discuss and so many questions, but she was also terribly nervous to see him again. While reading Hogwarts: A History, she paid particular attention to any and all information on Slytherin - keeping an open mind, as he urged. Thus, she couldn’t help but find herself stuck on the house’s founder, Salazar Slytherin, and his reasons for leaving Hogwarts. She came from a non-magical family and was precisely the sort of student he wished to altogether forbid. 

Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. A millennium had passed, after all. If one were to historicize it, they’d note that the school was founded before the Statute of Secrecy. Perhaps witches and wizards had more to fear from muggles back then, and the muggleborns served as a sort of rickety bridge between the two worlds. Now those worlds were cleaved wholly in two, there was no bridge, and Hermione could just leap across the chasm. Besides, the houses formed themselves around ideals more so than all else - the bravest to Gryffindor, the cleverest to Ravenclaw, the kindest to Hufflepuff - so were muggleborns never cunning? Never ambitious? That's ridiculous, she thought. 

She emerged from such musings and found herself alone. Oh, for Christ’s sake, she silently cursed herself. Of course that batty, old witch would leave me behind.  

Craning her head to look about the crowd, it dawned on her with horror that there were hardly any cloaked or pointy-headed passengers left on the platforms. The clock read 10:55AM, and the Hogwarts Express was about to depart. 

Crap, crap, crap! She raged. What would happen if she missed the train? How else could she get there? Even if she somehow secured passage to the Scottish Highlands, Hogwarts didn’t supply an address! She couldn’t very well ask the locals without risking their stupid Statute of Secrecy! And if she somehow made it but were late, would she simply miss her first day or would they revoke her admission? What if they changed their minds, deciding she wasn't worthy of becoming a witch? 

She considered asking someone normal-looking in the hope they be muggleborn, when a booming voice cut through the crowd, “-that bloody toad! I could’ve sent him through the post but noOOOoo!” The source of it materialized in all her matronly splendor. She was of an age with Professor Burbage, but the comparison stopped there. Tall, skeletal, and greying with a long neck and puckered mouth, she wore maroon robes with a golden trim and carried a matching muggle handbag. Atop her head was a hat both horrid and magnificent, fashioned with a taxidermized vulture, feathers ruffled, frozen in a perpetual squawk!   

“Trevor shouldn’t travel by owl, Gran! Vercingetorix might eat him!” A moon-faced boy with wide, wet eyes chased her heels, clutching a toad tight to his chest. 

“Oh, hush! He would not! Rix is a good boy. Now pick up those feet! Chop! Ch-” 

“Excuse me!” Hermione leapt in front of the old woman before she could fly past. 

“Sweet Merlin, girl!” The hat was jostled and titled precariously to one side. “Watch yourself! I may look frail, but I bet I could flatten you! What is it?”  

“I- I need help with…” She blushed and fumbled in her pockets to pull out her true train ticket. “I don’t know where to find my platform. Can you…?” 

“You’re muggleborn then?” The old witch barked. The boy peaked his head around her backside, curious but cautious. 

Hermione hesitated. She didn’t know what to expect from this woman and was afraid she’d sneer or scoff at her like that old wizard in the pub. But it didn’t matter; she was still wearing her muggle clothes and was only minutes from missing what might be the most important ride of her life. She sighed heavily in defeat, “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, don’t look so scared, girl. It’s quite rude of you to assume I’m that sort of witch,” she snipped. “Welcome the wizarding world, pish posh, yada-yada - ANYWAYS! Do you wish to board the train or not!?”   

Hermione decided at once that she quite liked this woman. “Yes, mam!” 

“Well, come along, er…?” Her tone lilted into a question.

“Hermione.”

“Come along, Hermione! You too, Neville!” She gestured behind her. “My grandson. A sweet boy, I assure you, if not the sharpest.” The boy in question smiled tremulously, clearly mortified. “And I’m Augusta Longbottom.” 

“Pleasure!” Hermione chirped. The old witch sped on at a brisk pace, and the two skittish children had to pump their little legs to keep up.    

Augusta stopped in front of the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10 so abruptly that it triggered a collision; Neville tripped into his grandmother with a yelp, and Hermione smacked into his back to sandwich him in. Before either child could fully recover, Augusta grabbed them each by the scruff of their collar and shoved them bodily into the hard wall. Hermione thought for a brief moment that she was terribly mistaken; this old hag wasn’t a witch at all, she was just insane. Poor Neville was probably throttled on a regular basis - no wonder he seemed so timid! She winced before her face hit the brick… but nothing happened. 

She peaked out of one eye and found herself someplace new. It seemed to be King Cross, sharing the same architecture and grand arched windows, only it was smaller. One lonely train was stationed; an antique model with a piping smokestack, shiny red carriages, and a sign reading The Hogwarts Express affixed to its front engine. 

Only witches and wizards crowded the platform, and nearly all of the children seemed to have already boarded. Professor Burbage broke through the rabble and ran toward them, quailing, “There you are! Thank Merlin! I thought I lost you!” 

You did lose me, Hermione huffed.  

“Charity!” Augusta piped, extending her arms in greeting. “I suspected she may be one of yours!”

“Augie!” The two witches launched at each other, folding into a hug. “So good to see you! I forgot it was your grandson’s first year. Greetings, Neville! You still have those oh-so-pinchable cheeks, I see!” The boy looked ready to flee this obvious threat, but he was saved by the train’s shrill whistle. 

“GO, CHILDREN, QUICK!” Augusta pulled out her wand. Hermione’s suitcases lifted from her tired hands and flew away alongside Neville’s trunk. She grabbed the gawking children by their collars once more and threw them toward the locomotive, which was just beginning to chug steam, turn its axles, and inch forward. 

Hermione ran with abandon. She shoved her way through beaming, waving, and sobbing parents - paying little mind to the fact that her own parents had been robbed of a proper sendoff - and leapt on to a moving car. She only then thought to look back for Neville; he stumbled alongside, red-faced, still clutching his toad.

“Neville, give me your hand!” She reached out. “Toss the damn frog!” 

Trevor the Toad flew past Hermione’s ear with a shrill and strangled CROAK, landing with a hearty splat past the open door, safe yet likely stunned. Neville took her proffered hand and was lifted up with a huff. They fell inside, collapsing in a heap. Once enough of her breath returned, Hermione began to laugh. Neville hesitated before cracking his own shy smile. Soon, he was laughing just as heartily as her. 

Her hysterics simmered, and she glanced down the train’s narrow hallway. Children packed the passage, waving goodbye to their loved ones still on the platform. She allowed herself to feel jealous for only a moment before spotting something odd. 

A tall, willowy girl stared pointedly out the window. She was grinning, but the flash of her teeth had an edge. Her thin fingers were threaded through a pair of bubblegum-pink scissors, which she held aloft and on display for whomever she smiled at through the window. 

She abruptly began to saw and hack at her long locks of dirty-blonde hair, cackling wildly and jumping on the tips of her toes with mad glee. Hermione was frozen in bewilderment, but the scene turned even stranger as the girl’s hair began to grow, racing back to its long length. She snarled, cutting it away quicker, more chaotically - clearly without regard to style - fighting a war of attrition with whatever wished her hair in its original state. 

Hermione picked herself up and looked out the window to see who this performance was for. An older, elegant witch with the same dirty-blonde hair was red-faced and screeching, waving her wand in a rage. A burly man with a bushy mustache stood beside her. His face matched hers in color - either from fury or humiliation or both - yet he was trying to calm her down. 

The train picked up speed and left the platform behind. When the wild woman and her scandalized partner were out of sight, the girl’s hair stopped growing. It was left choppy, short enough to tickle the tops of her ears. Laughter suddenly tapered off into tears. Her hands hung limply at her sides, still clutching the scissors. Her shorn hair lay in heaps on the floor.

A pug-nosed girl with black braids reached out and rubbed her back, murmuring, “For Salazar’s sake, Daph.” The crinkle of her brow expressed both sympathy and annoyance. “You sure love to be dramatic.” She gently pushed her sniffling friend down the hall, and puzzled spectators gave them a wide berth. They slipped into an open compartment, out of sight. Hermione turned to Neville and found him watching the exchange. He met her gaze and shrugged. 

Hermione found her suitcases tucked away near the door. She was thinking of finding someplace to change when Neville wailed, “Trevor! Noooo!” 

She assumed the poor amphibian had been squished in the chaos, but upon looking around, found it missing. Neville crawled along the floor, peaking in every corner and shoving his hands in every crevice in search of his warty companion. 

They had been through quite the adventure together, so she didn’t hesitate to drop down and help. She trusted Augusta’s claim that Neville was a sweet boy. Despite her accompanying dig against his intelligence, and the fact that he was rather fidgety and ditsy, Hermione took an immediate liking to him. In all honesty, children like Neville - lacking or even devoid of confidence - made her feel a little better about her own shortcomings, and they were very rarely mean. Hermione tended to intimidate these sorts too much to actually become friends, but with a grandmother like that, she figured Neville was accustomed to big personalities.  

“I don’t think he’s here.” She clambered back to her feet. “Maybe he hopped his way into one of the compartments? Let’s ask around.” 

Hermione was alarmed to note that most students already knew each other. Not just the older, returning students; even Neville, also starting as a first year, was addressed as the Longbottom boy. They simply looked at Hermione with quiet curiosity or complete disinterest. 

After mapping half the train, Trevor remained at large. 

She peaked through the window of the next compartment and caught sight of that familiar white-blonde hair. Draco’s eyes lit up upon lifting to find hers. He smirked crookedly and jerked his head in a gesture that said, There you are! Get in here.  

“Er, Hermione, not that-” Neville reached for the door in an attempt to stop her, but she had already thrown it wide open. 

Draco had company; three other boys of varying shapes and sizes. Across from him sat what she first assumed to be a neanderthal; a massive, muscular lad with sandy hair and a heavy, extended brow. Beside the beast was a boy who was a bit shorter, but surely rounder; his hair was buzzed short, and he was missing a neck, his fat head tapering off directly into his broad, hunched shoulders. The final companion was near the same height as Draco, whom he sat close beside; he was spindly, pale, and had shaggy brown hair that hung down to hide his eyes.  

Draco scooted over, making room for her beside the window, and started, “Granger! Come and-,” but then faltered upon seeing Neville. 

“So you got your Hogwarts letter, after all - aye, Longbottom?” His smirk fell into an oily sneer. “Who’d your grandmother bribe to pull that off?” He sniggered, “Or, wait - did she threaten them? Mother always said she was uncouth.” 

“You- you leave my Gran out of th-this!” Neville stuttered. “I got m-my letter for the same reason y- you did!” 

Draco didn’t even deign to respond, setting his eyes back on her. “What’re you doing with him? Don’t you know he’s a squib?” He scoffed and shook his head in admonishment, “Worse than a mudblood, even.”  

“Oi!” Neville’s fear seemed to flee in an instant. “Watch your mouth, Malfoy!” 

“Or what?” Draco gestured to the beastly boys across from him. The neanderthal cracked his knuckles. “All you’ve got to use are your fists, and those won’t get you very far.” 

Neville paled, huffed, and then turned to address Hermione. His expression was stricken, “Are you okay?”

She didn’t wish to see her friends fight, so no, she was a bit troubled. However, she was confused to find his concern directed at her. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, “but what’s a squib?” She turned to Draco, “What’s a mudblood?”  

Neville pretended not to hear her. “Let’s just get out of here, Hermione.” 

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Draco spat, shifting from mockery to spite. He was too riled to process her question.   

Hermione whipped her head from boy-to-boy. 

Neville was sweet and mostly spineless; thus, she instinctively sought to defend him. She was righteously indignant in the face of bullies - seeing as she was frequently a target herself - and Draco was being awfully rude.  

But … she considered Draco her first friend in the wizarding world. 

He talked differently than the other children; he talked like her. He used big words without fear of being called a know-it-all; he didn’t hesitate to be impressive, as her mother would say. He was sickeningly posh and irrefutably arrogant, yet it somehow charmed her. He was a bit bossy, but in this strange, new world where she felt endlessly lost, she found it comforting. She liked it, even. More than anyone else, and for a reason she couldn’t quite yet communicate, she wished to prove to him that she belonged. 

Neville looked between her and Draco, genuinely befuddled. “Why…” He cleared his throat, oozing discomfort. “But Hermione is… muggleborn… Why do you…,” he trailed off. 

A heavy silence descended and hung for several excruciating seconds. Draco looked as if he were seeing her for the first time. His gaze dragged down her form, finally noticing the muggle clothes she had foolishly forgotten to change out of once the toad hunt commenced. He grew paler, which didn’t seem possible as he was utterly bloodless in his natural state. Then he turned red. Then he turned purple. He took a gasping breath, shifted back to red, and sputtered, “I didn’t- I… uh… I thought-”   

“She shouldn’t be here.” This cold and cutting declaration came from the lanky boy sitting beside Draco, who had up until that point watched their exchange in detached silence. His face was slack, but his eyes were burning black pits of venom. Hermione had never been liked, per se, but nobody had ever looked at her like that . 

She did not know if he meant, She shouldn’t be here, in this compartment; She shouldn’t be here, heading to Hogwarts; or, She shouldn’t even exist.

“Draco…” Hermione addressed her supposed-friend, but he had pivoted toward the window, refusing to look at her and unwilling to show his face. Judging by the flush creeping up his neck, it was still vividly red. 

She spun on her heel and fled. Ten steps down the hall, she heard Neville trundling after her, calling, “Hermione, wait!”

She kept her eyes ahead as she returned, “I’m going to change into my uniform.” 

After finding an empty compartment, she pulled the curtains and latched the door. She pulled a pair of robes from her bag, bundled it up in her fists, buried her face in the folds, and screamed. 

When she began to feel dizzy, she used the wrinkled robes to dry her tears and shoved them back into her suitcase. She took a slow, deep breath, slapped her cheeks a few times, smack smack SMACK, and dug out a fresh, unrumpled pair of robes. After dressing, her faint reflection in the window no longer displayed the tell-tale signs of distress, so she sauntered out, her face set like stone. 

She found Neville looking devastated, “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to just blurt that out… I didn’t think…”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. “Let’s keep looking for Trevor.”

Hermione did not blame Neville. It wasn’t her goal to hide that she was muggleborn, more so to ease herself into it, dipping her toes in cautiously. She still lacked a clear picture of her place here and of how others would react to her. After reading about Slytherin, she fretted over Draco, yet she still held out hope that he wouldn’t mind. And if he did mind, she aimed to impress him enough that it no longer mattered. Ah well, she thought. It’s probably best to get it all out in the open at once. What did her father say? If they won’t accept you, don’t waste your time. 

She vowed not to waste any more time on Draco Malfoy.

Although she held no ill will toward Neville, she still wished for some space, at least until the incident had gone stale in her mind. So, she suggested they split up to cover more ground and was grateful when he agreed.

She found another compartment occupied by two new boys, sitting side-by-side. One had bright red hair, copious freckles, and long, gangly legs; his pale ankles poked out and stretched beyond his too-short, patched trousers. The other had black hair that looked blown by a windstorm, tousled and sticking up in all directions. He had vivid green eyes hidden behind a broken pair of glasses, and in opposite fashion to his companion, his clothes were overlarge, ballooning off his alarmingly narrow frame. They looked up in unison, seemingly friendly and curious.  

“Have either of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville has lost one.”

The red-head shook his head and mumbled through a mouthful, and the too-thin boy smiled politely, “No, no toads here.”

It was then she noticed that the ginger stuffing his face had a busted-up wand in one hand and a scraggly, old rat in the other. Hermione was intrigued, and she was also suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. Her lack of sleep the night before combined with the stresses of the day were finally wearing on her. She closed the door and flopped down heavily on the seat across from the boys. 

“Oh, are you doing a spell? Let’s see it then.” She had yet to watch any children use magic and felt compelled to find out how far ahead they were compared to her, as most had been living amongst witches and wizards all their lives.  

He held the wand aloft in a freckled hand and jerked it above the struggling rodent, “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow - turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!” The creature spasmed as it was zapped by some sort of energy, but its patchy fur remained grey. It twisted out of the boy’s grasp and scuttled to a far corner, squeaking and trembling. 

The poor, pathetic thing summoned the thought, If it had turned to pale yellow, I’d name it Malfoy. She shook her head. No, stop wasting time on him! And then, Well… maybe insults are still worth dwelling on? 

“Are you sure that’s a real spell? Well, it’s not a very good one, is it?”   

The caster shot her a dirty look, but Hermione ignored it, feeling quite relieved. The red-head was not among Burbage’s posse, so she figured him not muggleborn. Hence, it appeared there were magical children just as inexperienced in performing spells as her. Or, this one was just a dunce. 

“Here.” She stuck her nose up in the air and struck a haughty note, “Let me try!”

Pulling out her own wand, she pointed it directly in the face of the bespeckled boy. His eyes widened as she confidently intoned, “Repairo!” With a zip, the tape holding his frames together unrolled and flew away. The metal wire bridging his lenses sparked and melded in an instant. 

She swallowed a gleeful squeal at having successfully performed her first spell. 

He pulled his glasses off to inspect her work. “Wow! Thank you!” He lifted his bangs to fix them back in place, and she caught a glimpse of the faint, lightening-shaped scar that arched across his forehead. 

“You’re Harry Potter!” She blurted. “I read about you in one of our textbooks!” She had not considered that Lord Voldemort was defeated a decade ago, making his supposed vanquisher roughly her age. It did not come easily to imagine a child like him a part of history, and she certainly did not expect to attend Hogwarts with him. 

“I’m Hermione Granger!” She squeaked, trying not to sound starstruck.

“Ron.” The other boy mumbled, mouth stuffed once again. “Ron Weasley.” 

“Uh-huh.” She gave him a brief, disinterested nod. “So, Harry, you must have a real talent for magic!” 

He fidgeted a bit, looking sheepish. “I, uh… actually, I just learned about all that stuff. I’ve been living with non-magical folks - my aunt and uncle - and they never told me anything,” he shrugged. “I didn’t know I was a wizard till this summer… or that magic even existed.” 

“Oh,” Hermione’s mouth hung open. “Really?”

“Uh… yes?”

She was dumbstruck to discover that she had been catapulted into the magical world as recently and abruptly as Harry Potter. “Wait… Why weren’t you on the platform with Professor Burbage and the other muggleborns?”

“Who?” 

“Harry’s not muggleborn,” Ron scoffed. “His parents were wizards.” 

“Oh… right,” Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to recall what she had read. In her excitement, she simply leapt to that assumption. “So… How has your introduction to…” She gestured in a wide arch, “...all this… been so far?”

“Magnificent." Harry rapidly and breathlessly recounted the war his uncle waged with the Hogwarts owls, his adventures with the half-giant groundskeeper, Hagrid, and his delightful first trip to Diagon Alley. “Although, it’s a little weird how eager everybody is to meet me, and me being some sort of hero and all…” 

“Ah,” was all she could offer in return. 

Normally she’d be talking a-mile-a-minute, pelting him with rapid-fire questions, but Hermione fell quiet. She gazed out the window and allowed the two boys to converse amongst themselves as if she were not there. She shut her eyes and rested her head against the glass, hoping to sleep a little before they arrived at Hogwarts. 

Ashamedly, she detected within herself a subtle, unspeakable bitterness; a nasty sensation that snaked out from her chest as an oily coldness, spreading to the space behind her eyes, to the tips of her fingers and toes.   

I’d be grateful if everyone were so eager to welcome me, she thought.  

Chapter 4: Where You Ought To Be

Hermione had seen countless castles. She climbed atop Caesar’s Tower in Warwick and crawled through the tunnels at Dover; covered her ears as the master gunner at Edinburgh fired the One O’Clock Gun and watched the setting sun transform the calm surface of the moat around Leeds. Feeling the spirit of the past seeped into the stone of those places made her feel a part of the ever-weaving tapestry of history, albeit as an insignificant thread. It made her hum with excitement, curiosity, and hope.

But Hogwarts was something else. 

This was not a place where things happened; no, things happened here because of some peculiar element buried deep in the soil and in the soul of the place. It pulsed with what felt like sentience, like will, like being. Not like a person, but a Place with capital P. It was difficult for her to describe. Words made poor cartographers here; it seemed the sort of Place that existed before words took root.

Surely this was a special kind of magic? 

Did Hogwarts - its construction, millennium of operation, and countless magical inhabitants - endow this Place with its magic over time? Or, was this Place made magical for a reason totally separate from us?  

The castle’s lit windows were like fires dotting the night. Her eyes were drawn to the brightness, and it took several moments for them to adjust to the surrounding dark. When they did, she did her very best not to gape. She took in the tall, pointed spires built of weathered yet eternal stones. It perched monolithically on the edge of a steep cliff over an immense black lake. The mirrored, upside-down rendering of it all was perfectly reflected on the water’s calm surface.   

“No more’n four to a boat!” The half-giant called. She threw back her head to look up at him, admitting that Harry had not exaggerated his size even an iota. 

Hermione, Neville, Harry, and Ron packed into a rickety, wooden vessel, rocking to-and-fro threateningly as she settled down. Once all first-years were lakeborne, the boats began to glide onward all on their own. No one spoke on the journey. All eyes were glued to the castle, growing inch-by-inch as they crept closer. 

They approached an open maw in the cliff face, curtained with ivy. Before they were swallowed, Hagrid boomed, “HEADS DOWN!” She ducked, and one of the hanging tendrils briefly knotted in her hair as she passed beneath. She squawked in annoyance, scrambling to untangle it. Snickers erupted from the boat behind, captained by Malfoy, his two goons, and that horrid shaggy-headed boy. 

The dark tunnel ended in a small, rocky harbor. After they dismounted, Hagrid swept through the empty boats for a final check. He suddenly pivoted to Neville and shouted, “Oi, you there!” The poor boy nearly leapt out his skin. “Is this yer toad?” 

“Trevor! ” Neville abandoned his fright, clambering back down the rocks. He returned to Hermione’s side with a proud grin, holding the toad up for her appraisal. She giggled and reached out with a solitary finger to pet its slimy head. 

They followed Hagrid up a narrow flight of stairs, and he deposited them in the care of a stern-faced witch with a prim black bun and emerald robes. She had a hard gaze and a severe set to her mouth, yet the way she regarded the gaggle of children felt kindly. Something of the woman’s air invoked Hermione’s mother. She swallowed the lump in her throat as they were led further into the castle, stalling in an empty, echoing hall. Behind an enormous set of doors, she could faintly detect the roiling murmur of a hundred overlapping voices. 

“Hermione,” Neville squeaked. “I’m terrified.” 

“Why?” She scoffed, “Are all the older students going to point and laugh at us when we go in?” 

 “No, probably not.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “We’re about to be sorted.” 

“Oh,” She expelled her own nervous huff. Her house of choice was still very much up in the air, so she tried not to dwell on it. Let the chips fall where they may, I suppose? Slytherin is clearly off the table, she mused. “How’s the sorting work?” 

“I dunno,” he groaned. “Gran wouldn’t tell me, but she’s set on me being in Gryffindor. I don’t even-”

“Gryffindor? ” Malfoy barked a laugh. She turned to find his sneering rodent face pointed their way. “That’s just sad. Does her house loyalty really run so deep that she’s deluded herself into thinking you could be a brave little lion?”

“Your name may have reserved you a spot in Slytherin, Malfoy,” Hermione spat out his surname as if it tasted bitter. “But the rest of us are multifaceted enough to belong anywhere. Gryffindor, or any other house, would be lucky to have Neville.” 

He still refused to look at her, but given the red flush creeping up his stiffened neck, her jibe must have stung. He kept his eyes on Neville, snarling, “I don’t think even the Puffs would take you, seeing as you're a squib.” He barred his teeth and advanced a step. “You don’t belong anywhere, and neither does your pet mud-” 

“Ahem.” The severe witch muzzled Malfoy with a sharp look. 

She introduced herself as Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Professor, Minerva McGonagall, and informed them the sorting would begin shortly. After giving a brief lecture on the history and qualities favored by each house, she left them to fidget a bit longer, urging that they ready themselves for the ceremony by carefully considering the forking paths ahead. 

Neville turned back to Hermione, clearly relieved that the professor’s presence heeled the pale-haired pest. “I really don’t mind Hufflepuff. They’re supposed to be nice and all.” He cast his eyes downward. “I just don’t want to disappoint my Gran.” 

“I’m sure she won’t-” Her assurance was interrupted when a pack of ghosts materialized out of the solid wall, strutting in with dramatic flair, unnecessarily, as if they were not floating three feet in the air. 

As if trying to prove his unsuitability for Gryffindor, Neville yelped, leapt back several steps, and twisted his face in sheer terror. He thankfully did not wet himself, though she guessed it was a close call. Malfoy would’ve feasted on such a humiliating reaction, had he not blanched at their arrival as well. While Hermione hadn't startled, she shuddered to see that one of the ghosts - an aristocratic-looking gent with a curly mustache - was drenched in what looked an awful lot like blood. 

She was not given long to think about it before Professor McGonagall threw open the great doors with a wave of her wand, ushering the skittish children inside. Near a hundred heads turned their way at once, and a hush blanketed what was surely the Great Hall. Hermione threw back her head, gasping when she found what she sought. Innumerable candles hung suspended over their heads, behind which the night sky was spread, a violet-tinged darkness dotted with a dusting of stars. A small yet heavy cloud passed into view from a far corner, rolling across the hall at a snail’s pace. Before it disappeared within the opposite wall, a subtle flicker of lightning arched through its opalescent vapor. 

She turned to Neville, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.” 

In her periphery, she saw Malfoy pivot his head in their direction. Bracing herself for another nasty remark, she half expected him to demand the book back. Instead, he simply looked at her blankly for several seconds, then tipped his head back upward to regard the ceiling.

He’ll do it later, she figured. With nobody around, to hide that he bought it for me in the first place.   

Their procession made it to the front of the hall and gathered in an awkward clump. Professor McGonagall plopped down a stool, topping it with an old, rumpled witch hat. Confused silence held for a moment, before a tear in the headwear gaped open like a mouth and began to sing,

  “Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,
But don’t judge on what you see,
I’ll eat myself if you can find,
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all. 
There’s nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can’t see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.”

With a flourish, the old witch whipped open a scroll. “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.” She adjusted her spectacles. “Hannah Abbott!”

A small girl shambled her way to the front, climbed onto the stool, and stuffed the hat atop her head. The subtle shape of what looked like eyebrows in its fabric twitched before it shouted, “HUFFLEPUFF!” Hannah smiled widely, leapt off the stool, and skipped to join a table on a far side of the hall, bedecked in yellow and bustling with cheering students. 

Some of the anxiety deflated from the mass of first-years. The sorting seemed straightforward; don the hat and let it decide for you. The children strutted forth excitedly for their turn, and soon, every house had a new recruit. A boy named Terry Boot gave a happy hoot when sorted into Ravenclaw. Lavender Brown flashed a shy smile as she sat at the rowdy, rambunctious Gryffindor table. A brutish girl, who looked unfittingly nervous given her stature, was the first to join Slytherin. The hat took longer for her than it had the others, but after making its decision, Millicent Bulstrode’s face melted in obvious relief. 

More names came and went. Eventually McGonagall called, “Justin Finch-Fletchley!” Hermione perked her head up, eager to find where the first muggleborn would be sorted. The hat stewed for perhaps a second before crying, “HUFFLEPUFF!” 

A table was laid out at the head of the hall. Seeing as it housed the only adults in sight, she figured it was for faculty. At one far end, Charity Burbage leapt to her feet, clapping and quailing gleefully for Justin. The professor sitting to her side, sporting a hooked nose, sallow skin, and long black hair, sneered up at her and clapped without enthusiasm. 

“Hermione Granger! ” 

Her legs were at once boneless. The hum of static burrowed in her ears. She moved robotically as she climbed the steps for her sorting, solemnly thanking any dubiously-existent magical deities that she did not stumble and praying silently to whatever force prevented her knees from knocking together in fits.  

The stool was tall enough that her feet hovered off the ground. The hat was wide enough to fall over her eyes, blocking the other children from view. 

A craggy voice rumbled in her ear, “Ah, another muggleborn.”

Hot indignation flared in her chest. Of course that’s the first thing it says!

“Calm yourself, girl,” it barked. “It’s an important observation, as you may have gathered so far. You’re clearly not stupid. No, no, quite clever actually.”

Hermione balked,Thank you?  

“Yes, yes, clever! Ravenclaw would be such an easy fit… but what could it give you that you don't already have?”  

An excellent study group? She ventured, thinking Ravenclaw not a bad choice.

“Mmmm, tell me - what do you want? ” 

Scratching the surface, she supplied, I want… friends. Other kids like Neville, I think. He seemed to see himself fit for Hufflepuff, and that’s where the other muggleborn went. 

“Hufflepuff… No. Not Hufflepuff. It would grow to disappoint you. I believe there’s more to what you want.”  

Delving a bit deeper, she found, I want… respect. I want to feel like I belong here. 

“Some would say the most respected witches and wizards come from Gryffindor. So, you want to play the hero, girl? Is that what I’m hearing?” 

Digging down and down and down, until she hit her mother’s parting words, Don’t hesitate to impress them… Chase the things you want…  

She unearthed, I want… to go beyond that. I’ll be more clever than the rest of them. Better respected. I’ll be better at magic and prove I want this more than they do. 

The voice was silent for a while. An excruciatingly long while. Hermione was more and more afraid she’d had the wrong thoughts. 

What if it decided she ought not be here at all? That her invitation to Hogwarts was just an awful mistake? What if they sent her home and obliviated this from her mind? What if she was just a muggle, after all? 

“A hat-stall? ” A distant murmur broke through her thoughts. Suddenly the word was being tossed around from all directions. She heard a professor shush them. 

Without another word in her ear, the Sorting Hat shouted for all to hear, “SLYTHERIN!” 

She removed it with shaking hands and faced a horde of mixed reactions. The gaggle of first-years shifted uncomfortably. Neville’s mouth hung open. Malfoy shifted to red, again. His awful friend displayed more emotion than she’d seen thus far - palefaced, brow furrowed, and teeth gritted. Ron Weasley looked scandalized. Even Harry Potter was bewildered. She overheard him and Ron discuss how Slytherin was evil, populated by spoiled prats and dark wizards alike.  

Students crowding the green and silver table celebrated, yet unaware that she was muggleborn. Some at the Gryffindor table - none more loudly than a ginger set of identical twins - jeered as they had at all the other children sorted into Slytherin. 

A solitary set of hands clapped from the faculty table behind her. She turned, expecting it to be Burbage. Rather, it came from an old wizard with a long silver beard, draped in star-speckled robes and wearing a smile both warm and wistful.

After several seconds, the other professors followed suit. First came the slow, cautious applause of the sallow fellow with the beak of a nose. Anger, confusion, and concern all warred for dominance over his features. Burbage was in a state of shock. She forgot to clap and simply gaped at her. 

Hermione stumbled only a few steps away before Malfoy howled, “But she’s a mud-” He choked on the word, perhaps remembering he had an audience. “She’s muggleborn! ” 

His revelation spread through the hall with the speed and ferocity of a contagion. She thought she caught a mudblood or two thrown around, hidden in the anonymity of a large crowd. Somehow she crossed the floor without crumbling into a sobbing heap. By the time she reached the Slytherin table, their celebrations had ceased. They were silent, with eyes either empty of regard or openly hostile.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. When she called, “Daphne Greengrass!,” it came through muffled in Hermione’s ears. She was burning. Her heart stuttered out of a sudden and serious fear that she might set their pretty green and silver tablecloth on fire. She squeezed her eyes shut and evened her breathing. Only a bit of accidental arson could make this more mortifying.           

Distantly, she heard a thump and a puff of air brushed her thigh. Opening her eyes, she found the mad girl with the shorn hair sitting beside her. Somebody had tidied her cut, so it was not near as uneven or choppy as before. Nonetheless, she clearly had been crying either intermittently or non-stop since the incident on the train. There was a prominent and persistent quiver at the corner of her mouth. Daphne, Hermione thought dully. Her name is Daphne.  

”Hello,” Daphne smiled weakly, tears still dribbling down her splotchy cheeks. 

“Hi,” Hermione bit out, not trusting herself to be kind in such a state. 

“Neville Longbottom! ” 

She whipped her head around. The odds of Neville being sorted into the same house as her were abysmally low. Yet, she hoped things went well for him and silently sent her support his way. She saw the fearful gleam in his wide, watery eyes. His hands shook so violently that he could hardly place the hat atop his head.

His lips moved. After less than a minute, the Sorting Hat chuckled and barked, “GRYFFINDOR!” Neville’s face was unreadable as he tripped forward to join the lions. Hermione made it a point to clap louder and longer than anybody else. 

Next came a nasty procession of sortings. 

The hat hardly touched Malfoy’s head before it shouted, “SLYTHERIN!” 

She wondered, her musings laced with spite, Is it possible to bribe a magical hat? It’s surely sentient, but what could it buy with the money? Did it simply brush those blonde locks and peg him a Malfoy at once? The table cheered raucously, and many of the older students leapt up, jockeying to shake his hand. He sat as far away from her as the table would allow.   

She shortly thereafter learned the bigoted git he kept close was called Theodore Nott. The Sorting Hat required little time to deliberate his fate as well. He joined Malfoy with much of the same fanfare, and they - alongside the brutes somehow fittingly named Crabbe and Goyle - formed an obvious clique. 

The pug-nosed girl from the train - Pansy Parkinson - was sorted to Slytherin next. Hermione saw that her black braids were gone, and she now wore a stylish, short bob with neat, prissy bangs. It was only a little longer than Daphne’s, falling just below her ears.  

Hermione thought, with just a smidge of pitiful hope, that Pansy was coming close to sit with her. Perhaps she’d be just as welcoming as her weeping friend. Alas, no. She snatched Daphne’s wrist and tugged her up off the bench. “Don’t sit by the filth, Daph. We’re about to eat, after all.” 

Hermione sneered at her, thinking her voice so high-pitched, nasally, and overall irksome that she was glad to get some distance from it. Daphne let herself be pulled away, but her damp face hung heavy with discomfort. They sat beside Malfoy and Nott, and soon Pansy’s grating laughter echoed down the table, decibels near great enough that Hermione feared her empty glass goblet might shatter.  

A hush fell during Harry Potter’s sorting. It took several minutes. His thin face scrunched up oddly, and she was near certain that he was arguing with the old hat. When it finally cried, “GRYFFINDOR!,” she could not help but scoff, Of course. The house of heroes. Where else?   

Celebratory cries of “WE GOT POTTER!” resounded from the red and gold table. Poor Neville narrowly avoided being trampled when a mass of students leapt up to greet their new resident celebrity. 

Gryffindor next claimed the other muggleborn boy, Dean, as well as Potter’s pal, Ronald Weasley. When Ron reached their ranks, those wretched twins smothered him with both mockery and affection. More Weasleys, she guessed.  

Amanda Wentworth, the muggleborn girl who snubbed her at Kings Cross, sorted into Ravenclaw. Her gaze was just as distant and as vaguely vexed as before. It was as if all the oddities and magic surrounding them made little impression on her. 

The sorting concluded when a handsome black boy named Blaise Zabini was sent to Slytherin. The empty seat beside her was the only one left. He sat down without any cutting comments or the characteristic look of disgust her other housemates seemed so quick to throw at her, but he hardly acknowledged her either. He acquiesced one quick, curious look in her direction, and then turned away to speak with an older student. 

Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll, plucked up the hat, and heaved the stool up and away. The wizened professor who first clapped for her rose gracefully to his feet, extended his arms wide in welcome, and gifted them a bright smile. 

“Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words.” He slowly pivoted his gaze across the hall, as if impressing upon them the gravity of what he was about to say. “And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! ”

He bowed his head, “Thank you!,” and sat back down. 

Most of the hall erupted in cheers, but along her table, she caught scoffs and tittering. An older girl huffed, “Dumblebore, ever the connoisseur of only the most silly and useless words!”

Hermione itched to ask, That’s Headmaster Dumbledore? Does he say stuff like that every year? Is it supposed to be a riddle?, but kept her mouth shut. 

A feast materialized on every table when the headmaster’s bottom landed back in his chair. A monstrous slab of roast beef, peas and carrots swimming in butter, and a cauldron brimming with steaming mashed potatoes all lay within reach, but Hermione was not hungry. She forced herself to fill her plate, bite and chew methodically without tasting, and swallow as if every mouthful didn’t feel eager to choke her. She ate enough to avoid feeling ill later, cleaned up, and then waited in silence with her hands and napkin folded neatly in her lap as all the other children chattered happily around her. 

It was downright miserable - that is until the terrible, gore-spattered ghost reentered the hall and took a seat beside Malfoy. He could barely keep from bolting from the bench, and given the lovely shade of green he was turning, she hoped his lamb chops would soon make a sudden reappearance. She was only a tiny bit ashamed to admit this scene brightened her mood enough to reinvigorate her appetite. When dessert appeared, she even snagged herself a small slice of pie.

After dinner, Dumbledore regained his feet. “Ahem - just a few more words now we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.”

Time for the real speech, eh? Hermione understood from her reading that this man was known as one of the greatest wizards alive today - one of the greatest ever, even. She expected more from him than a few smiles and some frolicsome nonsense. 

 “First-years should note that the forest in the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.” His smile faded just the slightest bit. “And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

Hermione thought it another joke. Some students laughed, like Harry Potter, but most others just perked up their eyebrows and shrugged, as if to say, Oh, I see. That’s good to know, I guess. 

She was just starting to think she should have signed some insurance forms before coming to Hogwarts, when the headmaster plowed ahead, insisting they sing the official school song. She memorized the lyrics in Hogwarts: A History, but she was lost as far as the tune went. No matter - they were told to sing it however they liked, and it was awful, in a glorious sort of way. 

The night came to an end, and the masses began to file out of the Great Hall. First-years were asked to stay behind. As they clambered to their feet, Hermione noticed the wizard with the hooked nose hovering nearby. An older boy with a P pinned to his breast nervously approached him. “Er… Professor Snape? What are we supposed to… What do we do with… that one? ” He cocked his head toward Hermione. 

She bristled, at once wishing she knew how to hex him. 

“Rosier.” The professor let the boy’s name hang heavy in the air for several tense seconds. “I picked you for prefect because you did not seem quite an imbecile.” Rosier flinched, and Snape returned an oily grin. “Was I mistaken? Are you not familiar with your duties? Did you forget where our common room is located?” 

“N-no, of course not, sir,” The prefect tripped, a flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll get right on that, sir, but-” 

Snape’s visage shifted to something savage. “Go, then, and know that I’ll be informing your father you could benefit from learning more tact.” He snapped his long black cloak for apparent emphasis. “Escort the other first-years. I wish to speak with Miss Granger, thus I’ll show her to the dungeons myself.”

Hermione blanched at the mention of dungeons, but Snape ushered her over before she could turn to flee. Up close, she noticed his hair was a little greasy and dark shadows hung under his eyes, as if he had not slept well or showered recently. This did not detract from how intimidating he was, however. He was an average-sized man, but the black cloak that he clearly enjoyed whipping about dramatically made him seem more like an enormous bat. The lines carved into his face suggested that he was almost always sneering or scowling. He spoke slowly as if he was accustomed to conversing solely with simpletons, and his pitch was tilted so deep that it made Hermione’s own throat ache a little just to hear it. 

“Granger,” He dipped his head stiffly. “I’m the Head of House for Slytherin. You’ll come to know me as Professor Snape.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” she squeaked. 

He regarded her coldly for an uncomfortable stretch of silence. After she’d begun to squirm, he finally said, “I will speak to Headmaster Dumbledore about re-sorting you come morning.” 

“What? ” He might as well have slapped her. 

“You must stay in our dormitory tonight, but the others would be fools to-” 

“Why? ” It stung like rejection; it was a rejection, really. Slytherin was what she wanted before learning its historical contexts, and the Sorting Hat had sent her there after prying apart and picking at her brain. It was everybody else who had a problem with it; that brat, Malfoy, that bigot, Nott, and that bint, Parkinson. Now, the Head of House had to address the problem as well. Hell! Even Burbage - with her overly-warm welcome and heedless enthusiasm - was obviously horror-struck by her sorting.

“I’m not one to take kindly to interruptions, Miss Granger,” Snape snarled. The Great Hall was near empty, yet he lowered his voice. “You do not strike me as a dullard. Are you so blind to the reactions around you that you need to ask?” 

“Well, no, but-” 

“Are you saying you want to be in Slytherin?” 

Hermione stuck her nose high in the air and placed a hand on each of her hips, trying her very hardest to look more confident than she felt, “Perhaps!” 

Snape looked at her blankly for several seconds, then he snorted. She’d never before seen someone laugh while holding a grimace. “Regardless of what you think Slytherin can give you, you’d be lucky to survive the year.” He sighed and massaged the bridge of his beaked nose. “Your housemates will make your life Hell. Even halfbloods are hardly welcome, and you’re-”

“A filthy mudblood, yes. You’ve all made that quite clear.” 

She was surprised to see him flinch. He did not snap back at her for interrupting him again; in fact, he said nothing for a while. His jaw tensed and moved stiffly as if he were chewing on her words. After a while, he barked, “Come,” whipping around quickly so that his cloak billowed out on the pivot. He strutted out of the hall at a brisk pace, and Hermione was made to jog to keep up.

He wordlessly led her down a seemingly-endless spiral staircase. As they descended, the temperature noticeably dropped. At its bottom, she tailed him through a narrow, drafty hallway, until he came to a halt in front of an empty stone wall. She half-expected him to grab her by the collar and shove her through, much like Augusta Longbottom had done at Kings Cross. 

“Par sit fortuna labori,” he drawled. “Remember that. It’s our password.”

The wall vanished. Behind it hid an elegant den, dimly-lit with an odd verdant glow. It was furnished with leather armchairs, lamps made of delicate, emerald-tinted glass, and darkwood shelves and tables with intricately carved embellishments in the likeness of serpents. It radiated a soft warmth - a welcome reprieve from the cold, clammy corridor - granted by a massive stone hearth lit with a low burning fire. 

“The hall to your left houses the girls' dorms; you’ll find the room for first-years behind the last door.” Snape ushered her inside with an impatient gesture. 

She cleared her throat. “Will you still insist I be re-sorted, sir?”    

“No,” he sneered, rolling his eyes. “Not until you come to your senses, that is.” 

He just stood there, perhaps waiting for her to hurry off to the dorm. She averted her eyes and shifted her weight from foot-to-foot, wishing he would leave. He so clearly thought her a fool. She was desperate to escape his pitiless stare but wasn’t quite ready to face her roommates either.

He abruptly snarled, “Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stubborn.” He narrowed his eyes and once more used the SNAP of his cloak as a form of punctuation. “If they actually try to hurt you, you’ll come to me at once. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.  

He left at that. 

Hermione cautiously ventured further into her new common room, breathlessly thankful that it was empty. She choked out a gasp upon realizing the room’s peculiar hue did not come solely from the lamps. The windows emitted the ghostly green light. She rushed over and gazed into the dark, murky abyss of what must be the lake she sailed upon only hours before. She squinted, all but convinced she could see pale, incandescent shapes writhing and twisting and cutting through the water at a distance.

Hermione rested her forehead against the cool glass. With eyes closed, she could still detect the green glow shining through the thin skin of her eyelids. She let the gentle gurgle of the lake and the dim crackling of the fire lull her to a semblance of calm. Her mind drifted, and she helplessly tried to keep the thought at bay, 

Did I just make a terrible mistake? 

Notes:

Thank you so, so much to everyone taking this journey with me! I hope you enjoyed Chapter 4 :)

Translation note,
Par sit fortuna labori = Let success be equal to the labor / May good fortune be equal to the effort.

Chapter 5: The Spark

The sky above the Great Hall was a screaming bright blue. 

Hermione was not one to put much faith in signs and symbols, yet she nevertheless hoped against all well-established evidence and sense that this would herald great things for her tenure at Hogwarts. It surely portended that she’d make countless friends, instantly become the favored pupil of all her professors, and that every single soul who doubted her would be thunderstruck by her astounding impressiveness. Pansy would rip her hair out in a rage. Nott would drop out altogether, declaring it was he who did not belong here - not her! Malfoy would cry and beg her forgiveness, but she would just shoo him off like the pale little pest he was.

She snorted at herself and continued to pace in and out of the hall. Students gave her pointed looks, ranging from bewildered to concerned to hostile, as they passed through to join breakfast. 

Hermione was the last to bed, finally venturing to her dorm after she was certain the other girls were asleep, and she was the first awake, fleeing before any began to stir. Pawing through the dark that night, it did not take her long to realize her suitcases had been ransacked, their contents strewn across her bed. She slept amidst her crumpled clothes, clinging tightly to a jumper she had gotten from the aquarium last summer with a smiling cartoon otter frolicking across its front, a clam clutched to its upturned belly. The other girls had pushed their beds closer together near the window, while Hermione’s had been shoved away to the furthest, dustiest back corner. 

Few students beat her to breakfast, and she scarfed her food down near quick enough to make herself retch. Then, she bolted from the Slytherin table as if it were burning her. As her early-bird housemates trickled in, she heard whispers as they passed - words like mudblood and self-hating and unnatural. 

Thus, she haunted the tall double-doors, waiting for Neville. Whereas she was one of the first to arrive, he was one of the last. 

“There’s lots of stairs,” He rubbed his reddened neck after spotting her scowl. “And they keep shifting, even while you’re using them! The others… they didn’t wait for me, so I had to find my way alone.” 

They took a seat together at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Some of the lions were visibly offended by her presence, but most just sent her pitying smiles. She grimaced at them all in reply, either way.

”So, Neville… How was your first night?” 

His eyes were fixed to his eggs. “It was okay. Nobody was rude or anything… but the other boys have sort of doubled up, you know? Seamus told Dean all there is to know about quidditch, so they hit it off at once. Harry and Ron have been glued at the hip since the train… plus, Harry’s a hero and all, so I dunno…”

”He’s just some boy. He didn’t even know he was a wizard till recently. There’s no reason to be any more frightened of him than you are of me!” 

“I know, but…” Neville’s eyes began to glisten. “I just can’t shake the feeling that I don’t quite fit.” 

“Mm, tell me… Did you ask that ratty old hat for Gryffindor, for your grandmother’s sake?”

”No, that’s the thing!” He wailed, stabbing a jiggly yoke. “I asked for Hufflepuff! It said it was real bold and brave of me, standing up to my Gran like that. Then it laughed and sent me off to Gryffindor anyway!” 

Hermione failed to suppress a snicker. 

“It’s not funny!” He threw down his fork and shot her a devastated look. “I can’t help but think that stupid hat was making fun of me. Not to mention it sent you to Slytherin, Hermione! Why!? What did it say?”

She shrugged, “It asked what I wanted.”

“And you said… Slytherin?” 

“Well, no… It asked what I wanted in a broad sense.” Neville looked befuddled at that but had the grace not to prod further. “I suppose my answer led to its choice, but it didn’t consult me any further on the matter.”

“And… uh … how was your first night? Did your housemates… er… Did they-”

“Neville, it was fine. I can deal with a few bullies.” She sent a haughty look toward the Slytherin table as if to demonstrate her point. “I mean, I’ve kept my distance so far, but they’re just children… What’s there to fear, really?” 

He squirmed, “Be careful, Hermione.” 

She harumphed outwardly but appreciated Neville’s concern deep down. He may fret for her, but he had yet to suggest she be re-sorted. His own seemingly-contrary house assignment put him in a better position to understand her than anybody else. Neither of them saw it as a mistake, necessarily, but… a peculiarity, and perhaps, a challenge. 

Professor McGonagall - Gryffindor’s Head of House - approached them on the bench to supply Neville with his class schedule. “Good morning, Miss Granger. I look forward to seeing you and the other Slytherins in Transfiguration this afternoon.” Hermione was glad she made no comment on her choice of seat. 

It was then, of course, that she spotted her own Head of House, circling the Slytherin table and scanning the hall with a bitter twist to his mouth. When he finally found her, he rolled his eyes and stalked over. “Have you changed your mind, then? Is that why you’ve glued yourself to the wrong table?”  

“Are the seating arrangements that strict, sir? I wasn’t aware.” Neville shot her a look that screamed she was nuts, but the corner of Snape’s mouth quirked ever slightly into the ghost of a crooked grin. “And no, I have not changed my mind.”

“Well, then, I suppose you will be needing this.” He passed along her schedule. Hermione tried her best not to look too dreadfully excited about it. “And… this.” He pulled a roll of parchment from his robes and held it out betwixt two fingers as though it were something unclean and unwanted. 

 She took it with a grimace, already dreading its contents. He departed without another word. The note read,

Miss Hermione Granger,

Please be prepared to meet the Muggleborn Advisor this Friday at 3PM sharp! You will find a map enclosed. 

Best of luck on your first week at Hogwarts! 

 

---

 

It was with equal degrees of luck and tenacity that Hermione made it to all her classes on time. 

She grieved to find that Neville did not exaggerate; the staircases of Hogwarts were a menace. It was fortunate that she gave herself thirty minutes of leeway when leaving for her first class, History of Magic - about twenty-five of which were spent stuck on the same flight of stairs as it spun idly in circles, trapping Hermione, refusing to pause at a nearby landing. 

A voice called from above, “Yeah, you shouldn’t use that one on Monday mornings. It pitches a fit, on the dot, every time! It’ll keep going like that for another hour, at least.” 

After working up the nerve for several nauseating minutes and timing it just right, she clutched her bookbag tightly to her chest, rocketed up the steps at full speed, and leapt on to a landing as it passed about three feet away. Her body complied with this feat only after she coaxed her brain into the idea that there must be cushioning charms bewitching the floor below, right? 

The heartpounding, adrenaline-fueled journey contrasted starkly with the droning lecture that awaited her. Given that he was literally dead, Professor Bins’ delivery lacked a certain liveliness that Hermione felt essential to make a history lesson worthwhile and engaging. Without the cadence and verve of a storyteller, it seemed just a collection of names and dates, causes and effects. Hermione could tell her fellow classmates were bored out of their wits. Finch-Fletchley, who she had found a welcoming seat beside, had his eyes half-closed and drool collecting at the corner of his mouth, threatening to spill over. If this were muggle history, she may have found herself near comatose as well. Yet, everything in the magical world was still so shiny and bright to her. Even the dullest and most monotonous orator to have ever lived or died could not keep her from sitting on the edge of her seat, wide-eyed, listening in rapture. 

“Look, Miss Mudblood is so ignorant that she finds old Dusty Bins interesting. How cute! ” Pansy’s awful warble carried from a few seats over. Even her attempts to whisper grated on the ears. “Maybe I could bring her some of those Quibbler clippings we use to line Carmilla’s cage. It’ll keep her occupied for days, I bet.” 

“Pans, quit…” Daphne kept her eyes down. Without the splotchy and swollen face she wore before, she was quite pretty in a fragile and consumptive sort of way. “I can’t hear the lesson.” 

En route to her second class that morning, Hermione found herself barred by an infuriatingly obstinate door. She rattled the handle and pleaded; she served it a swift kick and raged. Just as she was contemplating whether her tears would sway it, a white mist materialized from the solid wood and passed right through her. Her blood froze and thawed in an instant. With chattering teeth and featherplucked skin, she turned to regard the gore-spattered ghost. 

He floated close, fixed her with a deadeyed glower, and pointed a translucent finger at the door. “Tickle it right here, a hair above the knob.” He gave a shuddering moan and rattled the heavy chains affixed to his wrists - as if such performative acts of ghostly woe and suffering were expected of him - and then turned to glide away.

“Thank you, er… sir!” She squeaked at his retreating form.

Irrespective of being one of the only classes she shared with Neville, Defense Against the Dark Arts was a tremendous disappointment. The classroom’s overpowering stench of garlic had her gagging. Professor Quirrell, a gaunt and twitchy gentleman, could hardly choke out a single sentence, all meaning and potential profundity lost in the syntactic butchering of his stutter. As he bumbled, coughed, and spasmed along, Hermione focused her energies on the textbook, the odor inspiring her to review the section on vampires. 

As they scurried off to lunch, she asked Neville, “Is he Sikh? 

“Is.. what? Seek? Sick? Is he si-” He forgot to jump over the disappearing step and nearly tumbled down the stairs. “I dunno. He sure seemed sick to me.” 

“No, Sikh, it's- oh, nevermind! I was asking about the turban, actually.”

“Oh, well, now that you mention it - I heard a rumor that he keeps garlic stuffed up there to ward off vampires.”

“Really? ” Her interest piqued. “Why vampires?” 

“He studied them, I think. Left for field research in Romania or Albania or Transylvania or some other ania, and came back all… like that.” 

“Huh.” Hermione wished to pilfer the professor for tales and pepper him with eager questions, yet she feared it may trigger a nervous breakdown. 

Transfiguration was the shining gem of her first day at Hogwarts. It boded well that she did not have to risk her life or commune with spirits to make it there on time. As class began, the Slytherins were less chatty than usual and the Ravenclaws all had their wide eyes glued to the textbook for last minute preparations; they already sensed that the hardfaced witch before them was not one to be crossed, and that she would take considerable efforts to impress. 

In lieu of a proper greeting, she began, “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.” Then, with a flick of her wand, she transformed her desk into a fat, squealing pig. The creature’s eyes widened, darting wildly this way and that, clearly amidst an existential crisis, given it had been an inanimate object only moments prior. Before it could thunder its way out of the room in panic, McGonagall robbed it of its newly-discovered sentience, changing it back to a desk.

Distributing a single match to each student, she provided meticulous instruction on transfiguring it to a needle. She gave them reign to try it out, pacing up and down the aisles to observe their work and offer advice. 

Half an hour later, every match remained. Many Ravenclaws were near tears; their precious textbooks seemingly did little to assist in the task. Only Amanda’s face was wiped clean of frustration. She simply stared at the match blankly, and Hermione could’ve sworn she had not attempted the spell once. Even the Slytherins showed varying signs and degrees of vexation. A flush crept up Malfoy’s pale neck, and he glared at the little wooden stick as if it had made some nasty comment questioning his mother’s propriety. Pansy and Daphne’s heads were bowed together, trading notes and huffing intermittently. Crabbe and Goyle had given up entirely and were guffawing together in a far corner of the room.  

Nott shot her a dangerous look after every failed attempt. He rarely ever spoke, so whenever his voice carried to her ear, it was always jarring. He turned to Malfoy and spat, “See? She can’t do a proper spell. Mudbloods have hardly any magic at all. Whatever sick twist of nature that led her to have any to begin with can never compare to the ancestral magic the rest of us were born with.” 

She wished to whirl around and scream in his face, You haven’t gotten it to work either, you horrible, mop-headed GIT! Take your ancestral magic and shove it up your-

But she shook her head, deafened herself, and focused on her task. 

What was she doing wrong? Her incantation was flawless and her wand movements precise, but there was something still missing. That spark of magic - that’s what it was! Whatever sort of potential energy catalyzed every spell. But how? How could she trigger the reaction? Most of her other uses of magic had been emotional, and sure, she was viciously angry right then and there. Yet, rage conjured fire, it shattered glass, it sought revenge; it did not transfigure matchsticks into needles.

On what she could only describe as a whim, she bent over, lifted one foot, and dragged the head of the match against the bottom of her shoe. It sparked, and a gentle flame licked up along its length. She took a steadying breath, repeated the incantation, and swished her wand just so. With a flash, the entire match was engulfed. She kept her hold on it - willfully ignoring any fear of being burned - and within a blink, it extinguished. A thin needle glinted brightly between her trembling fingers.    

“Excellent work, Miss Granger!” Professor McGonagall blessed her with a rare smile. “Ten points to Slytherin!” 

Malfoy’s mouth hung open. Pansy sneered. Daphne flashed her a shy smile and clapped, so softly it made no sound. Nott was livid; it seemed to require every ounce of his selfcontrol to resist throwing his textbook at her head. 

She could not help but snarl, “With the advantage of possessing that ancestral magic, I would think you’d all get the hang of this quicker, hm? Suppose not.”

Packing up quickly, she was poised to flee to avoid any further confrontations after class. Before she cleared the door, however, she heard Blaise call, “Thanks for the points, Granger.”

After a hectic but largely successful first day, the rest of the week passed in a blur of compulsive studying and the occasional bout of sprinting or acrobatics to make it to class or even escape her more horrid housemates. They carried their telescopes up to the Astronomy Tower every Tuesday night, observing the movements of the celestial bodies and mapping constellations onto parchment. They spent many mornings in a massive, verdant greenhouse, digging in the dirt and wrestling with magical flora. Neville was leagues ahead of all others amongst the greenery and swiftly became Professor Sprout’s star pupil. “I keep a small garden at home,” he offered abashedly. 

Hermione soon learned the ghost who lent her a helping hand was an accursed murderer dubbed the Bloody Baron, and that he was the sole spirit at Hogwarts whom Slytherins could rely on for anything at all. Peeves the Poltergeist may have been a terror unto all, but the other ghosts harbored some sort of innate disdain for the snakes, no matter how young or new to Hogwarts. This held true for some of the faculty as well. 

Sometimes it felt like she had to fight tooth and nail - or with excessive studiousness and ingenuine charm, with swottiness and outright butt-kissery - just to earn a few measly points for Slytherin. Young hero Harry Potter, on the other hand, could not politely cover a sneeze without inadvertently earning them for Gryffindor. 

She visited the hourglasses outside the Great Hall several times a day. Disgruntled and incendiary hisses were shared amongst the snakes that although they had won the House Cup the previous six years running, the clear and abhorrent favoritism shown to Potter was putting it all in jeopardy. Hermione quickly learned that there was nothing more important to Slytherin than victory. 

Blood purity is only the runner up, she mused. And that’s why I’m here. Potter will carry Gryffindor to the win over my cold, dead, mudblood body!

She understood this was not a healthy thought to have.

The final class of her week was a double-section of Potions with the lions. Seeing as the classroom was just down the hall from the Slytherin commons, the journey there lacked a certain thrill that had become characteristic to her mornings. 

She claimed a seat beside Neville. “I’ve always been a lousy cook,” he moaned. “Gran says that means I’d make an even worse potioneer.” 

“Well, think about this,” Hermione grinned. “What if Professor Snape is secretly a chef of great talent?” Neville snorted, cheering at once. 

Snape began class with a roll call, pausing at the famous name that had been rolling off everybody’s tongue all week, “Ah, yes, Harry Potter. Our new - celebrity.”

Malfoy and his goons sniggered for all to hear, but Snape did not fix them with his typical sneer. Hermione could not stop from flashing her own small, guilty smile. 

He reached the end of the list and let the silence hang for near half a minute. “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he drawled. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” He snapped his cloak on the word dunderheads, obviously. 

Hermione was not expecting such poeticisms from Snape and idly wondered, Where be your own fame and glory, then, Mister Potions Master? 

She would never say that aloud, of course. No, she had grudgingly begun to appreciate her Head of House, no matter how sullen, greasy, or overdramatic he may be. Of all the professors, she was most eager to impress him, not only to prove herself worthy of Slytherin, but also because he seemed the type of person to make you earn his esteem. It didn’t appear that one’s name or blood or fame factored into it. Why, just the other day, she was lucky enough to witness him casually wallop Malfoy on the back of his blonde head for spouting off a rude comment too loudly at the breakfast table. That aside, she heard a rumor he was halfblooded - not a pureblood, as she first assumed. Yet, the students of Slytherin regarded him with both fear and respect. 

“Potter!” Snape barked. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Hermione scoffed and lifted her hand in the air.

“I don't know, sir,” the boy replied. 

“Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” 

Several Slytherins shook with silent laughter. Hermione kept her hand aloft but propped her elbow up on the table to relax her shoulder muscles. She expected it may take a while for him to finish with this little performance. 

“I don't know, sir.”

“Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?” She’d borne witness to Snape’s self-indulgent mockery on countless occasions in this one week alone, yet there was an underlying bite to his quarrel with Potter that dug in deeper. Animosity twisted and roiled in his cold, black eyes. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“I don't know,” Harry hissed. “I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?” 

Snape cracked one of his rare, crooked grins. He cocked his head ever slightly toward her. 

She lowered her hand and adopted her loftiest tone, “Asphodel and wormwood make a potent sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar can be extracted from a goat’s stomach, and it is a universal antidote for most poisons. The last is a trick question, I believe; monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant. They also go by the name aconite.”

“Tut, tut - a famous name clearly isn't everything.” He tapped a finger to his hooked nose, as outwardly delighted as was possible for his innately sullen face. “Seeing as a girl with a worthless name has no trouble putting you in your place.”

All sniggers came to a halt. While her housemates were amused by Snape’s attacks, this last jab seemed to shake them into a state of uncertainty. They thought their own names meant everything, and they struggled with the dissonance of their disdain for the name Potter and their own nepotistic self-assurance. 

“Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?” A panicked flurry of parchment and feathered quills cut the tension. “Five points to Slytherin, and a point will be taken from Gryffindor house for your cheek, Potter.” 

Hermione was not certain how to feel. Being placed on pedestal was nice and all, and she carried the same contempt for Potter’s preferential treatment as all the other snakes, yet this still seemed unfair. It felt precariously close to bullying, even. He was an orphan, for gods sake, and while his reputation as a hero preceded him, he was nothing but polite and modest to her. Thus, Hermione swallowed her pride and shot the too-thin, bespeckled boy an apologetic look. 

She spent the rest of the class desperately fixing all of Neville’s myriad mistakes as they attempted to brew a potion meant to cure boils. With prodigious effort - shown clearly in the flush of her cheeks and the added volume of frizz to the nest of her hair - she managed to create a concoction that Snape deemed barely adequate. Malfoy, meanwhile, was evidently a whiz at potions. Hermione huffed and puffed as Snape praised the perfect way he stewed his horned slugs. 

Because he’s slimy like a slug, she thought. Even her insult felt subpar. 

Neville was near tears by the end, and she had to promise that she was not angry with him. Annoyed, maybe, but not angry, necessarily. 

Thus concluded her first week of classes at Hogwarts. 

 

---

 

To reach her appointment, Hermione passed through a tiny classroom cramped with useless junk. 

Band and film posters, faded and with curling edges, covered every inch of the walls and ceiling; Back to the Future, Black Sabbath, Psycho, Ray Charles, and many more, layered across each other. A tube television sat sentinel in the far right corner, and a massive, seemingly-ancient computer with all sorts of mysterious, outdated knobs occupied the left. At the back of the narrow room, a bicycle, chains all rusted to uselessness, was mounted to the wall. The professor’s desk was topped with a huge, plastic bucket filled with empty syringes. She gave that a wide berth and thought, How horrifically unsafe! Wooden, brightly-painted toy airplanes, propellers spinning and whirring, flew through the air in wide circles. 

She kicked the door open to the office in the back, threw her bag upon the floor, and dropped heavily with a defeated sigh into the chair across from the Muggleborn Advisor.

She asked, “What’s mudblood mean?”

Professor Charity Burbage choked on an inarticulate squawk. “Miss Granger, do not say that word!” Her eyes grew wide and bright, and her face turned red and clammy. “Who… tell me who called you that right now, and I will ensure-”

“Ensure what? That they’re punished? Expelled?” Hermione tried to mimic her most Snape-like sneer. “Do you mean to go after three quarters of my house?” She barked out a mean-spirited laugh. “Hell, I hear it whispered in the corridors even while surrounded by other colored ties.”  

“It should not be so common, dearie,” Burbage cringed and lifted her hands defensively. “Please calm down. That word is taboo, and I promise, there are consequences for saying it. I honestly did not think I’d have to tell you anything of it, so please, just-” 

“I’m not asking you to have taught me slurs,” Hermione’s voice rose and shook ever slightly. “You said nothing about this, not a word... I just knew something was wrong, ever since Diagon Alley, but you never told me anything.”

“Dear, you have to understand… In the other houses, it’s really not so bad. Sorting you to Slytherin… it was a mistake. Please, I asked Severus to-”  

“Shut up! ” She thundered, rising from her chair. “It was not a mistake!” 

The old witch flinched. She was no longer flustered in the face of Hermione’s fit, nor did she appear surprised or frightened. The look she gave her was sad. Positively miserable. Resigned and deflated and pitiful. Hermione lowered back into her seat, averted her eyes, and used her fingers to anxiously comb through her knotted hair. 

Burbage did not deserve her wrath. She was one of the few people trying to help. Really though, she was one of the only people trying to help, and the problem was that it just felt so woefully inadequate. 

“Are… are you reconsidering your stay at Hogwarts, Miss Granger?” The professor wrung her hands. “Would you have decided differently, had you known?” 

“No.” She bit out, but then added softly, “That’s not the point.” 

“I… I am deeply sorry, Hermione. Truly. But please understand that these are… extraordinary circumstances. Slytherin just… it doesn’t…”

“My apologies, I did not realize blood and birth determined which witches and wizards were allowed to be ambitious. I should’ve known to keep my head down and to stay humble, like a good little mud-…” Hermione expelled a heavy breath and rubbed at her eyes. 

They sat in silence for a while. It was a productive sort of silence, however, as it allowed some of the tension to diffuse from the air.

Hermione finally broke through, “Am I the first? The first muggleborn sorted into Slytherin?”  

“Well…” Oddly enough, this seemed to require considerable thought from the Muggle Studies expert. “Officially, yes.”

“Officially…?” She furrowed her brow. “What does that even mean? ” 

“There’s always the chance these things are lost to history, you know,” Burbage waved her hand in a vague gesture. “And there have been times in the past where certain individuals found it fortuitous to hide their blood status, but…” She darted her eyes from side-to-side, oozing uncertainty. “There was one boy I knew, in my year, actually…” 

“A muggleborn Slytherin?” Hermione perked up. “Why wouldn’t that be official? ” 

“Well… nothing was ever confirmed,” The professor shook her head. “He insisted he was halfblood, you see, but being that he came from a muggle orphanage and could never prove his parentage, most assumed him to be muggleborn.”  

“Oh… What happened to him, then? Did Slytherin accept him?” 

“In the beginning, absolutely not! ” Burbage’s laugh was taut with tension. “But by the time we graduated, he had many… loyal friends from his house.”  

Hermione nodded her head and smiled, feeling the smallest bit better.

“But he’s dead now,” Burbage coughed out. 

“Wha-” She sputtered. “Well…? What happened?”

The old, batty witch waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s not important.” She plowed ever onward, clearly eager to leave the past behind. “What is important is that all this will inevitably get better and easier for you, so please… do not carry around the anger you feel today for the rest of your life. Had that boy learned this, things may have gone rather differently for him.”

“So… Him being dead is important.” 

The professor pretended not to hear her, flashing one of her overenthusiastic, disingenuous grins. “So! How did you first week go, Miss Granger?”

Hermione scoffed but allowed the change of subject, for now. “Good, actually. Well… some aspects were mixed, I suppose... But good, I think, considering…”

“Well, good! ” Burbage clapped her hand together. “I’m quite happy to hear that, dearie!”  

“What now, then?” Hermione lounged back in her chair and flashed a grin. “You’re meant to… advise me, I suppose?”

“Yes, consider me a resource, Miss Granger! My door is wide open whenever you need anything at all. I will ask that you pay me a visit to check-in at least at the end of each term, but come as often as you’d like!”  

“I guess I can manage that.”

“And, Miss Granger… if anything extreme happens, please, don’t hesitate to come to me. Severus - er, Professor Snape - as well! He’s a good man, despite his attitude problems...” 

“Uh-huh,” Hermione dusted off her skirt and rose to her feet. “If that’s all, I think I’ll be on my way. I’ve already got three essays due - six feet of parchment put together - and I wanted to review the instructions for that stupid boils potions, and-,” She cut herself off with a hand wave, but her mind was already far away elsewhere. “Anyways! Thank you, Professor Burbage.”  

“Thank you, dear! Please, enjoy your first term at Hogwarts!”

Notes:

This is my favorite chapter that I've published thus far, so I hope you enjoy it! :)
The only notes I had were, "It's a hectic first week. Hermione is desperate to earn house points. She meets with Burbage."
Everything else is just me winging it and having a ton of fun while doing so! The original title was "The Muggleborn Advisor," but I loved the Transfiguration scene so much that I changed it to "The Spark" at the last minute.

Quick note,
I know that canonically the Slytherins and Gryffindors only share Potions, but I added DADA for the sake of later plot development.

Chapter 6: The Deviants

Hermione checked out a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages on the morning of her twelfth birthday. It was Saturday, so she planned to lay siege within the library, reading her whole day away in solitude. Nobody sent her well wishes, but that made sense, as she had not said a word about it. 

She couldn’t adequately articulate why. It wasn’t out of a sense of misplaced angst or any other such childish nonsense. She wasn’t lashing out at herself or anyone else. Everything still felt so unreal here. 

It did not feel like her birthday; it did not feel like she had parents on the outside; it did not feel like she had a life anywhere at all but at Hogwarts. She was not sad about it. This new world was just so overwhelming, and it blinded her to all else. 

Nevertheless, she had to admit, of all the new phenomena she discovered in the magical world, quidditch was by far the least interesting. She’d much rather sit through a day-long lecture in History of Magic than to hear anybody else go on about that bloody game for a single minute more. She had never cared for sports, but this was just a whole other level of dumb. 

Her thesis on the folly of quidditch was evidenced by three main points. 

First, it was dangerous. The book had an abundance of graphic depictions of the most famous quidditch injuries over the years. Falls and collisions and outright brawls. One poor witch got sucked into the engine of a muggle passenger jet back in the 70s; it recounted the gruesome tragedy with a flippant and almost jovial tone. Her team still won, after all! 

Second, the rules were just so stupid. How can it be that a team up to one hundred and forty points ahead will lose instantly if a single player catches a tiny, winged ball? Utter ridiculousness. She could just imagine her mother raging at the tele if such a thing were possible in cricket. 

Third, and most crucially of all, Malfoy was mad for quidditch. The boy had allegedly learned to fly before he learned to walk. He would not shut up about it. 

She never would have sought out Quidditch Through the Ages on her own, out of curiosity or fun - no, never, not without a significant motive! But alas, Friday night, a flyer was posted to the Slytherin bulletin board; first years were to convene, alongside the Gryffindors, on the quidditch pitch Sunday for their first flying lesson. 

Hermione was struck with panic. These books only taught about flying tangentially; they did not detail any actual instruction on how to fly. 

It’s instinctual, they say! It’s best to start them young! Set your toddler atop a toy broomstick!

She dropped her head to the table, tangled her fingers into the nest of her hair, and released a defeated groan.

 

---

 

The monstrous owl, Vercingetorix, swooped down and dropped a small package into Neville’s porridge, splattering them with the mess.

Hermione fed the bird her bacon as Neville ripped it open to reveal a glittering, glass orb. “What’s that? A crystal ball, or something?” 

“It's a Remembrall! Gran knows I forget things - this tells you if there's something you've forgotten. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red - oh…” A rosy glow lit up his freshly-fallen face.

“...you've forgotten something…,” she finished. 

They were distracted by theories of what Neville forgot - to feed Trevor his morning meal of flies, to write that essay for Charms, to change his briefs, perhaps - when a hand snatched the gift from his loose, clumsy hold. 

“What’s this, Longbottom?” The pale prince of pests lorded over them. “Some cheap bauble from granny dearest?”

Neville sputtered, reddened, and said nothing. 

“Give that back, Malfoy!” Hermione hissed. As per custom, he pretended as if she did not exist. “I swear, I’ll hex that stupid smirk right off-” 

Potter and Weasley leapt to their feet, five paces down the bench, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. They rarely paid Hermione and Neville any mind, but jumped - literally, in this case - at the opportunity to fight Malfoy. 

It was at that moment Professor Burbage bumbled upon them, a thin package clutched in one hand and a pink cupcake balanced upon the other. “What’s going on?” 

“Malfoy took Neville’s Remembrall!” Hermione spat.

The accused finally acknowledged her with an oily sneer, “Just looking.” He dropped the gift carelessly with a dull thunk and sauntered off. 

Neville collected it with trembling hands. Potter and Weasley returned to their seats, woefully disappointed to have avoided a scrimmage. Hermione crossed her arms with a huff and began to fume. 

“Miss Granger!” Burbage promptly pushed past whatever childish spat she had haplessly stumbled into. “I looked for you yesterday, but you appear quite talented at making yourself scarce!” She beamed, placing the cupcake before Hermione. “Happy Birthday! Belatedly, at least.” 

“Oh! Um… Thank you, professor.”

“And here!” She held out the package. “A gift from your parents - from the muggle post!” 

It was unwrapped to reveal a finely-made, green leather planner with an assortment of colored pens, as well as a copy of The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guin. 

“Oh, a muggle novel! I’ve not read that one, so you’ll have to lend it to me some time!” Burbage babbled excitedly. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Best of luck with your flying lesson, dearie!” She winked and skipped away. 

Neville stared down at the glowing Remembrall as she packed her gifts away in her book bag. “Hermione, I… I forgot your birthday?” 

“Er… no. You didn’t forget. I just didn’t say anything.” 

“Oh.” He deflated even further.

“Don’t worry about it, really.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

Neville clammed up for the rest of breakfast, and when they met again later for lunch, still stubbornly neglected to meet her eye or do anything but mumble monosyllables. 

Seeing as she wished to wring him dry for every ounce of flying knowledge he possessed, this treatment left her frustrated and fidgeting. He already confessed that his Gran refused to let him anywhere near a broomstick out of a justifiable fear for his life and longevity, yet he still knew more than she did. He had seen others fly, at the very least; she could only picture the warty witches from the movies, cackling and zooming through the night on their brooms, their feline familiars clutching to the bristles behind them. 

In silent resignation, they crossed the grounds together to face their lesson. Madam Hooch ushered them onto the pitch with a blow from her shrill whistle, where brooms lay in a long formation on the ground. Hermione picked one at a far corner and was quite miffed when Neville then picked another as far away from her as possible. 

The wood of it was bleached near-white by the sun. The twines stuck out every which way, broken and split in places. She wondered how Hooch would react if she bent down to break off some of the more threatening splinters. The yellow-eyed hawk of a woman bellowed, “Stick your right hand over your broom and say, ‘Up! ’”

Potter’s broom shot straight up into his hand, followed a half-second later by Malfoy’s. Fittingly, their sidekicks, Weasley and Nott, soon had theirs as well, and she was pleased to see that another muggleborn, Dean Thomas, was able to summon his own after about a minute. 

Hermione’s blasted broom just jiggled on the ground. 

Reassuringly, most other students faced similar problems. Lavender’s broom suddenly bucked up on the bristle-side and nearly whacked her full in the face. Goyle’s lifted into the air and flew away toward the forest, as if to escape him. For Neville and Millicent Bulstrode, the broom didn’t move an inch; it didn’t even vibrate a little, like it did for Tracy Davis. 

Malfoy directed his snigger at Neville, “Squibs can’t fly,” but it was Millicent who looked near tears at the jibe. 

After a while, Hooch praised those who were triumphant and then gently urged the others - suffering from differing degrees of dejection - to simply bend down and grab it. She demonstrated how to mount, admonished Pansy for attempting to ride side-saddle, and then stalked down the line fixing their grips. 

Hermione managed to maneuver herself right the first time and grinned like a loon when Hooch stopped to correct Malfoy’s grip. She caught his eye for a split second and could’ve swore she saw devastation flicker across his features. 

“Now, when I blow my whistle, kick off from the ground, hard! Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly.” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, feeling her heartbeat in her ears. “On my whistle - three - two -”

“COME BACK, BOY! ” 

Her eyes flew open. The place where Neville had been was empty. She threw her head back to see him rocketing into the air, ten, fifteen, twenty feet up, up, up. Up until whatever forces that allowed him to defy the laws of gravity - magic, she supposed - abandoned poor Neville to his reckoning with the hard earth. He fell just as fast as he had flown, hitting the ground with an unforgiving CRUNCH.

Hermione had never before felt so close to fainting; her knees wobbled and her vision blackened about the edges briefly. She tossed her own broom down and stumbled away from it as if it were about to snag her and drag her up and away into the blue void. 

She held her breath until Neville’s whimper cut through the silence. Hooch lunged forward and turned him onto his back. His face was bloodless, but his eyes were dry. “Broken wrist,” the witch crooned. “Come on, boy - it’s alright, up you get!”

He ambled to his feet, cradling his arm. “None of you move while I take him to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘quidditch! ’” Hermione resisted the urge to tail them, tracking their forms fretfully as they scurried back to the castle. 

Malfoy’s laugh jolted her, “Did you see his face? The great lump! ” 

“Shut up! ” She whirled on him, teeth bared. The rodent did not look her way, offering only a subtle twitch in reply. 

Pansy stepped between them. “Ohhh, the squib and the mudblood - a lovely match, don’t you think?”  

“Look!” Malfoy wrestled back their attention. “It’s the stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.” He lifted the glass sphere until it caught the sunlight and shimmered.

“Give that here, Malfoy.” Harry Potter’s voice was soft, yet it held a heaviness that hushed the crowd. 

The git’s grin widened. “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for him to find - how about… up a tree?” 

“Give it here! ” Potter advanced. 

Malfoy kicked at the ground and lifted into the air. He looked down his pointy nose at the fiery-eyed challenger and winked. “Come and get it, Potter.” 

“NO! ” Hermione thundered. “Madam Hooch told us not to move!” She hesitated for a heartbeat, weighing the benefits of Malfoy getting expelled, then continued, “You’ll lose us points, you brat! ” 

He blessed her with one of those quick, malignant grins - the sort she admired back in Flourish & Blotts - and rocketed away without a care. 

Potter did not hesitate to mount his own broom, lifting to meet Malfoy in the sky. The gaggle of earthbound students mixed their gasps, cheers, and groans, avid spectators to the drama unfolding above their heads. 

Hermione balled her fists and stomped her feet. She dropped to the ground cross-legged to rip at the grass in a rage, waiting for those stupid boys to finish their game.

 

---

 

Malfoy got away with it, maddeningly, and although Potter was caught, he avoided expulsion, predictably. She was far from shocked, and honestly, couldn’t bring herself to feel even the indignant fury she wished to. 

They lost no house points, after all, and once it was over, Potter awkwardly approached her to return Neville’s Remembrall. She mumbled her thanks and gave him a gracious smile in return. The pale-eyed thief glared daggers at them from across the Great Hall. 

Hermione had no wish to stick around to witness any further clashes. She piled her dinner plate high with enough food for two and scampered off to the hospital wing. 

She found Neville splayed across a cot, his wrist encased in a thick cast. When he spotted her, his eyes widened and swiftly averted. She slowed her steps in hesitation, but ultimately decided to plow on ahead, unfazed. How could she figure out what was the matter if she didn’t push? The bed squeaked as she sat. She set their dinner on a side table and tossed his gift in an arch toward him. Surprisingly, he caught it deftly with his good hand. 

“Malfoy stole it, but Potter played the hero and got it back,” Hermione shrugged. “Be sure to thank him when you return to your commons. I’m sure your housemates will recount it for you in vivid, melodramatic detail.” 

Neville stared at the bauble, mouth sealed shut.

She continued, voice now unsteady, “I’m so sick of Malfoy. I don’t understand why he picks on you so much! He’s a brat and a thief, and I’m just glad the gift from your Gran didn’t get-”

“Oh, who cares! ” Neville finally blurted. “I’ll never remember what I forgot!” He chunked his Remembrall to the blanket by his feet, and then met her eye for the first time since morning. “Tell me, Hermione - are we friends?” 

“Wha- what do you mean, are we friends? Of- of course, we’re friends!” She was not one to commonly stutter and tremble at a hardened tone, but she most assuredly did when it came from Neville and was directed at her. “Are… are we not friends…?” 

“I dunno!” He threw up his hands, his voice finally cracking. “If we are, why didn’t you tell me about your birthday?” 

“Oh,” Her face burned hot. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean anything by it, Neville. I was just being weird, I guess. It’s all me… ” She hung her head and took his uninjured hand in one of her own. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, because you are my friend, I swear.” 

“We could’ve done something fun…” He finally cracked a shaky smile. “And I bet Gran would’ve sent you something as well. She likes you! She’s glad I’ve made a friend...” He squeezed her hand. “You promise, you… you don’t just keep me around cause you’ve got nobody else?”

“No, Neville, absolutely not!” She stuck her nose in the air in an indignant pose but held her playful smirk. “I’m accustomed to being alone, thank you very much! I’m fine being by myself, really! I wouldn’t waste any time with you if I didn’t like you.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! ” 

He blurted, “I’m a lousy potions partner.”

“Yes, Neville, I’m aware.” 

“I just don’t understand why you… why you want to be friends with a sniveling coward like me.” He sniffled, as though trying to prove this.   

“Oh, hush! I like you just fine!” She waved a hand in dismissal. “What about you, then? Why do you want to be friends with an insufferable know-it-all? A self-hating, muggleborn snake?”

He sputtered, “Hermione, I- I don’t think-“ 

“Exactly!” She snapped, wagging her finger at him. “Quit with all the self-flagellation, then!” 

After stewing in thoughtful silence for a bit, Neville’s smile returned. They ate their dinner and chatted aimlessly, letting the tension bleed from the air. Hermione did not want to muck things up again, yet there was still one risky topic she felt necessary to broach before the dust settled.

“Is a… is a squib someone born without magic?” 

“I’m not a squib! ” He wailed, eyes wide. 

“I’m not saying you are!” She lifted her hands in a sign of surrender. “Obviously! You flew today, Neville. Near twenty feet! On accident, perhaps, but still! ”

He sniffled again, but it was an optimistic sort of sniffle. “I did, didn’t I? Fly, that is.” He gave her a pitiful, wonderful grin. 

“Yes, you did! I never even got off the ground! It’s just… the whole squib thing keeps coming up, and it clearly bothers you.”

“Yeah, well… I was… a bit of a late bloomer, I suppose. Some in my family thought I was a squib, actually…” Wringing his hands and averting his eyes, he mumbled, “My magic didn’t manifest till my uncle dropped me out a window, you see…”

“Wha -,” She squawked. 

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“You’re not a squib, Neville.” Hermione put her hands to her hips. “Don’t listen to that rat bastard, Malfoy! I don’t know what all that good breeding supposedly went toward, but it certainly wasn’t his manners, or his morals, or his face! ” 

“Yeah, I know…” He smirked. “He’s just jealous, anyways.” 

“Right! He’s just- wait, jealous? ” She furrowed her brow. 

“Yeah, jealous! He’s surrounded by nothing but nasty gits and goons, and I’ve got a great friend like Hermione Granger.” He reached down to rummage amongst the blankets, unearthing the forgotten Remembrall. “Here! I want you to have it… for your birthday.”

She gasped, “But I never forget anything!”

Neville chuckled, “Yeah, yeah… but if you ever do, it’ll be catastrophic, I bet.” He held the glittering orb out for her, still illuminated in his grasp. “Please, take it! Like I said, it’ll glow nonstop for me, and I’ll never be able to remember anything. You might find it more useful.”

She accepted the gift with a shy smile. When her hand closed around it, the light within died.

 

---

 

“You’re a colossal idiot, you know?” 

When Nott’s assault rang out, Hermione flinched and sank down in her chair. At first, she was sure he had spotted her, hunched over a hefty tome in her hiding place. 

The cobweb-adorned alcove, lit by just enough ghostly glow to parse out her scribbles on the parchment, was the only spot in her common room where she felt comfortable doing homework. She made the mistake of sitting by the fireplace her first week, only to have not one, not two, but three different students knock the ink well over onto her freshly-writ work - by accident, supposedly. Although corralled there by unfair circumstances, she quite enjoyed her secret spot. By her head hung a porthole, peering out into the lake’s deep, dark abyss. Often, the giant squid paid her a visit. She liked to believe it recognized her face, green-tinged and gawking through the glass. 

“Oh come ooon, Theo!” Malfoy drawled. “You’d make a much better second than Crabbe. Not that I’ll need my second, of course, but he doesn’t know any proper hexes! I’ll want someone to take care of the Weasel once I put Potter in his place, and it won’t be nearly as cool if he just pummels him. Just think - you can try out that new jinx your father taught you, the one with all the puss?”

“What do you think my father would say if we were caught out after dark playing around with Harry Potter of all people?” 

“We’re not playing, we’re dueling! ”

“Right,” Nott snorted. “You’ve been acting like such a child. Toying with Potter, mouthing off to Snape, paying mind to that filthy mud-”

“We are children, Theo! Lighten up a little, yeah?”

Nott was quiet for a time. When he again spoke, his voice was soft and flat, “Best of luck, Draco. Better hope Potter isn’t the one to put you in your place. That’d be humiliating, wouldn’t it?” His footsteps faded as he retreated to the boys’ dorms. 

From the shadows, Hermione heard Malfoy huff and puff, muttering what were surely obscenities under his breath. With the creak of a leather chair and the heavy thump of books hitting a table, she guessed he was settling in to tackle his own mountain of homework.

Sacrificing her self-preservation for the sake of house-point-preservation, she rose, stuck her head outside the safety of her hiding spot, and cleared her throat just loud enough for him to hear.

He startled and pivoted. His eyes narrowed when they landed on her, then swiftly darted from side-to-side. Seeing nobody else around as a witness, he visibly relaxed, smirked wickedly, and shot up. He ducked into the alcove and squeezed into the seat across from her. 

“You little sneak.” He somehow snarled while maintaining his grin. “Eavesdropping on conversations like that… your kind really is as shifty and scheming as they say.”

“Ah, yes. Cunning schemers, all.” She tried her best to mimic his gleeful yet vile smile. “None more so than me, evidently, seeing as I’m a Slytherin.”  

He appeared to trip over what to say next. “ You - you’re a freak of nature is what you are!” 

“Mm, what was it you said before, in Flourish & Blotts? ” She tapped a finger to her chin. “That I was meant for Slytherin? ”

“That was before I knew! ” His smirk finally crumbled. “You and Longbottom, both - you’re deviants! Living proof that old fool of a hat is defective and should be tossed to the trash where it belongs.” 

“Leave Neville out of-”

“It’s perverse and poetic, really! The squib and the mudblood; a coward to Gryffindor, and you to Slytherin?” He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s like an awful joke you can’t help but laugh at.”

“Fine! ” Hermione spat, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Go away! Go sneak off to your stupid duel with Potter! I hope he hexes your pants off! I hope Professor Snape chews you out and gives you a wallop or two, for good measure! I hope your Mummy doesn’t send you sweets for the rest of the year, and that Daddy Dearest gives you a good spanking come Christmas!”

Unable to quit shaking after her explosive outburst, she quickly and clumsily gathered her things. Malfoy said nothing, but his face bled to dark red and his nostrils flared. Just as she leapt up to make an escape, he lunged and grabbed her arm. “What do you care? Huh?” He threw her back into her seat, and the impact snapped her teeth together painfully. “You can’t talk to me like that… not a lowly, little mudblood like you.” 

“I’ll talk to you however I wish!” She hissed, fury cutting through her fear. “I care because I’ve worked hard to earn all those points for Slytherin! I won’t let a selfish brat like you ruin it!” 

“Potter is the one who’ll ruin it!” He snapped, leaning in too close. “He’s the one all the professors shower with praise and points, unearned! I’m just trying to teach him a lesson!” 

“You won’t teach him anything if you get caught, you utter dunce!” Fighting the instinct to angle farther away from him, she bit out, “If you wanted to be smart about it, you’d let him show up to the duel alone and rat him out to Snape! We all know he’s just foaming at the mouth for a chance to punish Potter. Humiliate him, rob Gryffindor of points, and save yourself the risk - like a proper Slytherin! ” 

He took a deep breath and settled back into his chair. The redness of his face soon faded to its ordinary pallor. She squirmed, wishing to flee, but fully expected him to grab and catapult her back into the chair again if she tried.  

After a while, he smiled crookedly at her, malevolent and full of venom. “Good thinking, Granger.” He jumped to his feet, winked at her, and slipped from the alcove.

Hermione hid there for nearly an hour, unable to read further or get any more of her homework done. 

 

---

 

Potter and Weasley sat at the breakfast table, heads bowed close together, chattering quietly yet excitedly. The crimson-colored sand of the humongous Gryffindor hourglass piled up to the same height that it had the night before. No one was punished, no points had been taken, and there was not even a dampened mood at the table of lions. 

Hermione could not help but spare Malfoy a glance. He met her eye with a grimace, and they shared a brief moment of secret, silent commiseration. 

She ripped her attention away when Neville slammed his bag down, harumphed heavily, and dropped his bottom to the bench with violence. 

“Er, Neville-,” she croaked. Her heart stuttered out of fear that he had found some new reason to be angry at her. “What…?”

He dropped his head to the table and groaned, “ Ugh! What was that stupid hat thinking? ” 

“Oh, quit!” She snipped, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Don’t you start that. Remember the whole self-flagellation thing I was on about yesterday? Must I go over it all again?” 

“I’m not saying there’s something wrong with me,” he muttered. “It’s just… I don’t belong, Hermione! I thought my sorting meant I had something to prove, you know? That there’s something in me deep, deep down that makes me Gryffindor…”

“But…?” She braced herself, trying her hardest not to take personal offense to what he was about to say, seeing as he’d just put into words exactly how she felt about her own sorting.  

“But what does it matter… if everyone still thinks I’m a coward… no matter what I do?” 

…a mudblood… no matter what I do…

Hermione had no witty quip, snide remark, or elucidative lecture in response to that. Really, she was desperate to know the answer herself. 

All of the house points she earned, the wicked scheme she cooked up with Malfoy, the hours and effort that went into proving herself the best, the brightest, the one who wants it most… would it really matter? If she was miserable. If she was scorned by her peers. If her magic never got her anything worthwhile, then why? 

Neville lifted his head, leaned in close, and lowered his voice. “I got locked out of my common room last night… I forgot the password again…”

“…Okay?” She scoffed and shook her head. “That doesn’t make you less a Gryffindor, Neville, for pete’s sa-“

“ Ahem! I got locked out, and… Harry and Ron tripped over me coming out. They were sneaking off to duel Malfoy or something dumb like that.”

“Ah,” said Hermione. 

“I didn’t want them to get in any trouble… and I wanted to show I could be… brave and bold, like them…” He cleared his throat and fixed her with what could be called a proud look. “So, I chose to go too!” 

“That was…” She wanted to fuss at him for joining in on the folly, but shame for the part she played in the whole ordeal dulled her barbs. “…a very silly thing to do.” 

“But the duel with Malfoy was all a trick! That slimy git didn’t even show up! Mrs. Norris sniffed us out and we were nearly caught by Filch…” Neville’s eyes lit up as he gesticulated wildly. “We ran away, and… do you remember that spell you showed me when you read ahead in the Charms textbook - Alohomora? - I did it! I got it right the first time! I unlocked a door for us to hide!”

“Wow, really? ” She could not strip the shock from her tone but was nevertheless glad to witness Neville’s growth. Enough to rocket high into the sky, follow Gryffindor’s heroic twosome into certain danger, and successfully perform a second-year charm - all in one day.

“And that’s… that’s where it all went wrong…” His face fell, and he fixed her with a look both frustrated and pitiful. “In our panic, we ran to the out-of-bounds corridor… Hermione… there was a monster in that room!” 

Hermione choked on her pumpkin juice mid-swallow. “Wha- What do you mean, a monster? ” 

“A huge, hungry, three-headed dog! I thought we were going to die!” 

“…Cerberus?” 

“Huh?”

“Nevermind! What happened next, Neville? How are you still alive!? What’s a creature like that doing there in the first place?! It was just… the dog? Nothing else? Just a room with some random monster and nothing else? What is wrong with this school!?!” Her voice shrilled higher with each question. 

“I dunno,” Neville shrugged. “I’m sure Headmaster Dumbledore has his reasons… But we were lucky! We ran out of there as fast as we could. When we finally got back to our commons, though… Ron made fun of me for crying and shaking so much, as if he didn’t scream his head off right along with me! I thought Harry might stick up for me and all, since he didn’t laugh at his jokes or anything… but he and Ron just went off by themselves to talk about what happened… as if I wasn’t there with them in the first place… So, you see - it doesn’t matter what I do, Hermione. They don’t wish to be my friend… they’ll just keep seeing me as a coward…” 

Hermione dwelled on this tale for a few heartbeats, then blurted, “Well that’s just a load of rubbish!” She slapped both palms to the table, making Neville flinch. “Oh, you cried a little? So what? You almost got eaten by a three-headed hellhound! So what if they’re too stupid to react correctly!?”

“You would’ve cried, Hermione?” 

“Well… not in front of anybody,” she added sheepishly. “I would have later, though, by myself! But guess what? That’s cause I’m a bit of a coward, in my own special way… I don’t have the guts to cry in front of others!” 

“Er… I don’t think that makes much sense.”

“You’re thinking about this the wrong way, then!” She struck her signature pose, nose in the air, hands on her hips. “You snuck out for a duel, cast a brand new spell under pressure, and despite coming so close to dying last night, you seem okay this morning! Grumpy, sure, but okay!” 

“I guess… but Harry and Ron…” 

“It doesn’t matter what they think. They can call us cowards or freaks or deviants or whatever…” Neville raised an eyebrow. “We know where we belong, and that’s all that matters. We deviate a little! So what?”

”It just sounds weird… Deviant? ” He scrunched up his nose. “I kind of like it, actually… It makes us sound way cooler than we are…” 

Hermione didn't think it sounded cool at all, honestly, but she was trying to make a point. “You tried to prove yourself to Potter and Weasley, and it nearly got you killed! I tried to impress Mal- er… I try so hard to impress the Slytherins, and it gets me nowhere! I’m certain we’re in our respective houses for a reason… and our time will come, you know?” 

Neville stewed on this, furrowing his brow. After a while, he leaned toward her and whispered, “D’you think there’s others?”

“…other what…?”

“Other Deviants… ”

“Uh… I guess? Probably?” She shrugged and shook her head. “I find it hard to believe that most of us can be only and perfectly kind… wise… brave… cunning… We all deviate at least a little.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too.” Neville’s eyes were wide, bright, and clear. He grinned at her and declared, “Let’s find them.” 

Chapter 7: Tears & Treacle Tart

It felt only fitting that Hermione’s first lesson on the history of Samhain would come from a professor no longer numbered among the living. Thus, she dearly wished Pansy would shut up so that she could hear it. 

Professor Bins either didn’t notice - or, more likely - just didn’t care. His inflection was unaffected and his tone stayed stubbornly flat as he droned, “…the advent of the darker half of the year…”

“Oh, Daph, it’s going to be so wonderful.” Pansy knocked her friend’s shoulder, jostling her limply. Daphne’s eyes, dry yet rimmed red, were fixed ahead. She watched Bins as he floated back and forth at the head of the classroom yet still seemed not to listen.  

Hermione barely managed to catch, “…thinning the veil between the realms of the living and dead…,” before the next warble rang out.

“Aren’t you excited? It’s your first without your parents, right?”

“Pans, I’m… I’m trying to listen…,” Daphne muttered.  

“…honoring our magical ancestors with offerings of…”

“And the first since your grandmother passed, so maybe we could bring treacle tart? I miss her special recipe, don’t you? Daph? ” 

Instead of answering, Daphne leaned forward on her elbows and rubbed roughly at her eyes. Pansy lifted a hand as if to brush back her companion’s hair. Then, her mouth twisted bitterly, and she lowered it.  

The brief reprieve from her rambling allowed Hermione to catch at least a sizable chunk of two sentences, “…lit cleansing bonfires and donned masks to ward off evil spirits. They divined their futures through the use of apples and nuts by…” 

“I made you one that looks like a dragon! One of those Chinese ones you like, with the bright red scales and those long, wispy things coming out from its snout. Mine’s an owl, with coloring kind of like Carmilla’s.”  

“…muggles were often targeted with tricks, mostly harmless but…” Hermione cleared her throat and sneered at them, but Pansy failed to even notice, wholly absorbed in a world inhabited by only herself and her cheerless friend. 

“We’ll eat our dinner as quickly as we can at the regular feast, and then Snape will let us take whatever we want as offerings once we're done. Be sure to figure out what you want to offer and set it aside, okay?”

“…incidents of hysteria, leading to the odd witch hunt or massacre…”

“Draco said we can all walk there together. He wouldn’t tell me what his mask is. Says I’ll just have to wait and see, but Theo-”

Daphne’s chair belted out a horrid shriek as it dragged across the hard floor. It nearly toppled over from how forcefully she had risen. She packed her things quickly and quietly, then stomped out of the classroom mid-lecture, face flat and without care. 

Professor Bins did not stop, look up, or even stutter.

 

---

 

October proved to be total chaos for all of Hogwarts, jam-packed with pranks, tricks, and theatrics of all kinds. For Hermione in particular, however, it was Hell. 

The purebloods valued their traditions, after all, and the history and rites of Samhain formed the perfect excuse to torment muggleborns. Targeting her with nasty jinxes seemed to merit the same attitude and level of discipline as those Weasley twins setting off dungbombs in a crowded corridor. 

Just fun and games, don’t you know? 

While walking down the hall one morning, she felt a strange rippling sensation like a powerful puff of air blowing through her curls. She thought little of it at the time, presuming it simply a draft. 

Within an hour, her characteristic frizz had doubled in heft and volume. She tried to convince herself it was just the humidity, though the air was not even the least bit muggy. Students wearing ties of all four colors snickered at her as they passed. By dinner time, each individual strand of hair stood on end, at attention, in every possible direction. She was not unlike a furious or frightened cat; she looked electrocuted. 

Neville’s pinched mouth and red cheeks exposed his struggle to suppress his own laughter. He finally released a gasping, high-pitched giggle as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time. 

The look on her face soon had him stuttering, “I-I’m sorry, Hermione… It’s harmless, at least.” 

“Right,” she snapped.

Her housemates were in hysterics. For once, Malfoy unashamedly stared at her while in sight of the others. Of course, his grin was grotesquely wide, and he sniggered every time she looked up. Hermione thought that Pansy’s shrill cackle was the perfect imitation of a hyena in heat. Nott never laughed as far as she could tell, but his lips still tilted up at the corners. 

Thankfully, the hex faded by the time her head hit the pillow that night. 

Three days later, she careened down a stairwell, racing to dismount before it thought to start spinning or rising or jigging about. Just as she readied to leap across the disappearing stair, her vision darkened. She gasped and stumbled. Her foot passed through the false step, and she nearly tumbled down between the gap it left. She was lucky her arms extended to catch the fall, though her elbows banged painfully hard to the stone landing. In utter darkness, she kicked at empty air, and all her effort went toward staying aloft and holding in her tears.

Eventually someone took pity on her, hauling her upward by the arms. She guessed by the voice that it was one of the Weasley twins; she didn’t know which. His near-permanent grin lent a titled pitch to his tone. “Finite! ” Her vision instantly cleared and a weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. The first thing to catch her unobstructed eye was his bright red hair. “The Pumpkin-Head Jinx! A Halloween classic.” 

“Quite unsafe and uncalled for on the stairs though,” called an identical voice behind him. Another mop of ginger hair bobbed in her periphery. 

Hermione mumbled her thanks and scurried off.    

Her awful week was wrapped up with a rather eventful Potions class. She sweated above a steaming cauldron of shrinking solution as Neville scribbled down the figures and ingredients she listed aloud. Once done, she asked, “So… Do you want to attend the bonfire? I know it’s more of a Slytherin thing, but most other pureblood families go to those too, right? Does yours?”  

“Eh,” he shrugged. “I’ve been to a couple before. I like other Halloween stuff better, though… The bonfires can sometimes be… political, I guess? They make it all about old blood, you know…?” 

Nott’s cold voice cut in from behind, “Muggles aren’t welcome. The cleansing fires are meant to ward off the evil intentions of your kind. You’d be lucky to avoid getting knocked into the flames.” 

“I’m not a muggle! ” Hermione hissed, whirling to face him. 

“We do it to honor the spirits of our magical ancestors. To celebrate the power of the blood they passed to us,” he snarled. “You’ve got nothing but mud flowing through your veins. The bonfires belong only to us.” His pale, blonde partner smirked beside him, nodding along. “If you intrude, I promise, we’ll pay you back with pain.” Then, Malfoy’s mirth faltered. 

As Nott finished his diatribe, Daphne crossed between their tables, clutching an open jar of newt eyes tightly to her chest. Although the tall girl was ordinarily graceful, her feet suddenly jerked and twisted beneath her. Mid-tumble, she seemed to shove the jar out of her own grasp, chucking it directly at Nott. It hit the table and shattered, dousing his shirtfront and trousers with a deluge of vicious liquid and tiny, black eyeballs. He shot to his feet and roared unintelligibly. Malfoy, splashed a little as well, cantered back and began gagging. 

Daphne’s laugh was at first laced with nervousness, “Oh, sorry! ” But, then… she could not seem to stop. It grew louder; the corners of her mouth titled up and up and up. Her eyes were wild and bright, and a soft, pretty blush dusted across her cheeks. 

Unable to stop, she carried her laughter with her as she skipped back to the table she shared with Pansy. Her pug-nosed potions partner was blood-drained and gawking. It was as if she and Daphne had momentarily swapped their temperament and pallor. 

“Mind your step, Greengrass. If you waste any more of my ingredients, I’ll equip you with a dull scalpel and have you replenish the eyeball stores in detention for the rest of the term.” Snape grimaced and snapped a finger at Malfoy and Nott. “You two! Get out before you begin to reek.” 

The lions could hardly tamp down their glee. Potter smiled brightly, and Weasley clamped a hand firmly to his mouth, failing to smother his guffaws. Hermione and Neville shared satisfied smirks. 

“Quiet! Or I’ll take five points from Gryffindor.”

Malfoy launched a furious sneer toward Daphne’s table as he fled, clutching his nose in a desperate attempt to stay ignorant to his increasing pungency. Pansy still gaped like a fish, eyes brimming with tears. Daphne, meanwhile, fought a losing battle to conquer her errant giggles.

Hermione expected Nott to be either seething with rage or frigidly stonefaced. Rather, he looked about to cry , and his wet, widened eyes were glued to the ground as he stumbled across the room in a pitiful daze.

It was a silver lining to her month full of mayhem and misfortune.

 

---

 

The festivities intensified the week of Halloween, quite often at Hermione’s expense. Always on alert, she dodged stinging hexes in the hall, only getting nipped every third attempt or so. Her reflexes were growing sharper by the day, really, so it wasn’t all bad. She was quite eager to learn a few hexes herself, so she looked on the bright side and considered this an opportunity to learn. 

One afternoon, she was absurdly lucky to look down at her orange juice before taking a sip. An unknown trickster had transfigured it into thick, bubbling mud. 

Some bigot out there thinks they’re clever, she mused, dropping the cup, splattering its contents across the floor. Then she felt bad for letting her dramatics blow back on poor Filch, who had never done anything to her and would undoubtedly have to clean up the mess. She cast a quick scourgify and raked her narrowed eyes across the Great Hall, hoping the mud-slinger was watching her. 

The next day, she handed in a four-foot essay on the techniques and minutia of small-scale inanimate transfiguration. McGonagall raised one eyebrow and turned the parchment back toward her; the letters were all jumbled, bumbling and twisting and crawling over the page like a routed army of panicked ants.  

“Um… Prof-Professor… I don’t…,” Hermione's voice cracked. 

McGonagall gave a small, sad smile and waved her wand over it. “No worries, Miss Granger.” All the words dutifully returned to their proper place. 

Curiously, Hermione found company in her trials and tribulations. 

The day after the Potions incident, she noticed a subtle disturbance in the equilibrium of her dorm room. The first-year Slytherin girls kept close, literally, pushing their four-posters together to form one massive, master bed by the window. They often stayed up late into the night giggling, gossiping, and fiddling with each other’s hair. Hermione told herself she was not jealous at all. Nope! Not one bit, she lied.  

But now, one of the beds had been broken off and shoved away, supposedly shunted from their girlish commune. The sparkling stuffed unicorn - bewitched to gallop about the sheets with bothersome snorting and neighing - marked it as Daphne’s. 

Hermione was slow getting to breakfast that morning, having stayed up late to get ahead on her Astronomy homework. Pansy, Tracy, and Millicent loitered by the door, ready to depart.

“Should we… wait for Daph?” Millicent mumbled, shifting from foot-to-foot. 

Pansy was still pale and peaky. She huffed, “No.”  

Tracy chuckled, “Why would we? She’s so embarrassing.”  

“Shut up,” Pansy snapped. “She just needs to learn a lesson… alright? She needs to just accept it, and stop acting… like that.”

So, they left. 

Hermione wished to shower, but the bathroom was shut and locked. Putting her ear to the door, she could just barely detect the sound of Daphne whining and gasping over the pitter patter of running water. It was not unusual for her to do this. She had these early morning pity parties most days. The other girls never really acknowledged it, yet they always waited for her to finish. Until now, that is. 

Wholly uncomfortable with the mad girl’s mood swings, Hermione didn’t hesitate to leave as well. 

In the days that followed, Daphne Greengrass was paid whatever lesson the girls supposedly owed her. Although she never said much to begin with, she would still cough out the occasional quip to Pansy or mumble gently with Millicent as they traversed the corridors together. Normally, the other girls acted as if she blessed them with these rare moments of sociability, instantly and patiently quieting to hear what she deigned to say.  

Now, whenever Daphne spoke, they ignored her. They talked over her and laughed. They could be silent when the poor girl began to speak, then they would abruptly start howling and jeering at some joke they shared hours ago. If she sat at the table before them, they sat far elsewhere. If she sat beside them after they had already chosen seats, they would simply turn away. 

After a day or so of this, she stopped speaking altogether. She no longer tried to go near them, drifting about aimlessly like a lovely, woeful specter.

 

---

 

On Halloween morning, they found the Great Hall not only transfigured into an autumnal spectacle - with humongous pumpkins lining the walls and a glowing purple miasma laced into the bewitched ceiling - but also packed with a horde of dubiously welcome, clearly dead guests. 

Ghosts, both familiar haunts to the halls of Hogwarts and mysterious strangers, were scattered about the benches. Hermione was all but convinced that they looked alarmingly more corporeal. The veil had evidently thinned. 

She insisted they take a seat beside the Bloody Baron.

“Everybody will sit far away and leave us alone. He’s really not so bad.”

“B-but I… I…” Neville drained of blood, but once Hermione put her foot down, there was really no point in arguing. 

She was correct. The Bloody Baron created a natural perimeter in which she could feel just a smidge safer from the imminent Halloween hijinks. She happily scarfed down her bacon, eggs, and buttered toast. Neville chewed slowly and mechanically, blindly selecting his own piece of toast and dumbly lifting it to his trembling mouth dry and bare of any butter or jam. The Baron - clearly sensing the boy’s fright - delighted in staring at him, wide-eyed and without blinking, as he tried his hardest to eat. 

After several minutes of this, Neville stumbled to his feet and muttered, “I’ve got- gotta get to cl-class…,” and bolted without a backward look.

Hermione turned to her dead benchmate and snapped, “That was quite rude of you, sir.”  

He struck his signature pose, lifting and jangling his manacled wrists, moaning through a flat face devoid of any sincere despair. She huffed in reply and returned to her meal. He continued to stare menacingly at other nearby, nervous students. 

After finishing, she near-sprinted down between the tables, eager to flee the hall before any hexes could fly her way. It was hopeless, however.

A flash of purple light struck her in the back of one knee, and all at once, both of her legs spasmed out of control. Still propelled forward, she danced epileptically for several more steps before her legs twisted and tangled beneath her. She tripped, pitched forward, and her forehead smacked into a nearby bench with a sickening CRACK. 

Light flashed behind her eyes. Her legs concluded their riot but felt unpleasantly fuzzy. She found everything too bright and hazy. Lifting a shaking hand to her screaming head, she withdrew it to find a smear of dark blood. It took all of her focus not to double over and spew her breakfast across the spinning floor.

As if at a great distance, she dimly perceived Snape’s furious tirade as he lifted a fourth-year Slytherin girl from a seat by the scruff of her collar. He dragged her from the hall without ever looking at Hermione.

“Up you go, dearie.” A pair of hands closed around her arms and pulled. “We need to get you to the hospital wing, stat!” 

After finding her footing, Hermione pushed Professor Burbage away. “Get off! I- I know where it is,” she panted. “I can get there myself.” 

Swinging and stumbling out of the Great Hall, she stopped only when out of sight to take a few trembling yet steadying breaths. The corridor pitched and twirled before her eyes, yet her feet obediently carried her forward as she ran a hand along the wall for balance. She was glad the halls were empty, as she lacked the mental acuity to dam or dry the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks. 

Another unwelcome hand snagged her arm. Without thinking, Hermione swung around and shoved its owner away as forcefully as she could. “I said, get off! ” 

Daphne hit the wall and sank to the floor, owl-eyed and gasping. 

It did not matter that she was a near-constant wreck, who cried frequently and vigorously for all to see more often than she spoke or smiled; Hermione still was not willing to shed her own tears in front of her. So, she turned tail and fled, leaving the other pitiful girl rocking to-and-fro on the cold stone floor.

 

---

 

It was such a horrendous day that Hermione made the monumental decision to skip out on her classes. No matter that her bleeding head and clear concussion were fixed with a few swishes of Madam Pomfrey’s wand; she found herself in a different sort of daze and thus could not trust herself to resist either breaking down in front of her classmates or setting them all ablaze. 

By evening, however, she swallowed both her pride and shame, wishing to have a decent Halloween feast, at least. The worst of her tormentors would presumably leave early for the Samhain bonfire. 

The second she sat, Neville turned his wet, wide eyes toward her. Before he could say anything, she spat, “I’m fine. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves, please.” 

He grimaced, nodded his head in reluctant agreement, then added, “I hear the girl who did it got detention with Snape for the rest of the year, and he threatened to pull her from quidditch if she does anything like it again.”

Hermione simply shrugged and pivoted her attention elsewhere. 

Many wore masks; a few pretty and vividly colorful, some silly and meant to mock or delight, and then those that were warped, menacing, and terrible. Pansy wore that owl mask she prattled on about, with moon-colored feathers and shiny black orbs for eyes. Millicent went as a unicorn, sparkling and replete with a long, twisted horn. Tracy was an ivory-skinned, blushing maiden; it was unclear whether her uncanny visage was meant to be more beautiful or frightening. Crabbe and Goyle had matching Gargoyle masks; the former smiling grotesquely, the latter grimacing in apparent woe. Malfoy and Nott both played at being demons. The red, snarling imp with stubby horns and bloody teeth belonged to Nott. The dark purple devil with a wicked grin and bright yellow eyes hid Malfoy’s pointy face. 

Hermione and Neville’s dinner started off steeped in silence, but after a while, they thawed. They began to jostle and laugh just like everyone else as they enjoyed the treats before them. Little by little, the masked students finished eating, collected new plates piled high with food to offer their ancestors, and marched out of the Great Hall to find the fires outside. 

Within half an hour, the Slytherin table was near-empty, and even the other house tables were riddled with gaps as their purebloods slipped out. The first-year snakes were unexpectedly some of the last to leave. As they passed, Hermione caught hints at what kept them back.

“Don’t fret, Pans!” Tracy whined. “We didn’t think she was coming, so who cares?”

“Is she still…?” Millicent mumbled.

“Yes,” snapped Pansy. “She’s been there the entire damn day… I thought she’d at least come to the feast! I don’t-”   

Nott abruptly cut in, “I’ll go get her.”

“You will not,” she scoffed. “She’s hiding in the girl’s bathroom, Theo. You’re going in after her, eh?”

“Er… ,” he stumbled. 

They drifted out of earshot and exited the hall.  

Hermione sat in silence for a few moments. A decision clicked firmly into place within her, and she began to swiftly fill a fresh plate. 

“Uh… Hermione…?” Neville lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not… going to the bonfire… right? You remember what Nott said…” She shot him a sharp look as she plopped down a dollop of mashed potatoes. “I’m not saying you should be afraid of him or anything! Of course! It’s just…” 

“I’m not going to the bonfire.” Swinging her legs over the bench, she jumped up and scampered off without another word. 

The empty hall echoed with her pounding footsteps, and the air hung heavy with an eerie haze that Hermione could only blame on all the additional ghostly guests in the castle that night. Unsure which bathroom Daphne had hid herself in, she figured that the one in the dungeons and closest to their commons was a reasonable bet. One step inside, and aha! Sobs could be heard from within. 

Hermione timidly approached the only locked stall and knocked softly, “Daphne?” She cleared her throat and rapped her knuckles more insistently. “It’s, uh… Hermione… Can you let me in? I’ve got… um… food…?”

Only a choking gasp and further sniffles answered her. 

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she ventured. “I didn’t mean to shove you like that. You just startled me, is all…”  

After another minute of nothing but continued crying, she sighed in resignation and dropped to the grimy floor. She pushed the plate through the gap under the door and then crawled on her hands and knees after it, clumsily treading over her own hair in the process and squawking in annoyance as it tugged painfully. 

Daphne sat atop the toilet, watching her warily through swollen, flooded eyes. Hermione worked very hard to wipe her expression clean of annoyance, but her “Hi!,” came out more as a huff.  

Their staredown grew intolerable, with her crouched upon the floor, blushing and uncertain, and Daphne lording above, still blubbering. 

Hermione contorted herself to a cross-legged position, a hand on each knee, and said, “Well, um…”

Hiccupping and rubbing roughly at her eyes, the other girl tried to reign in her tears, the violence of which had rendered her speechless. “I- I ha… hick! ”

Finally, she croaked, “I hate Halloween…!”  

Hermione hadn’t the slightest clue why, but she snorted. A second later, Daphne’s grimace flipped, and she began to cough out giggles between her gasps. She wiped away the wetness from her reddened cheeks, and opened her mouth to continue, 

CRRRRRRAAASHHH! 

The thunderous interruption was followed by a stomach-churning odor, reminiscent of toe cheese, sewage, and certain unsavory spots in Downtown London. Daphne’s wet eyes widened, and she placed a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. Booming footfalls, nasally grunts, and the awful shriek of some heavy object dragging across the stone floor grew louder and louder. It stopped. The two terrified girls stared at each other, but then with another CRRAAAAASSH , the bathroom door caved in.  

Hermione nearly shrieked, but Daphne lunged forward and slapped a hand over her mouth. “QUIET,” she hissed. “It’s a troll! ”

Dropping to the floor, she peaked her head under the door. After a few pounding heartbeats of breathless shock, Hermione squeezed down beside her to see the beast. It towered so tall that its bald head brushed the ceiling, and its arms were so long that its knuckles skimmed the floor. The creature’s skin was grossly grey and lumpy, and its dumbstruck face was affixed with a pig-like snout and elongated, crooked teeth which Hermione was relieved to find too dull to chew her up. 

“Tr- trolls are st-stupid, aren’t they?” Her shrill voice shook. “M-maybe we could run out before it n-notices?”

“No.” Daphne shook her head, her own voice steady. “Trolls can’t properly think through things, but they have wickedly fast reaction times. They smash, then think! The second it sees any unexpected movement, it’ll swing that club and sweep the whole bathroom. They’ll have to scrape us bit-by-bit off the walls when it’s all said and done…” 

“I… uh… didn’t need that imagery…” Hermione was utterly floored by how calm Daphne seemed, given she was often in a state of hysteria for no obvious reason. “What… what do you suggest?” 

She scrunched her nose, stewed wordlessly, and then turned to regard Hermione with fiery eyes. “You’re really good with spells, right?” 

“I… suppose? I’d like to think so…?”

“When I give the signal, cast something to spook it. Try hard not to bring attention to us, though. Maybe transfigure a sink, or… I don’t know…”

“What’s the signal? ”

“Er … me telling you to do it?” Daphne fished out her wand and gripped it tight enough to whiten her knuckles. She took a deep, shaky breath and flashed Hermione a crooked grin. With a mighty CRAAASHH and the sudden downpour of porcelain shards and water, the troll evidently deduced it best to wreck the bathroom blindly. Thus, they did not have time to collect themselves further.

“Do it! ”

Much like the monster she faced, Hermione failed to think quickly or clearly in the heat of panic. In her mind’s eye, she caught only flashes. Turning the page of a spellbook, lit by the sickly glow of the Slytherin common room; the spark of a match moments from bursting into a needle. She felt it, snaked her hand under the door, and pointed her wand at the troll’s warty feet. Its chipped, yellow toenails each caught fire with vivid, venomous green flames.  

When the troll let out a tremendous wail, she couldn’t help but cover her ears. Its club clattered to the floor, and both of its monstrous hands smacked and swiped at the fire. As it jumped from foot-to-foot, screeching, the walls shook and the earth quaked, yet cutting through all of the commotion, she heard Daphne shout, “Perfect! ” 

The lovely girl tackled her way out of the stall with a hearty battlecry, stood tall, and swished her wand, “Wingardium Leviosa! ” 

The monster’s forgotten weapon lifted to the air, pitched back like a cricket bat, and then swung to strike its forehead with a deafening CRACK!  

Pitching and whirling on its smoking feet, the troll tilted, tripped, and then crashed backward to the floor so violently that Hermione feared it would cave in beneath their feet. 

Silence hung in the dust-heavy air until Daphne’s cry cut through, “Oh no! I hope I didn’t kill it…” 

Right on cue, as if trying to reassure her, the insensate beast released a great, rumbling snore, and a thick bubble of snot burst from its quivering nose. 

“Oh, thank goodness! ” She swiped a hand across her damp forehead with a relieved sigh. “Trolls are an endangered species, you know…” 

Hermione rubbed at her own aching head, plagued by the phantom pain of her earlier injury, and erupted in a fit of nervous giggles. Daphne Greengrass - the eternally tear-stained vanquisher of trolls - smiled shyly and offered a hand to help her stand.

Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell all burst into the bathroom right then. The old witch raised a wrinkled hand to her breast and gasped; their hook-nosed Head of House stumbled, paled, and then turned to regard the two preteens with a vaguely bewildered yet vexed look; the twitchiest of the trio - allegedly a tried and true expert on all manner of dark creatures - yelped in fright and dramatically threw himself to the floor near-faint. 

“You are both lucky to be alive! ” McGonagall’s voice was frigid with cold fury. “Why didn’t you head straight back to your dormitory?!”

”Back to…,” Hermione mumbled. “Isn’t the feast still going…? We, er, left early…” 

“I don’t believe they were present for Quirinus’… interruption…, ” hissed Snape. 

“Irregardless,” McGonagall examined the snoring troll with wide eyes. “How did you girls…”   

“With just a pinch of fire and a levitation spell, professor,” chirped Daphne. 

McGonagall gaped and Snape snorted. Quirrell might as well have been on a different planet, lost in his disquieted daze. 

“I think some points toward my house would be appropriate,” the most sullen of the three drawled.

The old witch’s shock crumbled at once. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she rolled her eyes at her young colleague. “Ten points for each, then?”

“Twenty, at least,” he sneered. “They defeated a troll, Minerva.” 

“Fine.” McGonagall gave an indignant yet dignified huff. “Please, Severus, escort the girls back to their commons. Quirinus, continue investigating the creature’s… escape… I’ll find and notify Albus.” 

After the Deputy Headmistress sped off, however, Snape waved a dismissive hand at his charges. “You can make your own way back, I’m sure. Try not to seek out any more trouble.” He snapped his cloak as a means of ushering them off, but his cold eyes were glued to Quirrell’s retreating form as he skittered and slunk his way back upstairs. When Snape flew off in pursuit, there was a subtle hitch in his step. Daphne pointed a finger to the ground, where a thin trail of fresh blood followed in his wake. 

“Perhaps he fought the troll earlier…?” Hermione suggested.

“Mmm ,” the other girl hummed, lost in thought. “Trolls smash and squish; they don’t lacerate or bite…”

They slowly meandered toward their commons, just a few twists and turns down the drafty dungeon corridor. Unable to bear the echoing, awkward silence, Hermione squeaked, “How do you know so much about trolls? I thought I was well-read... but you were brilliant.” 

“Oh, creatures are my thing! ” Daphne beamed and blushed, utterly unrecognizable from the miserable girl Hermione had come to know. “I knew it was a troll as soon as I caught a whiff of that awful foot smell, blech! It was even worse than all my books said it would be.”

“Oh, books? You’ll have to let me borrow them… I was hopeless.”

“You were not! That fire was fantastic. I’m not as good at spells as you are… Not spontaneously good, at least. I only thought of using that levitation spell since we just learned it in Charms… What was that, by the way? I’ve seen fire spells before, but not with green flames. Have you got floo powder hidden up your sleeve, or something?” 

“Floo? No. I… uh… don’t really know. It just did it,” she murmured. 

“See? Fantastic! ”  

Hermione’s face burned as they came upon the empty wall concealing their commons. She blurted out the October password, “fides ultra mortem,” and tripped inside after Daphne. 

A few stragglers loitered, nibbling on leftovers from the feast, finishing homework, and gossiping about the troll attack. Their hostile and curious looks made Hermione’s skin prickle, but Daphne appeared either oblivious or without an ounce of care. She skipped over to the hearth, where an intricate, crimson-dyed dragon mask and a large slice of treacle tart waited. With her back set against the bright flames, deep shadows hid her expression as she lifted the mask and carefully stroked one of the long whiskers trailing from its snout. 

“Mm, I’m not that hungry,” Daphne mumbled and held the treat aloft. “Split this with me, maybe?” 

“Sure.” Hermione led her to the hidden alcove. They took turns passing the dessert back-and-forth, taking tiny bites. She didn’t have much of an appetite either, but she also didn’t quite have the guts to admit she wished to continue chatting. 

“So… Why do you hate Halloween?”

“Besides a recent history of troll attacks?” Daphne chuckled nervously. “I… um… dislike some of the Samhain traditions… I guess…”  

“Ah,” Hermione returned, sensing it best not to push. 

Daphne darted her eyes to-and-fro nervously as gloom leeched back into her expression. “I suppose I thought, now that I’m away from my family, I could finally stop… for a little while, at least. I thought I’d have more freedom here, you know? But it turns out… my friends insist I do those things, too.” 

“Is… that why you and Pansy are fighting?”

“Yeah, that,” she muttered, eyes downcast. “And other reasons.” The homemade mask still dangled betwixt her fingers. Her eyes again brightened with a change of subject, “You know, trolls are interesting and all… but I really love dragons.” She smiled and held up the mask.  

On closer inspection, Hermione saw how much care had gone into making it. Pansy had painstakingly affixed each individual scale, iridescent and vividly colorful, and not a single one was crooked or chipped. She chuckled, “I didn’t even know dragons existed till just a few months ago… Are they really just flying around out there, roasting and eating poor, unsuspecting muggles?”

“There hasn’t been a dragon attack in almost a decade, thank you very much! ” Daphne snipped with a smile. “Dragon reserves are quite secure, and the handlers are talented at tracking down roamers.”

“Oh! Reserves? Handlers? ” Hermione perked up. “Is that what you want to do? After school, that is?” 

The other girl’s expression fell with violence, and within just a breath, her mouth quivered and her eyes brimmed with familiar tears. “I- I’d like to… b-but it’s really not that simple…”

Hermione furrowed her brow and tried to keep her voice gentle. “Why not…?”

“I’m… uh… getting married…” 

“Wh - what?” All gentleness tossed to the wayside, she near-shouted, “But you’re a child.” 

“We won’t go through with it until we’re both seventeen,” the doomed girl sniffled. “But I’ve been engaged since I was born, actually…” 

“Is- is that a wizarding… thing? I know you all dress like it’s the middle ages, but…” 

“No, no,” Daphne wiped at her wet face morosely. “It’s not all that common. Certain pureblood families, though… if they have a girl first - not a proper heir - they’ll waste no time arranging for… contingencies. My parents never had the boy they wanted, so… I’ve got to be useful for something, right…?” 

“That’s… archaic… insane…,” Hermione bit out, trying and failing to level her voice. “But… you can get married and be a dragon handler, can’t you?”

Perhaps wishing to hide her tears, Daphne shakily donned her mask, “Many witches can, yes… but I’m expected to have children - two boys, at least - as soon as I can. The prime childbearing years are also the ideal dragonriding years, they say…” 

“Two boys…? Why?”

“My firstborn will be the Nott heir,” she mumbled. “And my second will continue the Greengrass line.” 

“The N- the Nott heir!? ” Hermione managed to choke on air. Coughing and sputtering, she pounded her chest until it cleared enough that she could hiss, “Theo? You’re marrying Theodore Nott!?”  

“Mm.” The girl in the guise of a dragon lifted her chin with an air of confidence, yet her visible eyes still glistened wetly. “Let’s talk about something happier, maybe…?” 

The treacle tart had been pushed and prodded aimlessly about the plate until it turned to an unappetizing, formless slop. Hermione poked at it with her spoon and cleared her throat, trying to lift her tone. “Tell me… I’ve honestly been dying to know for months now…” She fixed her newfound friend with a completely serious look. “How does one ethically source a dragon heartstring?” 

Daphne laughed, and they babbled together well into the night about dragon reserves and their other most beloved yet faraway dreams. 

Notes:

Another of my favorite chapters! I hope you love Daphne as much as I do :)

Also, I understand Hermione's signature blue flames in canon are a natural phenomenon and that there's simply more oxygen used in the combustion, but I just LIKE the green flames, okay? Don't think too hard about it! It's magic!!

Also also, my apologies for the lack of pale ferret this chapter. I promise he'll be more present after this, BUT, keep in mind that this is a sloooooow burn.

Translation note,
fides ultra mortem = loyalty beyond death

Chapter 8: The Mirror of Erised

It proved quite the fortunate time for Hermione to make a friend in Slytherin, as November marked the beginning of quidditch season. While she cared little to nil for it, she couldn’t pass up a chance to cheer and jeer alongside her ruthlessly competitive housemates. The Quidditch Cup and House Cup were held in equal esteem, unfortunately. 

For the first game versus Gryffindor, sitting with Neville was outside the realm of possibilities. He was far off across the field under a red and gold banner that read, Potter for President! Hence, she and Daphne alone rubbed shoulders, their mingled breaths visible in the frigid winter air. At their back hid a jam jar, housing her oddly-hued fire, emitting much-appreciated heat, and making them glow sportingly with their team’s signature color. 

She first fretted over introducing Daphne and Neville. Last time two of her friends collided - way back when, in a crowded compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express - it ended in disaster. Only Neville emerged from the fray. But unlike Malfoy, Daphne was no brat or bigot, the closest she had ever come to being rude was while pelting her betrothed with newt eyes - which didn’t count, really -, nor did she resemble any species of rodent. Therefore, the signs portended things would transpire differently.

Hermione mimicked an air of confidence, strutted up to Neville with the troll slayer in tow, and boldly announced, “I’ve discovered a new Deviant.” 

“A… what? A deviant? ” Daphne covered her un-ladylike snort with a delicate hand. “I don’t know what that means, but I love how naughty it sounds.” 

Neville wore his shock openly for but a heartbeat, then he smiled, stuck out a hand, and introduced himself.

Hermione’s two friends were rather alike, actually. They were most often mousy, yet delightful and audacious outbursts at times slipped out between their teeth. They not only endured but appreciated her insufferable swottiness, snarkiness, and fervent, inextinguishable zeal to be the best. Although, she was more than happy to let them beat her in their respective passions - herbology and magical creatures - and understood that even beyond the sentimental joys of friendship, she could learn a lot from them. 

They were also set apart in complimentary ways. Neville seemed a grounding force - steady, sensible, and even somewhat stubborn - keeping Hermione’s feet planted firmly to the ground and her eyes fixed ahead. Daphne’s mind was always up amidst the clouds on the back of an imaginary dragon, fanciful and far-reaching, pushing Hermione to dream unapologetically high. 

The three of them fell into a comfortable, constructive rhythm. However, not all was well outside of their small bubble; there were others who struggled to acclimate to the new dynamic.

Hermione once read about the Seven Stages of Grief. 

Pansy Parkinson first processed her shock and denial. On Halloween night, Hermione and Daphne pushed their lonely beds together, while the pug-nosed princess fisted her owl mask tightly and gaped at them, hardly moving, saying nothing. In the days that followed, she clutched to her wayward friend in desperation, pretending as if the past week of ignoring her had never even occurred. She cooed, charmed, and begged, but Daphne was unmoved. She paid her back with nothing but silence and sharp looks. 

Pain and guilt were next to pull her in. Now she hogged the bathroom every morning, throwing her own pity parties and pitching fits. One day in Potions, after Hermione and Daphne partnered up, Pansy abruptly burst into tears. Snape seemed at a loss whether to mock her, kick her out, or just ignore her entirely. Her remaining friends - Tracy and Millicent - blinded themselves as usual, offering no comfort and acting as if nothing were amiss. 

Blundering her way to anger and bargaining, Pansy surely set some sort of record for use of the word mudblood in a single afternoon. Hot on their heels, she flung insults at their stiffened backs with an unheard of ferocity and frequency, until Daphne finally snapped, whirling around to scream right back. Their shrill, resounding screeches echoed off the corridor walls, sending nearby students fleeing in fear and even drawing Peeves, who began to cajole and cackle above their heads, pelting them with crumpled up, soggy balls of parchment. Pansy ended their battle with what she assumed to be a mortally wounding blow - a threat to tell their parents that she’d been consorting with filth - but Daphne simply laughed at her. 

Pansy soon dimmed to a dull depression. She bumbled about in a daze, said little, and stared ahead ever blankly. 

She appeared to be on the upward turn, though. Hermione did not claim to like the girl even an iota; her downward plunge first elicited a shameful sense of vindication, but it swiftly grew exhausting. After a while, it turned concerning, even. Now, she was back to tittering and simpering with her friends, dogging Malfoy’s heels whenever he allowed it, and insulting Hermione at a more ordinary rate. She did not speak to, look at, or even acknowledge the existence of Daphne Greengrass. 

It remained to be seen if she would successfully progress through the final stages. 

Whereas Pansy had adopted a strategy of avoidance, Theodore Nott wordlessly and insistently hovered, instilling Daphne and Hermione with a pervasive sense of discomfort and dread. Oddly, he had not insulted Hermione even once since October; this could be due to her new friendship with his future wife - or, perhaps more likely - because he found it impossible to forget the feeling of tiny, slimy eyeballs dripping down into his trousers.

In lieu of racist declarations, he simply brooded and glared in silence. 

Like now, for instance. He and Malfoy sat unacceptably close behind, and Hermione felt his caustic gaze burning holes into her back.

“Oi, Greengrass,” Malfoy nudged her jam jar with his foot. “Why are these flames green?” 

“Ask Hermione,” she replied flatly. 

He snorted, refusing to redirect his query.

“He’s here stealing our warmth, yet he won’t even speak to you.” Daphne lifted a hand to her chest in a scandalized gesture. “How rude! ” 

“Quite,” chirped Hermione.

“Hey… Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

The two girls turned toward each other, raised their eyebrows, and then burst into laughter in tandem. Neither bothered responding to him. 

“Of course Potter is the seeker,” Hermione huffed. “It’s the most ridiculous position on the team, really. All he has to do is catch one zippy, little ball, and he’ll win the whole game single-handedly? How… special.” 

“Being a proper seeker takes hard work and talent, actually… ” The pest continued to buzz in her ear, and she was so vexed that she failed to register he had broken his rule on not addressing her in public. 

“Oh, you're championing Potter now, are you?” She spun to face him, catching that his eyes reflected the poisonous green flicker of her fire. 

“N-no,” he stammered. “I never said he was a proper seeker. What’s really ridiculous is Hooch letting him join the team as a first year - without tryouts!” 

“Ohhh, remember when he caught Neville’s Remembrall?” Daphne smirked, wrestling her attention away from Malfoy’s rant. “Now that’s what I call a tryout! " 

Hermione was once again reminded how much she adored her strange, lovely new friend. She mentally kicked herself for having neglected her for so long, despite her endless waterworks and apparent bouts of madness.  

The cry rang out, “GRYFFINDOR SCORES! ” She and Daphne howled in mock pain and booed vigorously without ever looking to the sky.  

“Why are you even here if you’re not going to watch the game?” Malfoy whined, tugging the end of Hermione’s green and silver scarf.  

“To root for Slytherin, of course!” Daphne answered for her. “We’re proud snakes, after all.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Nott mumbled.

Malfoy launched a peeved scowl his way, then he turned back to the girls with a grin, “When I make seeker next year, you’ll be rooting for me.”

“If that ever comes to pass,” Hermione returned her own mean-spirited smirk. “I think we’ll just skip out! Spend our afternoon in the library instead. Right, Daph?”

“Right!” 

Malfoy choked, but before he could cough up any retort, Lee Jordan’s commentary cut through, “Slytherin in possession! Flint with the Quaffle, passes Spinnet, passes Bell, hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose - only joking, Professor. Slytherin scores - oh no…”

Her housemates erupted in raucous cheers, but it was the gasps coming from across the field that pulled Hermione’s gaze upward. Harry Potter rose higher and higher far above the other flyers, his broom jigging and jerking madly up-and-down, to-and-fro. With a mighty throttle sideways, he was nearly pitched off and now dangled down by the grip of one hand. 

“Woah! ” Malfoy leapt to his feet and peered through his fancy binoculars. “Potter’s going to fall!” 

All around them, the snakes jumped on their toes and pointed upward, smiling and laughing as if they were witnessing something supremely funny. The lions across the way were collectively pale and panicked, shaking and shouting for someone to rescue their hero. 

Hermione gripped Daphne’s hand tightly. “He’s going to die! ” 

A voice from behind coldly sneered, “Let’s hope so.”

The green-clad masses around her roiled with malice and mirth. She heard cheers and taunts, such as; 

“Knock a bludger at him! ” 

“Where’s the snitch? Get it while he’s distracted! ” 

“Fall, Potter, fall! ”

“Once he’s gone, we’ll have a better shot at the House Cup! ”

Two rows down, Pansy waved a hand-painted Slytherin banner and practically sang, “A measly broom will be Potter’s doom, to finish what the Dark Lord started!” 

Hermione was disgusted, furious… and just a little afraid. For Harry’s sake, obviously, but also for herself. It was the very first time she had ever heard children wish for the death of another. Most were joking, sure, but she suspected that far too many were not. 

“Ow! Herm-” Daphne tried to jerk her hand out from her bruising grip, when all of a sudden, the serpent coiled upon Pansy’s banner combusted. 

It was swiftly devoured by green flames. Pansy dropped it with a horrified wail, and nearby students dove away in panic. Amidst the chaos, a third-year tripped over his seat, knocking straight into the stiffened back of their Head of House. Like a domino, he then collided with Professor Quirrell, twitching directly in front of him. They tumbled down in a tangle of long limbs, twisted robes, and shouted obscenities. 

Rosier ran up and stomped the banner, haphazardly extinguishing the flames. Then he chuckled, slapped a hand to his forehead, and intoned, “aguamenti,” fully dousing and smothering the remaining sparks and smoke. 

Far above them, Potter seized control of his rebellious broom, and the hysteria of the crowd surrounding them simmered. 

“Hermione…” Daphne leaned over to whisper, “Was that you? ” 

Before she could reply, Malfoy barked out, “Was that accidental magic, Granger?” He made no attempt to contain his glee. “That’s hilarious! It’s like you're still a child!”

“It’s common for mud-,” Nott stumbled briefly. “...for muggleborns. They don’t have the same control over magic that we do, seeing as they’re introduced to it so late.” 

“Shut up, Theo,” Daphne snapped. 

Deaf to his furious fiancé, he graced Hermione with a slow and vicious grin. “You’ll always be at a disadvantage in that regard … Granger.” 

It felt as though she were plunged into freezing cold water. Not due to the remark’s offensiveness; it was far from the most hateful thing Nott had ever said to her, but because… she agreed with him. The use of her name rather than his typical slur only seemed to reinforce that this was not just bigoted dogma; it was an unavoidable, irrefutable fact. 

She stumbled to her feet, the quidditch match and Potter’s near-demise totally forgotten. “I… er… I’ve got to go,” she mumbled. 

Daphne still held her hand. “I’ll come with you,” she offered and began to rise. 

“No, thank you… Why don’t you stay and finish the game? You can tell me how it went later, maybe?” Hermione softly pleaded. “I’m just… not feeling very well…”

“Oh… alright…” Daphne’s morose gaze struck her with guilt - surely the poor girl had no wish to be abandoned with their awful, unwanted chaperones - but she let her go without any further fuss. Thus, Hermione fled alone, with Malfoy’s snickers nipping at her heels.  

She soon found herself in the Hogwarts library, blessedly empty of other students. Madam Pince shot her a cold, questioning grimace. Quidditch games were likely the only time when she did not have to hawkishly hover over a horde of noisy, grimy-fingered children. 

Hermione stuck her nose in the air and thought, I’m the politest of patrons, so you can wipe that ugly look off your face!

Disappearing into the stacks, she closed her eyes, hummed softly, and ghosted one finger along the book spines. Absurdly, she found the smell here calming. People always poeticized the odor of old books, which she mostly agreed with, except the odd second-hand copy that smelled of stale cigarettes or cat pee. The books here, though - they must have been charmed or bewitched or something! It was what she imagined all the poets and librarians and assorted bibliophiles of the world wished books smelled like - as silly as that sounds. It invoked the pure, idealized essence of old books. 

“What are you doing? ” A familiar voice interrupted her reverie. 

Alas! She was not alone after all. Amanda Wentworth sat at a back corner table, peeking at Hermione with an eyebrow raised from behind a thick, colorful tome. Given that she had been bumbling around with her eyes closed, sniffing and humming, the girl’s puzzlement was warranted.  

“Er… fighting off an existential crisis, of sorts?” 

“Alright.” Amanda was clearly uninterested in any further elaboration, and thus returned to her reading.

“Is that a muggle textbook?” Hermione’s curiosity beckoned her, regardless of whether it was welcome. 

 “A… muggle textbook?” She regarded her as if she were daft, holding the text up, cover visible. “It’s a biology textbook. Are you really starting to use the word muggle for everything?”

“I guess…” Hermione shrugged. “I suppose I wouldn’t say stuff like that in the mugg-… the non-magical world, but it just… feels easier to make the distinction here , you know?”

It was the other girl’s turn to shrug. She hid back behind the book, wordlessly communicating her wish to be left alone. Hermione refused to grant it, though; she had wondered about Amanda’s peculiar attitude for far too long. 

“Why are you reading a biology textbook?” 

The grouch expelled a heavy sigh, closed the book, and removed her thick glasses to massage the bridge of her nose. After cooking in her frustration for a time, she propped her chin on a tightly folded fist and fixed Hermione with an unreadable expression. “Did you know that witches and wizards have eradicated most cancers?” She mocked the swish of a wand. “They can just magically vanish tumors without the need for surgery. When it’s spread and that doesn’t work, they drink unicorn’s milk.”   

“That’s incredible.” Hermione was breathless with wonder for only a brief moment… before the slow, cold horror seeped in. 

“Has it dawned on you yet…?” Amanda’s smile was dismaying. 

“Muggles still suffer and die… for the sake of keeping magic a secret.” 

“Five points to Slytherin,” she quipped flatly.  

“Well… maybe witches like us are in the best place to do something about that… Is that what you want? Is that why-” 

Amanda hid her frown back behind the book and waved one hand in a shooing motion. “Go have your crisis elsewhere, Granger. Leave me to wrestle with my own, please.” 

Hermione scoffed, pivoted on her heel, and finally stomped off to find her own private corner of the near-empty library to ponder and fret. 

 

---

 

“Congratulations, dearie!”

Professor Burbage somehow had gotten her hands on a confetti popper, but predictably, had no clue how it actually worked. She used her nail to pick at the sealed end before Hermione wrestled it from her grasp, pulled the string, and released colorful bits of paper and a menacing amount of glitter all over the floor with a mighty POP! The Muggle Studies professor gawked over the mess, squealing in childish excitement.  

She then continued, “You made it through the term and achieved first rank in your class! A muggleborn hasn’t snagged the top spot in well over a decade, I believe! Not since our humble halls were blessed with the presence of Miss Lily Evans.”

“Lily, hm? Who’s she?” 

“Just an endlessly talented, oh-so-hardworking, and fiery-eyed muggleborn, much like you!” Burbage stared off into space, smiling wistfully. “It feels as if she was here only yesterday, popping in for a quick chat and cup of tea. Oh, I can almost picture young Severus loitering in my classroom, waiting on her impatiently, burning holes in my office door with his mean little glare… Time is a funny thing, you know?” 

“Sev… Professor Snape? ” Hermione blurted.

“Ah… uh… yes.” The old witch paled, evidently having blundered her way into a forbidden topic. “Please pretend you didn’t hear that! He would not appreciate it if you mentioned her.” She cleared her throat and shakily swept confetti from her desk. “Lily died in the war, you see…” 

“Oh… Did Voldemort kill her for being muggleborn?” 

Burbage nearly toppled from her chair in fright. “Do NOT say that name! ” She wailed, wringing her hands and whipping her head wildly, as if a horde of Death Eaters might materialize in the corners of her cramped office. 

“Why?” Hermione scoffed, shaking her head. “I read about the Taboo, but he’s dead, so what’s it matter?” 

“Miss Granger, you do not understand.” The ordinarily cheerful woman had never before contorted her features into such a grave mask. “For far too many years of my life, that name - even whispered, or said by accident - heralded certain death. I cannot bear to hear it… even now… ” 

“I… I apologize, Professor Burbage…” 

“That’s alright, dear. Just… tread more lightly in the future. But, to answer your question… No.” She shook her head with a slight quiver at the corner of her mouth. “He did not kill Lily for being muggleborn… In fact, he failed to recruit her several times before her death. His modus operandi could not be summed up neatly with simple blood prejudice, I’m afraid… He valued power above all else, and she was quite the powerful witch.”  

Hermione shifted in her seat. A particular question had plagued her for weeks now, and she figured it was past time for some proper advising from the Muggleborn Advisor. “I don’t wish to sound insensitive or too harsh, but… the only two muggleborns you’ve ever mentioned both apparently died… And I need to know - what of the others? Those that lived a long while, that is. What sorts of jobs did they go on to do?”

Burbage appeared awfully relieved at the change of subject, and her too-wide grin returned. “Oh, you know, all sorts of things! Some work retail or even run their own businesses. There’s curse breakers, dragon tamers, and quidditch players! There’s researchers, journalists, and mediwitches! Many work for the Ministry of Magic, which of course, does a whole array of important work; like, Magical Law Enforcement, Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, International Magical Co-operation, Magical Transportation, Magical Games and Sports, and Mysteries! ” Her spiel sounded dutifully rehearsed. 

“Has a muggleborn ever been elected Minister of Magic?”

“Um… No…” 

“What about the Headmaster of Hogwarts?”

“…Not that I know of.”

“Are any of the professors here muggleborn? I know that you aren’t.”  

“Why, dearie! How do you know that for certain?” 

Hermione said nothing, but her eyes screamed, Are you kidding me?  

Burbage then quailed, “Oh, well, no. I am not… nor are any current members of our faculty.” 

“…on the Wizengamot…?” 

“Er… ”

“Oh, come on! There’s, like, fifty appointees!” 

“Miss Granger, I understand your concerns, really… Progress can sometimes be slow, but things are getting better for muggleborns every single day, I promise! Do not think that you cannot achieve those things just because none have before… It always starts with someone, right?” The professor lifted her hands in supplication, wearing a now-tremulous smile. 

“…I suppose.” Smothering her outrage, Hermione pushed on to the other metaphorical thorn that had been poking at her side for weeks. “What happens… if we change our minds? If we… decide to stay muggle, after all?” 

“Well… you can never really stay muggle, you know? You’re witches and wizards, no matter how you live your lives…” Burbage broke eye contact and ran a hand through her silver hair anxiously. “It’s not unheard of, however, for some of you to go back, but outcomes are… mixed.” 

“Uh… care to elaborate?” 

“For many, it’s just fine. They do whatever it is they want to do out there. Whether some still use their magic - who knows! - but if they avoid disrupting or threatening the Statute of Secrecy, it matters little to us…”

“And… the others? ”

 “As I’ve said before, wizarding authorities may intervene if they find it necessary… How that proceeds, exactly, depends on the situation…” She trailed off, but when Hermione opened her mouth to beckon her onward, Burbage cut back in, “Well, then! I’ve got another appointment, dearie! You should start packing if you’ve not already! You’ll be leaving tomorrow, is that right? Spending the holidays with your lovely parents?” 

“Er… yes, I am.” Burbage had pitched a topic to Hermione that she also wished to evade, successfully chasing the curious young witch away.

 

---

 

A pattern was established; it seemed to be that Hermione would never get any decent rest the night before boarding the Hogwarts Express. 

If she had known her return would fill her with such inexplicable dread, she would’ve cooked up some lie long ago about how first-years were required to stay over the holidays. When she recently tried to float the idea of celebrating with her new friends, her parents sent three panicked, pleading letters in quick succession before Burbage could even make it back to the post office. Besides, Neville and Daphne were heading home themselves, so she would’ve ended up alone if successful. 

Tossing and turning would’ve expelled some of her nervous energy, but she didn’t wish to disturb her bedmate. Daphne was sprawled out beside her, snoring softly with her unicorn plush curled up at the crook of her neck. Thus, Hermione lay still the entire evening, staring at the canopy hanging above their heads. When the sky outside shifted from pitch black to dark violet, she crept out of bed and quietly slipped into her heavy winter robes. Curfew lifted at five in the morning, so she could now pace manically about the castle without fear of detention. 

The halls were uncharacteristically silent. This was due not only to the lack of rowdy children, but also the thick layer of snow blanketing the grounds, absorbing and muffling all surrounding sounds. The brilliant white surface of it was incandescent, shining through the darkness of early dawn. Crossing the courtyard, a soft crunch under foot was the only thing to be heard, and Hermione was grateful that the lonely hour spared her the risk of being hounded by one of the Weasley twins’ bewitched snowballs. 

She drifted and skipped and tripped about, imagining what she would say to her parents upon returning home.

Ah, yes! I love my new school! Some students give me grief for being… the daughter of two dentists, but you know I can handle it! I’ve got excellent grades and even better friends! Oh, what have I learned? Let’s see… How to swiftly dodge a stinging jinx nearly every time! I’ve mastered the art of floating feathers and transfiguring matchsticks to needles. I’ve figured out I’m lousy on a broomstick, tragically… Oh, and how to turn water into wine! You may be wondering, was Jesus of Nazareth a wizard? No clue! I’m afraid to ask! Through firsthand experience, I was taught how to avoid being flattened by a troll. I also learned there’s a magical cure for most cancers - but let’s keep that one between us… 

Lost in her musings, Hermione soon found herself in an unfamiliar corner of the castle. Unlike everywhere else, it was not bedecked with festive decor like holly, mistletoe, and spruces hung with icicles charmed to never melt. Nearly all doors lining the corridor were sealed shut, with the exception of one at the very end, left suspiciously ajar. Ever curious, she crept up to peer inside, discovering a disused classroom, dusty and musty, chairs and tables stacked haphazardly in a far corner.

It would’ve been a contender for the most mundane spot in all of Hogwarts, if not for the massive, mysterious mirror. Standing tall on two clawed feet, with an ornate gold frame and an inscription wreathing the top that read, 

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. 

Even without the object’s magical magnetism, she never could have resisted the temptation to approach it, and the reflection that faced her was anything but ordinary. 

She was in rapid flux. The ever-shifting visage was surely her, yet that vague certainty was the only constant. Her brows, eyes, and mouth reoriented to an amalgam of all expressions. Her clothing warped through an array of differing cuts and colors; bright and star-speckled, like the Headmaster’s robes… a night-black cloak that resembled the wings of a bat, almost like Snape’s, only more terrible, emitting a dark miasma … a professional, stylish suit most often worn by muggle politicians. Green flames raged behind her, then condensed to a constellation of stars of the same color, then again collided to create the body of a twisting serpent - a twin to the one she conjured several months ago. 

“Those looking into the Mirror of Erised most often appear enraptured,  aggrieved, or even expressionless,” Hermione whirled to find the Headmaster smiling at her with an amused expression, sitting innocuously at a desk that she swore vacant only seconds before. “You seem simply bewildered, Miss Granger.” 

“Headmaster D-Dumbledore! S-sir!” She was not sure what shocked her more: his unexpected appearance, or the fact that he remembered her name. She had only ever spotted the famous Headmaster a handful of times at a far distance in the Great Hall. He was almost away on important business, being that he also served as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. “What… kind of enchantment is this, sir?”

“Let us just say… if a truly happy person stood in your place, they would see themselves exactly as they are, as if it were a normal mirror.” He twined his long, thin fingers together and placed them upon the desk. “Can you deduce why? I have been told that you are quite clever.” 

“You see what you want,” she answered. With pride, given that she knew the answer at once; and with embarrassment, as he had just insinuated he thought her unhappy. “A truly happy person wants for nothing.”

“Precisely… It reflects our deepest desires.” He rose and walked forward to stand behind her, gaining vantage of his own reflection. She expected the famous wizard to glide gracefully across the floor, but he just bumbled over like an ordinary old man. “You may be interested to know that the Mirror of Erised and Sorting Hat share a similar sort of magic.”

“That makes sense, I suppose…” Hermione furrowed her brow and took a closer look at her evolving form. “That old hat asked what I wanted, yet it somehow knew there was more to my answer than what I first thought. I mean, Neville asked for Hufflepuff, but it still sorted him someplace else, as if it- wait… The hat, the mirror… can they see the future? ”

“They can perhaps see… possibilities.” He looked down at her through his half-moon spectacles. “Although… It is not as simple as that, either… There are those who look into the mirror to see things lost and forever out of reach; not things they can ever hope to find again in the future. Tell me… What do you see, Miss Granger?” 

“I see… myself.”

A glimmer of surprise shone through his kindly mask. “Oh? You see yourself, as you are?”

“No, no! It’s… it’s not normal, you know?” Hermione scrunched up her face and shook her head; her mirror-self shared the same vexed expression for but a blink before continuing its endless mutation. “I… I can’t really describe it… I keep changing… Like… even this damn magic mirror can’t tell me what I really want… Oh! Er… sorry for the swear, sir…” 

He chuckled softly, “That’s quite alright. You are fortunate, I believe. Those who do not know what they want… they just might have the greatest potential , more so than those of us stuck gawking at the past or chasing a desired future. The Fates have not yet directed you down any particular path… Just be mindful where you stray…” 

She nodded, despite failing to find his encouragement at all useful. “What about you, sir?”

“Hm? ” Dumbledore cocked his head and lifted his gaze to the mirror. “You wish to know what I see?”

The twinkle in his eye was subtly unsettling; it told her that he would not be honest if asked directly. Hence, she pivoted, narrowing her question to cage him, yet gracing him with enough leeway to stay vague, “Do you see a wish for the future, a thing lost to the past, or… are you a truly happy sort of wizard?” 

His eyes glazed over slightly, staying fixed to his reflection. “I see… something that I cannot have,” he muttered.  

Then, Albus Dumbledore regarded her warmly, bid her good morning, and vanished with a charming little POP! She would remember this as the very first time that the smile he graced her with felt feigned. 

Notes:

Thank you so, so much to everyone on this journey with me!

Time really flies when you're having a good time. I can hardly believe we have only two chapters left in Book I! Mind you, they are both very long chapters.

Next up, we've got our most Draco-centered chapter thus far, so yay! Looking forward to it :)

Also, you may have noticed that I edited the tags a little. I’m still learning proper tag etiquette and which tags offer the best visibility, so that may happen from time-to-time. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s any you think I should add!