Chapter Text
September 1st, 1991 and Platform 9 and 3/4 is overflowing with people. Witches and Wizards of all ages huddle in groups all along the platform, young children shrieking as they run to and fro, their older siblings engaged in a variety of farewell traditions, ranging from stoic to exuberant and tearful. Unaccompanied by her parents, who had said goodbye on the other side of the barrier before heading out to an early brunch with some colleagues, muggleborn Hermione Granger was intimidated and disconcerted in equal measure. All around her, chaos reigned—with the shouts of children and the regular pop-bangs of magical items that might as well have been from another planet for all that she recognised them—but a little fear had never stopped her before and she wasn’t about to let it get in the way now, not when she finally had a chance to step out of her parents’ shadow and be the person she’d always been by virtue of skirting their restraint. So, determined, clutching tight to her bookbag in one hand and dragging her trunk behind her with the other, Hermione Granger stepped resolutely forward, setting a brisk pace as she crossed the platform and made for the huge scarlet steam engine that dominated the space. She was early, as was her wont, and found an empty compartment easily enough, dodging older students and avoiding those compartments already piled high with luggage. Drawing the blinds and wedging the door shut with her trunk, Hermione made quick work of shedding her jeans and jumper, changing into her school robes before stowing her trunk and lifting the blinds. She didn’t want to stand out any more than she had to and her experiences in Diagon Alley had already revealed the fact that an obvious muggleborn like herself had no place in this new world that should have been hers. Never one to be discouraged, Hermione had briefly considered muscling through regardless, copping the discirimination on the chin and barging on with all the grace of a rampaging bull and only her wits to recommend her, but had quickly dismissed the possibility. She knew herself well enough to know that social graces were not her forte and if she wanted to make a life for herself in this world, it would be that much easier without clinging to the old one that had made her an outcast. If she wanted to escape being bullied in her new school as she had in her old, she had to adapt. So instead, Hermione did what she’d always done when confronted with a problem, copious and substantive research. One full day inside Flourish and Blotts, Sappho’s Scriptorum, and Wixen, Words and Quills later, Hermione was acutely aware of how much she didn’t know and how grossly out of her depth she really was, but Hermione was nothing if not determined, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure out a plan. Hide the fact she was muggleborn as long as she could and find some well-connected Wizarding family to act as a sort of sponsor to help her navigate this new world. Her first challenge would, of course, be the Sorting. Hermione had given great thought to which House she wanted to be in and really, her choice was clear. She was self aware enough to know that while hard work was important, she was a little bit of an elitist when it came to academics—and given how that had been the only thing other students in her former primary school hadn’t been able to take away from her it was only fair—so Ravenclaw was probably the best bet if she wanted to find other people like her. But did she? Did Hermione really want to give up her one claim to fame, being the brightest of her peers? She didn’t think she did. Which left Gryffindor or Slytherin. Slytherin, of course, would be a terrible choice because everyone there were half-bloods at the least, if the many books she had read on the subject were to be believed, which would get her ruse discovered in an instant, so Gryffindor it was, even if she didn’t feel particularly brave, foolhardy or courageous.
Lost in her thoughts, Hermione barely noticed when the train began moving, and it wasn’t until a group of children pushed themselves into the compartment that she became aware of her surroundings again. Hermione straightened, on high alert as she recognised that this group of eleven year olds were exactly the ones she wanted to avoid. Maybe her first real test wouldn’t be the Sorting after all. Because there, shoving their trunks into the luggage racks and pretending they weren’t glancing at her out of the corner of their eyes, were nine eleven year old purebloods. Some of them she recognised from her research—like the ridiculously blond Draco Malfoy, the russet haired Morag McDougal, and the square faced Pansy Parkinson—while the others were a mystery to her. She could only assume that they were all pureblood, given the way the three named families that she did recognise were known for their elitism. Deciding to play it safe, Hermione rose, folding her hands neatly in front of her and half-bobbing into a not-bow while ducking her head as she greeted them, treating them as seemed appropriate if they were regular British nobility. She didn’t know if she were right, but given how archaic the Wizarding World seemed so far she figured it couldn’t hurt.
“Heir Malfoy, Miss McDougal, Heiress Parkinson” she greeted, glad now for her penchant for over-researching that had introduced her to Wizarding honorific conventions and the updated edition of Cantankerus Nott’s Pureblood Directory—the Wizarding Burke's Peerage it seemed—that listed the family trees of all the Sacred Twenty-Eight, by which she knew that Morag McDougal had two elder brothers and one younger sister, while Pansy Parkinson was nominal heiress only as long as her aunt Elvira, her father’s elder sister and the Lady Parkinson, didn’t have adopt or children. Briefly, she considered apologising for not knowing the identities of their companions but at the last moment decided to hold her tongue so as not to reveal more information than she had to. It seemed to be the right choice, as Heir Malfoy puffed up like a peacock, looking more than a little ridiculous as he affected a dramatic swagger.
“Well met, Miss…”
“Granger,” Hermione supplied, repeating her shallow half-bob, and the boy went on, waving imperiously to his friends slowly settling into the compartment behind him, who rolled their eyes, seemingly used to his overly grandiose manner.
“Miss Granger then. Allow me to introduce Heir Nott, Heiress Patil, Miss Patil, Miss Brown and Masters Crabbe and Goyle”
“My pleasure to make your acquaintances,” Hermione demurred, settling back into her seat as Heir Malfoy sat to her left, beside Heir Nott, drawing him away from his conversation with Heiress Parkinson and Miss Brown. It was clear from the way they were chatting that the group of first years all knew each other already, and Hermione got the impression that growing up they’d all been socialised among kids their own age. From what little she knew of Wizarding politics, family divisions seemed to pervade the entire political system, and she didn’t doubt that these children all came from similar allegiances. Feeling a little out of her depth, Hermione stayed quiet, trying to melt into the background as much as possible, running through what she should say if she was engaged in conversation. There wasn’t much comparable life experience she shared with the rest of them after all. From her research, Hermione knew that Wizarding children were schooled at home until they were of Hogwarts age, which meant talking about her muggle primary school was out, and she didn’t know enough about Wizarding social customs to try her hand at starting conversation, for all she knew she could be breaking some unwritten rule as soon as she opened her mouth, and then all her intentions would be for nothing. It wasn’t like she was planning to outright lie about her blood status, and she was under no delusions that she would be able to hide it forever, but when it did come out—hopefully long after she’d made a name for herself free from prejudice—it would be much better for her if she could honestly say she’d never lied about it—skated by on assumptions yes, but never lied. Luckily enough, it didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to Hogwarts and the Sorting. It seemed that pureblood or not, the rest of them were just as nervous about their future house as she was.
“I’m going to be in Slytherin, of course” Heir Malfoy bragged, more than a little pompously, but privately Hermione thought he looked a little worried and not like her cousin’s tiny dog, insecure and trying to cover it with bluster “all Malfoys have been in Slytherin, going back ten generations. And I know the same can be said for the Crabbe’s and the Goyle’s, but what are the rest of you hoping for?”
“Well my family is typically an even mix between Slytherin and Ravenclaw” Heiress Parkinson said with a shrug, barely looking up from where she was flicking through a magazine with Miss Brown “figure I’ll let the hat choose”
“Same,” the girl said, briefly meeting Hermione’s gaze with a small smile before turning her attention back to whatever was so captivating about the magazine. It wasn’t the first time Hermione had met magazine obsessed girls—her regular tormentors at her old school had been similarly afflicted—but Hermione still couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the mass produced, insipid material.
“Ravenclaw” the Patil twins said next, and Miss McDougal nodded likewise, turning to Heir Nott.
“Slytherin,” the boy shrugged easily, feelings hidden behind a self-assured mask that Hermione recognised from the mirror. “What about you, Miss Granger?” he asked, seemingly genuine, and Hermione could discern no duplicitous intent from his words.
“Ravenclaw,” she lied, more than able to see the writing on the wall with which way the wind was blowing. Everyone knew about the enmity between Gryffindor and Slytherin and Hermione wasn’t fool enough to burn these bridges before she was even Sorted. Across from her, Heiress Patil’s eyes lit up and she leaned across the aisle to draw Hermione into animated conversation, making her instantly glad for the lie.
“My mother was a Ravenclaw,” the girl confided eagerly. “She says the common room is wall to wall bookshelves”
“Oh really?” Hermione lit up, instantly at ease, recognising herself in the other girl.
“Yes,” Heiress Patil grinned, and Hermione wondered if she wasn’t making a mistake hoping for Gryffindor after all. Wall to wall bookshelves did sound lovely, and maybe she should be willing to sacrifice a bit of her pride if it meant friends who understood her and her passions like this. “She told me to say hello to Professor Flitwick as soon as I’m Sorted, as Head of House he’s not officially meant to play favourites but she knew him back when he was still duelling and they always were rather close”
“Oh,” Hermione smiled “your mother must have been really good, wasn’t he a dueling champion before he retired?”
“Yes,” Heiress Patil beamed, somehow managing to look both serene and smug concurrently. “But according to Mama, Charms always was his true passion, which is good because it’s my best subject, I’m so looking forward to it. What about you?”
“Potions,” Hermione answered honestly, choosing to interpret the question as what she was looking forward to most instead of what she was best at.
“Really,” Heir Malfoy scoffed, sounding rather rude, but there was a spark of interest in his gaze, a well-hidden excitement that Hermione—used to interrogating her peers for subtle signs of ridicule—was able to spot. So instead of taking offence, she smiled openly at him.
“Oh yes, I’m simply fascinated by the noble art” Hermione said, and it was true. To her, Potions was essentially the Wizarding equivalent of chemistry, and Hermione couldn’t wait to learn more than what her textbooks had managed to teach her.
“Ravenclaws and Slytherins might not have Potions classes together” he frowned, seemingly genuinely put out “I almost wish you get Sorted into our House so I could have some decent competition”
“Unfortunately I don’t think I’m cut out for Slytherin” she laughed, brushing him off, and though he laughed too he appeared—at least to her—sincerely disappointed.
At that moment, the door to the compartment slid open, and an awkward, gangly boy their age half-stumbled in, stuttering a nervous greeting before he was even fully in the room.
“Hey P-Padma, Parvati, Theo, I- oh” he froze, the blood draining from his face as he noticed Heir Malfoy sitting beside Hermione. From the way the blond boy stiffened, Hermione guessed there was some enmity there. “S-sorry, D-Draco, I didn’t see you. I-I’ve lost my toad, Trevor, have any of you seen him?”
“Neville,” Nott sighed—affectionately, not derogatorily, Hermione noticed—pinching the bridge of his nose in a motion too awkward to be anything but copied from an adult, speaking before Heir Malfoy could issue whatever snappy retort was clearly on the tip of his tongue. “Trevor isn’t here. Do you want help looking for him?”
“Y-yeah, that s-sounds good” he confirmed and Heir Nott nodded, getting to his feet and looking back at the rest of them. “Anyone else?”
“Sure, I’ll help” Hermione volunteered, getting to her feet and making to follow. Just as she reached the door, however, Heiress Patil stopped her.
“Miss Granger, you should call me Padma”
“Hermione” she ginned, defaulting to her now standard half-bob-not-quite-bow, and Padma laughed, waving her off as she followed the two boys from the room.
It didn’t take long for them to decide to split up to cover more ground and Hermione was almost glad to be left on her own, able to finally relax now that she didn’t have to be so on top of her game to keep from revealing herself. But still, making more connections couldn’t hurt, so Hermione gladly went from one compartment to the next asking after Neville’s—as he’d introduced himself to her in the hallway—missing toad.
“Have any of you seen a toad?” Hermione asked, poking her head into the last compartment in this carriage. There were two occupants already, two boys her age, and inwardly Hermione cursed herself as she recognised her complacency in having forgotten to see if she could guess who may be inside before she began speaking, just as Neville had done before her. Oh well, she sighed, she was only eleven, it wasn’t like she could be expected to be perfect. Resolving to do better, Hermione bit down on her tongue to stop herself speaking, pausing to study the two boys before her. Both were in muggle clothing—or what passed for close enough in the case of the redhead—and Hermione, having read up on all the Sacred Twenty-Eight in her year, would hazard a guess that this was Ronald Weasley, sixth son and second youngest of seven children. But he lacked the presence of the other members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight she had met—even Neville, who hunched and stuttered something awful due to a seemingly perpetual case of nerves—and Hermione thought she might be wrong. It wouldn’t do to repeat her ‘greeting her betters’ introduction in case he wasn’t who she thought he might be, she’d come off looking like a prat that way, so she resolved to dispense with the formality—the Weasley’s were known fans of muggles anyway, so maybe it wouldn’t matter—focussing instead on the boy’s drawn wand. “Oh are you doing magic? Let's see it, then" she grinned, honestly interested. Because if this boy was Ronald Weasley then he would be the first person her age who’d grown up in the Wizarding World that Hermione saw doing magic and the comparison between his skills and her own attempts in tucked up in the most distant corners of Sappho’s Scriptorium would be beyond interesting.
“Oh, alright,” the boy said, looking nervous, and Hermione leaned back against the door to watch him. “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.” He said, aiming his wand squarely at the rat in his lap—and really, a rat? They weren’t on the list of approved familiars for first years. For a moment, Hermione waited, then irritation overtook her excitement. Right, of course, just another person making fun of her then. Still, it wouldn’t help anything to snap at the mean boy, but Hermione wasn’t willing to just let it go.
“Are you sure that's a real spell?” she asked, trying to imitate the faux sweet tone of the popular girls at her primary school and doing an admirable job in her own estimation. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've only tried a few simple spells since having my wand but they’ve all worked for me. I’m the first in my family to go to Hogwarts you know, I was ever so pleased when I got my letter, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, and I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough” Hermione said, trying to project her own insecurities outwards and convey in her tone that she very much doubted it would be enough in the case of the boy in front of her, who’d been so cruel as to make fun of her to her face without even knowing that she was muggleborn. “I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, and you are?"
"I'm Ron Weasley," the redhead muttered, looking sullen and cowed, and Hermione spared a single moment to lament the fact that she was apparently burning bridges with some of her peers today after all.
"Harry Potter" said the dark-haired boy sitting across from him, and Hermione’s eyebrows rose.
"Are you really?" said Hermione, briefly overtaken by shock and defaulting to her usual coping mechanism, regurgitating information, though hopefully that wouldn’t matter. If Harry Potter was anything like the rest of the Wizarding nobility she’d met so far he wouldn’t mind, Hermione certainly couldn’t imagine Draco Malfoy being anything but proud of himself if the roles were reversed. "I know all about you, of course. I got a few extra books for background reading and you're in Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century "
"Am I?" asked Harry Potter, looking dazed, and Hermione tilted her head, surprised and bewildered in equal measure.
"Goodness, didn't you know? I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," said Hermione, feeling awkward and abruptly deciding that retreat was the better part of valor. “Oh well, I really should go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon." And with that Hermione turned on her heel, heading back the way she had come, exaggerating the flounce in her step to cover any lingering awkwardness that really was better shed before she returned to her compartment and its occupants.
The trip up to the castle was dreadful and Hermione was glad it was over as she stood, shivering beside Padma and the others, trying to focus on the fact they were waiting for Headmistress McGonagall to return at any moment and so prevent herself from staring agog at the pair of ghosts floating overhead. Right, ghosts, as if the Wizarding World wasn’t intimidating enough. Hermione was so focused on not seeming like this was anything out of the ordinary for her that she nearly missed when Heir Malfoy approached Harry Potter, extending his hand in a clumsy gesture of friendship only to be soundly rebuffed. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself wincing. Yeah, maybe Heir Malfoy had sounded like a bit of a snob during his little speech but still, if the choice was between him and Ronald Weasley Hermione knew who she would choose, and apparently Potter was of a different opinion. Finally, after what seemed like an age, Headmistress McGonagall returned, shepherding the crowd of first years into the Great Hall.
The Great Hall was magnificent, lit by thousands of floating candles and overflowing with students, crammed into four long benches. Hermione would have easily guessed that these tables were organised according to House affiliation, even if her prior reading hadn’t told her as much. Ahead of her, Harry Potter gaped, nearly tripping over the edge of his robes as he stared up at the enchanted ceiling over their heads. Hermione neatly side-stepped him, muttering an explanation as she passed. He rolled his eyes at her and Hermione resolutely didn’t allow herself to feel hurt as she was rebuffed. Oh well, she decided, she’d gone to the effort of reaching out and trying to help him and he’d been the one to snub her, it didn’t matter if she lost his potential friendship after that, she didn’t want it anyway. She snorted derisively, noticing Heir Malfoy huffing in amusement and sending her a pleased smirk as the group stilled, arranging themselves in a semi-orderly line. Headmistress McGonagall continued on, crossing the length of the Hall to join Headmaster Dumbledore at the head of the room, flanking an old, worn hat perched on an equally aged stool. Right, an enchanted hat, a fact that hadn’t been in Hogwarts: A History but had been in both Hogwarts Through the Ages and Hogwarts: Founders to Now. Behind the hat sat the staff table, and Hermione was glad to be able to match each member of staff to their description as according to the latest edition of Hogwarts Through the Ages. After pausing to allow the hat to sing an introductory song, Headmistress McGonagall opened a lengthy scroll of parchment and began to read.
“When I call your name you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah.” Ahead of them, a blonde, pig-tailed girl stumbled forward, looking terrified as she settled on the stool, over-large hat falling down to cover her eyes. Hermione knew how she felt, feeling sick to her stomach with worry. After mere moments, that surely felt like much longer to poor Hannah Abbott, the hat shouted its pronouncement out for the whole Hall to hear.
“HUFFLEPUFF!” It announced, and Hannah’s face broke into a grin, the girl practically skipping over to her new House as the yellow-clad table cheered. Three more first years were Sorted and then Miss Lavender Brown was called forward, Hermione’s mouth falling open in shock as she was sent to Gryffindor. Behind her, Hermione heard Heiress Parkinson’s sharp intake of breath. Oh dear, Hermione thought, worried for their friendship as Miss Brown visibly pulled herself together before joining the Gryffindor table.
Hermione thought it would take longer, it certainly had at her primary school, but only three students later her name was being called and she stepped forward determinately, trepidation dogging her every step. Nervously perching herself on the stool, Hermione knew she wasn’t able to keep the concern off her face as Headmistress McGonagall lowered the old, battered hat onto her head, her bushy hair the only thing to keep it from sinking down over her ears as it had so many others.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the hat spoke.
Interesting, it crooned, giving the impression of the mental equivalent of a cat arching its back languidly. Very interesting.
What’s interesting? Hermione thought, fingers going white as she clutched at the edge of the stool, unsurprised to hear the hat speak.
You claim you want to be a Gryffindor while deliberately hiding your lineage to better your treatment in this world.
Not hiding per se, Hermione huffed, feeling her cheeks warm. Just- delaying its reveal. The hat chuckled, sounding pleased, and Hermione realised she was doing little to dissuade it from its current line of thought.
You know, you remind me of a student I once knew. A brilliant student who took the school—the whole Wizarding World—by storm.
Really? Hermione asked, eagerly and unable to hide her interest. The hat laughed again.
Oh yes. So few understand true power, you see, and so few realise just how much of it I truly have. Not Tom though, oh Tom knew. He made me promise, you see, that if I ever found another so like him that I would put them in his House and mark them, so he will know them when he meets them, so he will know I have chosen them for him.
And you think I’m this student, Hermione wondered, though it wasn’t a question. The hat ignored her.
Tell me, dear Hermione, why do you want to be a Gryffindor?
Because they are adored, Hermione thought, surprising even herself. Because I want to be the best witch there ever was.
Oh yes, the hat chuckled, repeating its mental shrug and casting itself wide across the expanse of her mind before booming, in a voice so loud, so total, that Hermione felt the echoes of it imprint themselves in the creases of her mind. SHE’S FOR YOU, TOM. Still blinking away the tingling aftershocks of that declaration, Hermione was unsurprised to hear the hat shout for all to hear.
“SLYTHERIN!”
Oh dearie me, thought Hermione, hearing Headmistress McGonagall’s sharp intake of breath and wishing for a stronger expletive but not knowing any, this was not good.