Summary: It's the first time that Hogwarts' most brilliant student doesn't have a clue about a certain crimson-eyed boy.

Character: Hermione Granger

|Author's Note| Hello. This is my first shot at a Crossover and...all I can say is it's different.


1. Crimson

The Great Hall becomes alive once the large double doors open to the sight of thousands of floating candles over four banquet tables. You confidently trudge to the wide spot in front of the whole student body, ignoring the little witches and wizards' pitiful (or maybe just disgusted) stares at your bushy mane. They have no business regarding your hairstyle, for you are, after all, a wonderful witch yourself.

Or perhaps they don't notice you at all. As much as you want to be recognized, you stay put, observing each and every one of the first years who noisily surround you with their chitchats of magic. They do not know anything yet - not a thing about wands, spells, and history. The only thing that comes to their minds is Quidditch. You don't understand. That game is simply a matter of launching flying balls into large metal rings, whereas Charms is leagues above the stupid child's play that doesn't, in any way, help you in the real world.

You don't realize that you say your thoughts out loud, and the first years tell you that you're no fun. That maybe you suck at flying, and that's the sole reason you hate Quidditch.

You huff and turn away from the insolent children and decide that it is no use arguing with people who do not match your mindset. Instead, you listen as the black worn-out hat, sitting primly on the stool, sing his own introduction. The Sorting Ceremony certainly is exciting, given the fact that you have the best chances of getting into the most laudable House - in your case, it is Gryffindor.

Soon enough, you hear a woman with captivating green eyes and a pointed witch's hat, who is the teacher they address as Professor McGonagall, bellow your name.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Some students wrinkle their noses at the peculiarity of the name by which you are called, and they grow even more annoyed when you take your seat on the stool in an aloof but quick manner. The Sorting Hat feels heavy on your head, and you notice the way it moves and splits itself to pave way for its humongous mouth.

"Gryffindor!"

For what seems like the millionth time in your life, you are correct about your assumptions - rather, your knowledge. You happily bounce off to your table, and it fills you with satisfaction and happiness to see your House welcoming you with toasts and open arms. The moment you take your place in front of the long table, an odd silence lodges itself in the hall.

Professor McGonagall pauses before she calls the next student. She stiffens as she fixes her square-rimmed glasses, appearing to be perplexed by the next name.

Almost instantly, a boy with raven hair snatches the Sorting Hat and grumbles about how idiotic the whole school is. He doesn't wait for McGonagall's signal and forces the black hat unto his head, but the boy seems like he is like Professor McGonagall herself - the Hat refuses to spout words regarding his own House.

If you come off as a know-it-all to the rest of Hogwarts, you're sure this boy thinks of himself as a god when in all honesty he isn't. You find it horrifying and alluring, at the same time, to catch a glimpse of his eyes. They're blood red, and the fact that he is knitting his eyebrows together doesn't make him look like a good child.

In fact, he looks like he is about to kill.

You realize that you have been holding on to a fork with which you stab an enormous piece of roast chicken. Your seatmates laugh at you because there is no food on your plate - in your boredom you begin to imagine things that will most likely catapult you to the pit of shame. Food definitely belongs to the list of those things.

Clearing her throat, Professor McGonagall scrutinizes the parchment in her hands. "Hyuuga, Natsume!"

The boy with the crimson irises attracts the undivided attention of Hogwarts once more, and you silently complain about how he gets to be the center of the spotlight when he hasn't even done anything productive. He accidentally stares directly at you, and smirks when he registers the defeated expression on your face.

Oh, the bastard.

The Sorting Hat wriggles on Natsume Hyuuga's head. It twists and turns and sighs in frustration. Finally, it says in a low voice, "This lad does not belong here. Not at all."

Your lips tug at the edges to form a satisfied smile. You hope that the raven-haired boy sees you and takes his wordless, arrogant declaration back.

However, a bearded man stands up from the teacher's table and pounds his hand three times on solid wood. It is not difficult to identify him as the greatest wizard of his time - you have perceived his face etched on rare Chocolate Frog cards and read all about him in the five-inch textbooks that you pored over for leisure purposes.

Albus Dumbledore smiles at the crowd of magical children and teenagers. "Oh, but he does. I assure you, I sent acceptance letters to all of the witches and wizards who deserve to enroll in the prestigious school that is Hogwarts."

It seems as if Hyuuga, the oh-so-impeccable boy that he thinks he is, has caught your scornful look a while ago, because he stares at you again and again and spits your crushed pride back at you. Dumbledore takes his seat and watches as the Sorting Hat continues to shake uneasily. It groans in its loathing of hatstalls, and murmurs a House name in defeat.

Natsume crosses his arms as he hears, "Slytherin!"

When he runs off to the students who are wearing green cloaks, you cannot mask the relief that he does not belong to the same House you are in. You cannot see his annoying face now, because his back is the one which is laid out for your eyes to feast on.

(You think that he is destined to do terrible things.)

(For the first time in your life, you are wrong.)

Another name is called. The Hall stays soundless except for murmurs here and there, and no one dares to overpower the voice of the Hat because the Boy Who Lived is about to determine a sliver of his fate. You've gleaned information about that certain boy through all of the legends that speak of his lightning scar. When Harry Potter is proclaimed to be a Gryffindor, the students at your table burst into rounds of applause, and still you sit meekly, your gaze unwavering from the new Slytherin boy with the raven hair.

That day, you learn that crimson is a wonderful color for eyes.


Constructive criticism is very much welcome. And one more thing: Ship it. As of now I'm trying to build a fully-functional sailboat, and if you're willing to participate, we might just make the Unsinkable Ship.