Hide Your Fire
Chapter 1: You will do great things
Hermione drums her fingers against the Gryffindor table and looks anxiously around.
"Where is he?" she hisses at Ron, for at least the sixth time.
Ron shrugs. "I'm sure he's fine Hermione, he always is," he repeats for at least the fourth time, though there is a tension to his shoulders that doesn't quite disappear.
"But what if he got stuck on the train? He told Neville he was doing something…it had to be about Malfoy, right? What if Malfoy attacked him?"
"Harry can handle Malfoy," Ron says decisively. "Maybe he was talking to Hagrid and missed the carriages?"
"I don't know, Ron…" Hermione says, her voice trailing off as she searches the hall again, her gaze coming to rest on the Slytherin table. "Harry's been so obsessed with Malfoy, and we both know how impulsive he gets…"
She sees the boy in question, Draco Malfoy, looking smug. As he always does. His robes are neat and pressed, his blond hair styled aristocratically, and he's gesturing exuberantly, telling a story to an enraptured, sniggering audience. He's positively dripping in wealth and arrogance.
No, not dripping. Oozing. Like a sore.
"Obsessed might be a bit strong, I mean, you're the one staring at the git."
Her attention snaps back to Ron. "I'm not staring!" He raises an eyebrow. "Well, I am, but only because I'm worried about Harry!"
Ron scoffs. "As if there would be any other reason to stare at Malfoy."
"Right," says Hermione firmly. But even as she says it, her gaze begins drifting back toward the Slytherins.
There is something about Malfoy this year, though she can't quite put her finger on it. The arrogance is certainly not new, but there's something in the way he's carrying himself, like he knows something everyone else doesn't...
That's nonsense, obviously. He's just taller. Or more grown into his pointy features. Truthfully, he looks — well, Hermione could imagine other reasons one might stare at Malfoy besides suspicion.
Even vile things can look nice on the outside. Like a bloom of Devil's Snare.
Or a Puking Pastille.
"Welcome, welcome all, back for another year at Hogwarts." Professor Dumbledore's voice projects over the Great Hall, drawing her attention away.
Hermione can't resist casting one last, hopeful glance at the door. Still no Harry.
"I shall not bore you for too long at present," Dumbledore continues, eyes twinkling. "For now, please give your full attention to the Sorting Hat and your warmest welcome to our first year students."
Dumbledore raises his hand and gestures politely to the Hat, an invitation to begin, and Hermione lets out a small gasp, as do many others in the Hall.
His hand is blackened, almost dead-looking. Why didn't Harry mention it? Was it like that when he saw him?
And where, oh where, is Harry?
She can't help looking at the door to the Entrance Hall once more, hoping fruitlessly that she'll happen to catch him walking through it. What she sees instead is Snape, slinking out the door behind the teacher's table.
"Look, Snape's leaving," she whispers to Ron, pointing at his back as he disappears.
"Lucky prat," Ron mutters. "Wish I could leave whenever I like."
Hermione sighs and cranes her neck to look at the door one last time as the Sorting Hat begins to sing.
Its song is more or less like it always is, going over the characteristics and history of each house, providing a general advisement about unity in these troubled times, et cetera. She would like to listen carefully - it's her opinion that something as ancient as the Sorting Hat must have something useful to say, even if only in the most generic of terms.
It's just a bit hard to focus when she isn't sure if her best friend is lying dead, or stuck on a train back to London, or dead on a train back to London.
She wrings her hands as the sorting ceremony begins.
It's the same as it is every year. Nervous children, impossibly young-looking, sit on the stool and the Hat places them into a house. Simple.
When she was sorted, she'd been so nervous - and determined. She was going to learn as much as she possibly could and she was absolutely not going to waste the gift she'd been given.
Without it – without her magic, without Hogwarts – she'd be totally ordinary. Just a student at a regular secondary school, on track to become a dentist or a teacher. The sorting is always a good reminder – though she never truly forgets – of how lucky she is to be here.
That said, she's feeling a little less lucky this year, what with Harry missing and a war brewing outside the castle.
The table erupts in cheers as the first new Gryffindor of the night is announced. Hermione claps politely, remembering at the last second to be a good prefect and smile at the new recruit.
"Are there always this many of them?" asks Ron, his head bent over her ear against the noise.
She shrugs and takes another look at the door, desperate for Harry to walk through it. Once again, her eyes pass over Malfoy. He looks completely nonchalant, levitating his fork idly and paying no attention whatsoever to the Sorting.
The door finally opens just as Professor McGonagall is calling "Perkins, Graeme" up to the stage.
Hermione lets out a sigh of relief. Relief that is quickly supplanted by a fresh wave of anxiety when she sees Harry walk in — still in his jeans, blood all over his face, nearly shoved through the door by Professor Snape.
The Hall goes silent as Harry scans the crowd. Ron raises a hand to catch his attention, and he strides quickly, head down, to the Gryffindor table.
"Harry, what's happened, we've been so worried!" she says as Harry sits down between her and Ron.
"Tell you later," Harry grunts, pointedly looking to the front of the Hall.
Hermione exchanges a look with Ron as she pulls out her wand. "At least let me get the blood off you," she mutters.
"Blood?"
"On your nose! How can you not realize?" she grumbles, switching rapidly into annoyance with Harry now that she has ascertained that he is not, in fact, lying dead on a train somewhere. It's just so typical of him.
Harry shrugs lamely, and Hermione begins to siphon the blood off his face.
"Mate, just tell us," Ron whispers from Harry's other side, just as another cheer springs up around them. Evidently, Graeme Perkins is now a Gryffindor.
"Was it Malfoy?" Hermione presses quietly under cover of the cheering.
Harry nods crisply. "I'll tell you later," he says again.
Bloody Malfoy. Hermione fights the urge to stare – or possibly glare – at him again. Why is he so incapable of just leaving Harry alone?
The Sorting continues and she breathes deeply, trying to force the tension out of her shoulders. Harry is fine. They're at Hogwarts. Harry is fine. Classes start tomorrow. Harry is fine.
Before she knows it, McGonagall rolls up her scrolls and Dumbledore stands at his seat, no doubt about to open the feast.
Hermione continues to watch the proceedings patiently, as does much of the crowd. There is some minor fidgeting and whispering, and much open gawking at Harry, but that's to be expected.
What she does not expect, is for the Sorting Hat to start singing again.
Its raspy voice rings through the Hall, as students and professors alike stare at it in stunned silence.
"Though it may seem my duty's done,
This rare year I have a second one.
Two students, though they're old,
must come and have their futures told.
Though I have said I'm never wrong,
Just this once I'll eat my song.
Two names I will now call,
And change their houses for once and all."
Could that mean… Is the Hat planning to re-sort two older students? Can it do that?
Hermione's fairly certain this is a first. Nothing like it is mentioned in Hogwarts, A History, anyway.
Ron and Harry both look at her in confusion, as if they're hoping she has an explanation. She can see how she'd be their best bet, but she raises her palms and shakes her head.
Professor McGonagall gives Dumbledore a similar look of confusion, as if looking for instructions on how to proceed. Dumbledore is still smiling, though his eyes are narrow, trained pointedly on the Hat.
The Hat calls out a name. "Theodore Nott!"
That's a Slytherin boy in their year. The other name would have to be a different house, she reasons, and probably in their year as well. Please, please not Harry. Not Ron. Not me.
She grips Harry's elbow as her veins turn to ice, an awful sense of dread spreading through her.
"Hermione Granger!"
Theodore Nott is perfectly fucking forgettable, thank you very much.
He's an average student. A decent flyer, but not good enough for his house team. He is not a prefect. His friendships are typical in number, and in closeness. Last year, he asked a childhood friend out to Hogsmede and they've been dating quite pleasantly ever since.
His girlfriend, Daphne Greengrass is a kind, pretty girl from a good (srich/s), respectable (spureblood/s) family that his father would approve of. His mother too, if she were alive.
Theo is normal.
He is not the hero. He's not the guy next to the hero. He's somewhere in the middle-back of the crowd.
He will not be fighting his father's war for him.
He will not be fighting against his father, either.
Theo's going to finish Hogwarts, learn to manage his family estate, marry his school sweetheart and have several lovely, normal children. His life will be fine.
Forgettable.
So when he hears the Sorting Hat call his name, he's convinced for a moment that he's imagined it. If any Slytherin in their year were to get called to the front of the Great Hall, it would be Draco, surely. Maybe Pansy or Blaise. Definitely not Theo.
But everyone at their table is staring at him, Daphne turning to him with wide eyes and clasping her hand around his wrist. None too gently, Draco nudges Theo in the ribs until he stands up.
Daphne relinquishes her grip on him, and for a moment Theo locks eyes with Granger across the room. She has this wild, panicked look that he's certain mirrors his own expression.
"Mr. Nott! Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall calls, her voice carrying easily over the excited whispers of the student body. "Up here, please!"
"Go!" Draco mutters, shoving him in the ribs again, and exchanging one last confused look with Daphne, Theo begins the impossibly long walk to the front of the Great Hall.
He can feel every eye in the room looking at him. Well, every eye that isn't fixed on Granger, who appears to be struggling to leave the Gryffindor table.
"Ron, let go of me!" Theo can just make out her shrill voice over the buzzing of the crowd and the buzzing in his own ears.
He makes it to the base of the stage and looks to McGonagall for further instructions, just as Granger steps up beside him. McGonagall looks to Dumbledore, who simply nods.
She lets out a long-suffering sigh, and turns to the Hat. "Well?" McGonagall asks. "Are they to put you on?"
Theo has the urge to laugh. It's absolutely fucking ridiculous, an entire school of witches and wizards, their elite faculty, the schedule for the evening, all beholden to the whims of an insane, thousand-year-old hat.
And he would, laugh that is, were he not terrified that he was about to be forced to leave his friends, his whole life, everything. Slytherin is his home.
This won't happen. It can't.
He'll be back to his forgettable little life in no time and this blip as the centre of attention will be left behind as a mildly exciting anecdote for future dinner parties.
Theo lets out the breath he's been holding.
"Theodore Nott, please," the Hat wheezes, and McGonagall obediently lifts it by the point and beckons Theo forward.
He takes two full steps before Granger interrupts. "I'm sorry, Professor, but what is the precedent for this?"
"I—" McGonagall begins, faltering for just a moment. Then she takes a breath and her steady, stern demeanour takes over again. "I'm sorry Miss Granger, but the magic of the Sorting Hat is linked implicitly to the very foundation of this school. Its decisions regarding sorting are final, as part of a magical contract."
"But it already made a decision! If it was final then why has it called us up here again!" Granger argues.
Theo is standing in the middle, caught between the Hat and the edge of the stage. He would have gone through with it and been wearing the Hat already, if Granger hadn't interfered.
But that's Theo's way. Always had been.
Obey orders first, ask questions later.
Don't get involved and you won't get in trouble.
"I assure you," McGonagall ventures, "the Sorting Hat's magic is bound to serve only the best interests of the school and its pupils."
"But which is it?" Granger presses. "The school's best interests? Or mine and Theo's?"
McGonagall purses her lips in distress.
"THEODORE NOTT!"
Theo startles as the Sorting Hat bellows. He would have thought something that's been around for a thousand years would have developed a bit more patience.
"Please proceed, Mr. Nott," McGonagall urges, sighing, as Granger huffs dramatically.
Theo can feel the stares of the school following him as he makes his way to the stool and settles his lanky frame uncomfortably upon it. He places the worn hat atop his head, for the second time in his life.
The first time around, he knew he would end up in Slytherin along with Daphne and Draco and his other childhood friends. There had been no doubt, no anticipation, no alternative.
Now, he doesn't know what to expect. Perhaps, if anything, the Hat will say something to him — will peer into his psyche, sort out his traits and desires, and decide where he belongs — just as it did five years ago.
This time, the Hat doesn't examine him at all. It just mutters, low in his ear, "You will do great things." Then it yells, "GRYFFINDOR!"
The murmur of the crowd turns into a cacophony of voices. Some scattered No!'s from the Gryffindor table. From the Slytherin table, a gasp that sounds like Daphne. Granger's continued pleadings and protestations.
Theo rips the Hat from his head and thrusts it roughly into Granger's hands. He doesn't look at her. Can't stomach it.
Because as he stands off to the side of the stage and watches her go through the same process as he did, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, he understands that as much as he doesn't want this, it will be far, far worse for her.
She's a muggle-born, best friend to the Chosen One and a Weasley. His housemates are going to rip her to shreds.
Or, rather, his former housemates are going to rip her to shreds.
He can't look at Daphne, or his friends, or fucking Dumbledore either. He stares at his shiny, first-day-of-term shoes.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The Hall erupts.
A/N: Thank you for reading the first chapter of this story! I'm so excited to keep sharing what comes next.
Expect weekly Friday updates!
Phenomenal beta work done by Sunshine_celine - thank you endlessly! So glad we bumped into each other out in the tumblr wilds 3.