Guys, thank you for the feedback. I can't tell you how overwhelmed with gratitude I am. I'm literally on cloud 9.
Warning for displays of Anti-Semitism in this chapter. The anti-Jewish attitude extended far beyond Nazi Germany at the time. What's to say that Jewish Muggle-Borns in Hogwarts didn't just receive bigotry from the pureblood supremacists but also faced Anti-Semitism from their fellow non-Jewish Muggle-Born classmates as well during that time in history?
Note: made some changes, given the peerage system of the British aristocracy. It would be impossible for Hermione not to know who the Riddles were.
September 1938
Hermione grips the metal handle of her cart as she swallows. Looking up the brick barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. She feels the apprehensive gazes of her parents as she backs up before running towards the platform.
I'm going to crash, she thinks as she pushes the cart forward. She put so much force in her run that she wasn't able to stop. Instead of feeling the cart collide with the stone barrier and falling on her bottom from the force of the fall, the cart kept going.
Hermione had opened her eyes to see A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts' Express, eleven o'clock. Hermione had looked back to see a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it, her parents and sister warily making their way behind her.
The platform was full of families seeing their children off. Some dressed like her parents, and others wore the same style of clothing that she had seen from the people in Diagon Alley.
"Oh, and keep an eye on Katherine and don't let her…."
"For the love of Salazar, Abraxas, smooth your hair!"
Hermione had moved down the platform. Her parents are close by her side as she looks for an empty compartment. From her periphery, she could see a dark-haired boy pushing a cart like the one that she had. He didn't have any parents with him either.
"There we are," Father says as her luggage is loaded onto the train.
"Now, be sure to write us a letter as soon as you get settled," says mother
"I will," Hermione replies. "Hopefully, we don't go into war in a few days, and our house is still standing."
"Oh, my dear, Hitler is far away," father had tried to assure, a faint smile on his lips. "He's focused on the countries in the continent to ever come here."
Beneath the assurances, Hermione can tell that deep down, father was worried. That Hitler will actually attack England. He had easily taken Austria, he was vying for Czechoslovakia, and she hoped that England wouldn't go down just as easy.
"You will write do me, will you?" Eleanor, her younger sister of two years, pleaded as she looked up at her with green eyes.
"Of course, I will," Hermione said with a smile. "I'll write to you every day."
Well, maybe not every day. She could write to her at least once a week. Hermione knew that reading letters about her experiences in a magical school might distract her from the threat of war looming over their heads.
Hermione had given both her mother and father and her sister a tight hug. In particular, she put her nose onto her mother's shoulder. To remember the smell of her Jean Patou perfume in case she never saw her again.
"We should see you at Christmas," father tries to ensure.
"Stay safe, dear," mother whispered in her ear. "Hopefully, they'll do more to protect you should war come."
The voice in the back of her mind had assured her that she'd see her parents again. That they would still be there for her come Christmas holidays. However, even that did not soothe any worries as she waved goodbye out the window as the train pulled from the station. She tried not to cry at the sight of her sister's tear-stricken face as she waved to her.
Hermione wipes her eyes with her sleeve before walking along the corridors outside the compartments. Copy of Hogwarts, A History in hand as she tries to find one that was not too full. Halfway through the train, she did find one. One that already had one person in it.
The blood pounds in her fingertips as she opens the compartment, and she sees it's that dark-haired boy from earlier. He had seemed to be looking out the window until she had opened the door. One of his eyebrows raised curiously at her. He was already wearing his robe and uniform.
"May I?" she asked. "Everywhere else seems full."
The boy takes one look at her dress, jacket, and patent shoes. Hermione thought she could see a tinge of resentment. Perhaps she should have dressed in her uniform just as this boy had. In spite of this, he gives a shrug. Taking that as a 'yes,' Hermione slides into the seat across from him. She sets her copy of Hogwarts, A History, on her lap. Starting where she left off. The part where she was at was very interesting. Hermione wouldn't even know if –
"How did you find out?" asked the boy across from her. Interrupting her thoughts and reading.
"Find out what?" she'd asked, a tad ruder than how she meant it to come out. Hermione didn't like it when people interrupted her when she was reading while in the middle of a thought like that.
"That you were a witch?" asked the boy, this time gazing at her with a curious expression on his face. "I always thought I was something special. Different from the other kids around me. I just didn't have a name for it until I got my letter."
Truthfully, it wasn't until Professor Dumbledore visited her family's estate that the strange occurrences surrounding her became clearer. Such as the time where a scrape on the knee that had healed up the next day as if nothing had happened, or when some of those balloons popped at Eloise Hancock's birthday party for no reason. Or that time when the walls of her room mysteriously went from periwinkle to a pastel pink; coincidently, when she hated her room having periwinkle walls and wished it would be some other color.
"There were always funny things happening," Hermione had answered truthfully. "I never thought anything of it until I got my letter. Nobody in my family's magical at all, so it was quite a surprise."
"I think my father was a wizard," the boy had answered. "My mother couldn't have been if…."
He drifts off, and Hermione remembers seeing him without anyone to accompany him. "So you're parents are…?"
He nods. "My mum lived long enough to name me, and I don't know what happened to my father," was his answer. "I lived in an orphanage all my life."
At this, Hermione couldn't help feeling a wave of sadness. She couldn't imagine a life where her mother died in an orphanage giving birth to her and having no idea what had happened to her father. To grow up with other orphan children.
"I'm sorry," was all she could manage to say.
He just shrugs and looks out the window again. Perhaps desiring not to speak any more about it.
"I'm Hermione Granger," she introduced. "What's yours?"
The boy turned his gaze back at her. Crossing his arms as if he would rather not answer it.
"Tom Riddle," he had answered, not hiding the disdain in his tone.
"You despise your name?" she asked.
"There are a lot of Toms," he answers. Hermione could see where he was coming from. Tom was a dreadfully common name. As for Riddle, the Earl of Hangleton had the surname of Riddle. Eleanor was best friends with Sir Riddle's daughter Louisa. "My father was also named Tom Riddle. He was probably a wizard. What is your father, then, if he isn't a wizard? He must have a lot of money."
Tom was rather observant. Her father had hailed from one of the families of the British aristocracy. Her mother came from a family who owned a chain of textile mills from across the Atlantic. Hermione had tried to explain it without making Tom feel any lesser as best as she could. Hermione thought about mentioning whether he was related to Lousia Riddle, but then thought it was best not to. Riddle wasn't a common last name but there were probably other families with that name.
The train had long since moved out of the city of London, and they saw pastures. All dotted with grazing cows and horses. Around half-past twelve, there was a great clattering outside in the corridor, and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"
Hermione had reached into her pocket to retrieve her purse. Hearing the Galleons, sickles, and knuts jumbling around in there. The day she and her parents went to Diagon Alley with Dumbledore to purchase her books, uniform, wand, and other supplies, she'd thought to bring her purse as well. It was a good thing that she took Dumbledore's advice and exchanged her allowance. For instead of the candies she was used to seeing on the trolley, she saw Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and several other strange things Hermione had never seen in her life. Not only did she buy some for herself, but she also bought Tom some as well.
"Aren't sweets supposed to be for holidays?" Tom had asked as he gazed at her purchases. He picks up one of the Chocolate Frog boxes and gazes at it as if it were one of the most interesting things he had seen. "At the orphanage, we're only given one piece of chocolate on Christmas and Easter."
"Sweets can also be for your birthdays," Hermione had pointed out as she opened the Pumpkin Pasty wrapping.
Tom answered with a shrug, now opening his Chocolate Frog box. "They just give us a set of new clothes for our birthdays. For me, it's always the thirty-first of December."
Clothes were important. Everyone needed those; Hermione knew as much. But everyone had to receive something special for their birthdays, such as new toys. "Everyone should receive something other than clothes," she said. "Like toys."
"Toys don't interest me." Tom waves his hands dismissively. "I'd rather read books in my spare time."
"What books do you like to read?" Hermione had asked him curiously. "I always love a book by Charles Dickens or Emily Bronte."
For the next half hour, she and Tom had conversed about some of the books they had read as they ate their sweets. Turns out, Tom would make the rounds around London on his own loads of times, the library being one of his favorite places.
It was dark out when the Hogwarts Express reached their destination. The trees and mountains silhouetted against the nighttime sky as the train slowed to a stop.
"Neatly, everyone," prompted one of the older students standing near a door where Hermione and Tom exited from. A red and gold pin on her robes. "Try not to push your way through."
The air was nippy as they stepped out into the platform, and from there, an old, wizened man with a hat and gray beard led them towards a lake. Where they traveled towards the old castle on a lake. At the sight of Hogwarts itself, Hermione couldn't help but slightly gape her mouth open and widen her eyes.
Every picture of the outside of the school did not do it justice. The pictures from Hogwarts, A History had failed to convey the full magnitude of its majestic beauty. Hermione could only imagine what it would actually what it would be inside.
"It's spectacular," she breathes. "This is better than the pictures."
Beside her, Tom had also appeared wonderstruck, his eyes wide as if he saw something that he had only read in stories until now. "This is a castle that is worthy of King Arthur. You think so?"
"I don't think it would be a lie," Hermione admitted, though perhaps it was possibly greater than those castles in fables and books.
It must have been a few minutes before the boats reached the shore. The throng of babbling, excited first years followed their guide to the entrance of the castle.
"…wait to try my hand in Potions!"
"Wonder what House I'll be in…."
"Hope is not Hufflepuff!"
Hermione couldn't restrain herself from glaring at that brown-haired boy that had passed by. Even if there were no extraordinary alumni from Hufflepuff, there was nothing wrong with being in a Hogwarts House that prized loyalty and hard work.
"Helga Hufflepuff coveted those that were loyal and hardworking," Hermione whispered to Tom. "There's nothing wrong with that."
Tom shrugged. "It could just have a better name than that," he dismissed. "Hufflepuff does sound like a stupid name. Not saying it's probably a bad house, though."
Hermione shakes her head as their guide knocks on the two giant, double-doors. When they swing open, she sees the familiar face of Professor Dumbledore. Still dressed in the plum robes he wore when he came to bring her the letters.
"Here are the first years, Professor Dumbledore."
"Thank you, Reginald," Professor Dumbledore acknowledged merrily before smiling at all the first years. Besides her, she could see that Tom's smile didn't reach his eyes, which appeared cold and indifferent. "Now, come on in," he said encouragingly at them all. "Spit spot."
As they started to file in the school, one of the boys in their vicinity bumps into Tom. Sending a smirk his way, letting Hermione know it was on purpose before reaching his friend.
"That's not polite!" Hermione had shouted in indignation. The blood reached her face as she clenched her hands. Looking over at Tom, he had only narrowed his eyes at the boy. As if he was just a minor sort of irritation, then a great bother.
As they entered the entrance hall, Hermione had momentarily forgotten about her anger. The manor in which her family resided was no shack, though she assumed that a few rooms of it could fit in here. In fact, the whole place would fit inside Hogwarts. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.
They followed Professor Dumbledore across the flagged stone floor. Hermione could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right – no doubt the rest of the school was already assembled – however, Professor Dumbledore showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing somewhat closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor Dumbledore. "I understand that the lot of you want to sit down at the Great Hall and have a spot of dinner after a long afternoon on the train. However, first, you will be sorted into your houses. They are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. They each have a unique history of their own and have produced outstanding wizards and witches over the years.
"Your house will become something of a second family here: you'll dine with them, have your classes with them, sleep in your house dormitory, and relax in the house common rooms. Here at Hogwarts, any triumph will earn you points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. The year ends with the House Cup being given to the house with the most points. So far, Gryffindor has held the House Cup for three years now."
Hermione could hear a tinge of pride in Professor Dumbledore's voice as he said the last sentence. He did say so himself that he was from Gryffindor on the day he took her and her parents to Diagon Alley.
"The Sorting Ceremony will begin in a few minutes," he continued, "and while you're waiting for me to send for you, I suggest you use that time to make yourselves presentable."
As soon as he left the chamber, conversation started up again.
"How do you think we're sorted?" she heard one ask.
"According to Hogwarts, A History, the founders were trying to find a way to place the students, so Godric Gryffindor enchanted a hat and put his personality into it," Hermione had explained hoping to be of help. It was one of the things that she had read before coming to Hogwarts.
Tom's eyes gleamed with fascination and curiosity at the piece of the information. "A hat?"
"Mother did say that an old hat would talk to you to determine what house you might be suited for," pitched in a boy whose pale blond hair was askew. "It might say Slytherin is the place for me. My family on both sides have been there for centuries."
The dark-haired boy who bumped into Tom snorted. "Better Slytherin than Hufflepuff, Abraxas. If I went to Hufflepuff, I'd take the train back home."
"What could be so terrible about Hufflepuff?" Tom had challenged.
"Spoken like someone raised with Muggles," the dark-haired boy sneered. "Hufflepuff turns out wizards or witches of less caliber than Slytherin, the house of Merlin. By the looks of you," he looks at Tom's uniform, "I'd be surprised if you wind up in Slytherin."
Tom, it seemed, found a challenge in those words. "I might be greater than Merlin," he swore. "Just wait and see."
"Don't bother with him, Tom," said Hermione, trying to turn him away from them. "He's just an insufferable bully."
"I'm not lying," Tom insisted. "One never knows what they'll be when they grow up."
Tom wasn't wrong. No one knows where they'll end up in life. Some might be in a spot they wouldn't think they'd be, as mother would say. However, Hermione didn't think that Tom should entertain this particular kid who seemed to make the decision to hate him.
A few minutes later, Professor Dumbledore had arrived with a scroll rolled up in his hands. "We're ready for you now. If you may form a line and follow me, please."
Knots started to tie in Hermione's stomach as she took a spot next to Tom, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.
Again, pictures of the Great Hall didn't do the actual room justice as with Hogwarts' exterior. Walking between two tables – that were laden in golden plates and goblets – Hermione felt as if she was inside one of those old churches she and a couple of her friends toured and played in. Though perhaps it wasn't the correct comparison.
The highlight of the room, of course, was the ceiling. Which showed a velvety purple, nighttime sky strewn with stars.
"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," she couldn't help but whisper to Tom. "I read about it in Hogwarts, A History."
It was one thing to read about it, but to actually see the ceiling as if it opened up to the heavens, was a fantastic, otherworldly thing to witness.
At last, Hermione looked in the direction where Dumbledore was leading them to. In front of a dais that held another table was a four-legged stool. On top of it sat a weathered and aged witches' hat. Appearing as old as the school itself, back to its founding.
It had to be, given that Godric Gryffindor created the Sorting Hat. As they gathered around Dumbledore, he unrolled the scroll.
"I might warn you that the hat is quite a character to behold," Professor Dumbledore said as he picked up the hat. "Now, if you come forth when I call your names." He looks at the scroll in his hand. "Abbott, Theodore!"
A sandy-haired boy walked past her. Appearing as if he was trying hard not to throw up as he made his way to the Hat. Turned green as the Hat was sat on his head. A moments pause -
"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.
The table under a yellow banner embossed with a black badger cheered and clapped as Theodore went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.
"Ainsworth, Euphemia!"
"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the Hat again, and a girl with curly, auburn hair joined a table where a scarlet and golden banner hung above it.
"Avery, Marcius," and the sneering dark-haired boy from earlier swaggered up to the stool. Sending a smirk to Tom's way when the hat shouts, "SLYTHERIN!"
"Bishop, Helen!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
"Blishwick, Alexandra!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
One by one, their knot dwindled. Some take longer than others. As Professor Dumbledore reached the g's, Hermione swallowed rapidly. Okay, relax, she tries telling herself as she clenches her clammy hands. Relax, Hermione, Relax.
"Granger, Hermione!"
Not willing to wait any longer, Hermione rushed to the stool. Plopping herself on it as she jammed the hat on her head.
Hmm, such a curious mind I see here, whispers a voice in her ear. An eagerness to learn coupled with that thirst for knowledge. You'd do well in Ravenclaw, but will you? I can see a sense of determination, nerve, and daring in you. No, Ravenclaw wouldn't be an ill choice. However, it seems you're more suited for GRYFFINDOR!"
All the tension left her body now that this part of entering Hogwarts was done for her. The tension replaced with excitement as she bounded towards the table under the scarlet banner with the golden lion.
"Welcome to Gryffindor," greets a smiling dark-haired boy as he shakes her hand. A red badge with a golden 'P' pinned to the folds of his robes.
"Thanks," said Hermione, as the mousy-haired girl that was sorted before she held out her hand.
"Hullo, my name is Frances," she timidly introduces. "Frances Emerson."
"I'm Hermione Granger," Hermione greeted back with a smile, shaking the girl's hand.
A minute later, Hermione had turned back to look at the knot of students still waiting to be sorted. Tom gazed at her way too for a moment before turning to talk to that boy named Abraxas and another boy. She hoped that they weren't giving him too much of a hard time.
If they were, he wouldn't give any indication that it bothered him. He seemed funny that way.
"Hornby, Olive!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
"Huxley, Victor!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
When Professor Dumbledore called out, "Malfoy, Abraxas!" Hermione could see that his already pale features turned even whiter. Even if he tried to appear confident, his shaky legs were giving away his true feelings. The Sorting Hat must have sat on his head for a minute until it declared, "SLYTHERIN!"
As if his life depended on it, Abraxas Malfoy ran to join his friend Avery at the Slytherin table.
The minutes dragged as names were called. Gazing over at Tom, she could see him clenching and unclenching his little fists. From where he was standing from where she sat, it seemed as if he was staring down at the hat.
Hermione wished that she could be there to ask him what he was thinking. This was a new world to him as it was to her.
There were only eleven people left. "Nott"…, "Platt"…, then a pair of twins (a boy and a girl), "Prewett" and "Prewett"…then "Prince, Eileen"…
"Riddle, Tom!"
Hermione watched as her new friend made his way up the stool, glancing at Professor Dumbledore for a few seconds before sitting on the stool. His eyebrows shot up in curiosity as the hat sat on his head. Giving a little jump as he clenched the sides on the stool when the hat began to speak to him, it seemed.
It couldn't have been longer than half a minute, though it seemed longer than that to Hermione, until the hat declared, "SLYTHERIN!"
Hermione couldn't help but be disappointed as she shared a wistful glance with Tom as he walked towards the Slytherin table. It would have been nice if he was sorted in the same house as her. That he didn't have to go to the same Hogwarts house along with that arrogant toerag known as Avery.
After Tom, there were only seven people. With a "Travers, Lucretia" to be the last one sorted into Slytherin. Professor Dumbledore rolls up the scroll after the Sorting Hat declared a "York, Charles," as a Gryffindor. Taking the hat and the stool with him as an aged wizard feebly walked up to the lectern.
"He's ancient, I hear," Hermione heard a first-year whisper along the table. "Headmaster Dippet has to be a year over three hundred."
Hermione couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. He was over three centuries' years old? If he was, he indeed appeared fragile enough for it.
"Welcome, welcome," Headmaster Dippet greeted. "I understand that you are eager to have a spot of dinner; however, important announcements must be made first. First and foremost, Quidditch tryouts will be held at the end of the week, and all inquires shall go to the respective captains of the house teams. The first years are reminded the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all students. The last point is that our caretaker, Apollyon Pringle, has been kind enough to spread the word that duels and the sort are forbidden in the corridor. Thank you. Now, we can dig in."
Hermione nearly dropped her jaw as the food just appeared them as if timed after the speech. It seemed as if it were fresh from the kitchen too.
Across from her, a girl with sandy blonde hesitated. As if analyzing the plates before feeling it was safe. She had an idea of the reason why. And it seemed that one of the red-headed girls in the vicinity had taken offense.
"Oh, the food is not going to bite," she drawled.
"If it's not Kosher, I can't eat it," was the response.
"What is it with you Jews and your guidelines anyway? No wonder Hitler has had it with your lot," the other girl retorts.
The blood reached Hermione's face as she glared at this girl. "Was that necessary?" Hermione demanded. Hermione knew that these types were outside Hitler's stomping grounds, but she had hoped that she would never meet them here. Unfortunately, this girl had proved her wrong.
This girl couldn't even utter a retort when nearby, someone said, "Gladys! What were you saying a minute ago."
"Thank you," the sandy-haired girl says.
"I'm sorry you had to endure that," Hermione apologized. "I was hoping there wouldn't have been any of that here."
"Well, it seems like it's everywhere." The girl offers a hand. "Judith Cohen."
"Hermione Granger," Hermione introduces. She manages to steal a look at the Slytherin table for a few seconds. Tom was focused on his plate as if in contemplation, though he looked at Abraxas when the pale blond looked to talk to him.
Slowly, Hermione learns the names and starts to get to know the others around her at the table. Curious about what first-year will entail, she asks the nearest Gryffindor prefect – Mildred Quimble – about what to expect.
"For Transfiguration, for example," Mildred spoke as she cut up her lamb. "You're going to start out small, like needles. Professor Dumbledore is a good teacher on the subject. You might like him."
"You should mention Professor Merrythought," vocalized the girl next to Mildred. Gesturing to the table with her fork. 'Don't let her age deceive you. She's quite a hearty teacher."
Merrythought. The Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook happened to be written by her as well. Hermione followed the direction of where Mildred's friend pointed towards a wizened, gray-haired witch merrily conversing with a brown-haired wizard sporting an eyepatch.
Moments later, the plates were cleared. This time offering a wide array of puddings. The topic turning to their families.
"I was born in Germany," Judith shared as she ate a poached meringue. "Father had a shoe-making business there, but he had to relocate it to Westminster when Hitler stepped up."
Hermione admitted, "I was supposed to go to Cheltenham Ladies' College before Professor Dumbledore arrived at my house with a letter. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course. I tried a few simple spells myself, and they all worked for me."
"I got both Muggle and magical on my family tree," said Euphemia. "My father upset his family by marrying a Muggle woman from British aristocracy."
When all the plates had cleared, the prefects began gathering the first years.
"Alright, this way, first years," said Mildred as Hermione managed to lock eyes with Tom as he and the other Slytherins followed their prefects. He gave her a semblance of a smile before following the others.
While the Slytherins and the Hufflepuffs followed their prefects to doors on the ground floor, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws followed their prefects up the marble staircase.
"Pay close attention when you climb up these stairs," said Mildred's partner. "They like to change."
Changing staircases. Hermione instantly made a mental note of that. Something she didn't want to forget.
"These portraits are moving," Judith breathed in wonder, pointing to the portraits lining the wall. The people in them were curious about them, as were the students passing by. "Look at that one, Hermione."
They passed through several corridors and climbed several stairs until they stopped at the portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. "Password," she prompted.
"Per Laborem," said Mildred, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it and entered a room with squishy red chairs and a fireplace lit not too far. Elegant woven tapestries hang in the room.
Oh, how it reminded Hermione of those pictures in the books she'd used to read. As if she was in the sitting room belonging to a prince or princess.
Mildred Quimble helped Hermione and the other girls up to their dormitory at the top of the stairs. Where six, four-posted beds – each of them hung red, velvet curtains – sat waiting for them. Their trunks had already been brought up.
"I would prefer it if you would keep a good distance from me," Gladys sniffed as she glared at Judith, whose bed wasn't even next to hers.
"What has she done to you?" Hermione demanded. "You can't dislike someone simply because they are Jewish."
"There's a reason why people like her were booted out from country to country," Gladys maintained, as if it settled the matter.
Hermione had slammed her trunk open with great force, not withholding her glare. One night into Hogwarts, and Gladys was the second person in Hogwarts she didn't like aside from Marcius Avery.