BOOK 1: HERMIONE GRANGER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE
Chapter 3: The Sorting
The ancient, worn hat fell over Hermione's eyes.
My, my, what do we have here? The voice wasn't audible, and seemed to speak directly into Hermione's mind. At the same time though it was still recognizably the same voice that had been singing about the house attributes a few moments earlier.
Loyalty, certainly, and intellect, goodness yes, and not a small amount of bravery, either. Even the potential for great ambition, though you've tried to bury that. You are the puzzle, aren't you?
Hermione simply sat on the hard wooden stool. She'd decided it didn't really matter which House she was put in.
I see, said the hat, as if it could read her mind. Which… seemed like a pretty reasonable assumption.
A word of advice: despite what you may read in the storybooks, nobody ever gained power without the desire to do so.
I don't really care, Hermione thought back at the hat.
I'm glad you're aware of the problem, replied the hat. In any case you do need to go somewhere, so it had better be… RAVENCLAW!
Hermione only shrugged as she handed the hat back to Professor McGonagall without looking at her.
She walked at a measured pace down the short steps to the floor of the hall, and towards one of the four long tables that filled most of the space. She saw a blue and bronze banner displaying a large, stylized eagle hanging from the ceiling at the far end over the table McGonagall had indicated.
She was welcomed to the table by a large assortment of students from all years. There was a reasonable amount of clapping, but it was rather more subdued than the boisterous welcomes that the new Hufflepuffs and particularly Gryffindors were receiving.
Hermione looked around, and really took in the room for the first time. When she'd entered earlier, the haze of red brought on by the sight of Professor McGonagall had blinded her to the fantastic sights around her. In fact, she hadn't really paid attention to her surroundings throughout the whole second half of the train ride from London. Even as the train stopped in Hogsmeade; even as the first years made their way to a set of small boats enchanted to move on their own; even as they had glided across the loch and gotten their first glimpse of the enormous castle above them, Hermione had been so preoccupied with her conflicting feelings that she had barely looked up.
Now, as she looked around, she could admit that these wizards did know how to put on a good show. The Great Hall rose above her, a giant, arched space that dissolved into the night sky. She'd read about the enchantments placed on the ceiling, so ancient nobody alive knew the secrets of their making. The hall was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over the four long tables. In front of the students were glittering golden plates and goblets.
Two first years had sat down ahead of Hermione at the Ravenclaw table. One was Michael Corner, who was gaping around the room, taking it all in, and who Hermione thought may have not even noticed that the demon girl from the train had just sat down across from him.
The other was a girl. An implausibly perfect girl. Her hair was smooth and glossy in warm brown waves, her skin was unblemished, and when she smiled at Hermione with a slight nod, Hermione could see that the other girl's teeth were perfectly straight and practically glowing white. If she'd announced that she had just come from the photo shoot for a Hogwarts recruitment brochure Hermione would have believed her. Even her clothes seemed to hang off of her in a more elegant way than Hermione could hope to manage, and they were wearing the same uniform! Hermione, whose hair had expanded dramatically in the heat of the stuffy train ride, disliked her immediately on principle.
Hermione realized with a start that she'd been staring, and she looked around, unsure what she should be doing and suddenly overly conscious of each person she looked at. She finally settled on turning towards the Head Table to see how the rest of the sorting progressed. It wasn't that she particularly cared, but it was better than risking eye contact with anyone else.
She saw, with a pang of guilt, that Neville Longbottom was approaching the stool to be Sorted. She was still kicking herself over the train. She should have just apologized! She just–she was so sure she had been right, and then Ron Weasley had jumped in and she couldn't let them think she didn't know what "inanimate" meant and she just–she just should have apologized, she thought for about the hundredth time in the last few hours. Neville was sorted into Gryffindor at least, which meant that she wouldn't have to face him again tonight.
A few places behind Neville was another child Hermione recognized from the train: the Doc Martins-wearing boy who had complained about muggleborns. McGonagall called out the name "Malfoy, Draco," which was apparently his, and Malfoy, Draco sauntered up to the stool, confident and haughty. But as Professor McGonagall put the hat on his head, his face fell, and when, after a long moment, the brim ripped open once more and yelled, "RAVENCLAW!" he emerged from hat with his mouth screwed up like he was trying not to cry. He was stuttering words to McGonagall, which Hermione couldn't make out from across the hall, but the professor was unyielding and directed Malloy to the bench Hermione was seated at. Draco stomped over to it, and his last words, "my father will hear about this!" were loud enough for the whole hall to hear.
Hermione guessed that students from wizarding homes might have stronger preferences than muggleborns did about which House they were sorted into. They had existing friends, after all, so it made sense that they'd prefer to room with those people. Especially since, as far as she could tell, there was no switching Houses once you started. Of course, none of the other students had put up such a fuss, so it did seem like this Draco Malfoy was acting rather childish about not getting his preferred placement. But looking around the room, Hermione noticed that Draco wasn't the only one surprised by the boy's Sorting. There was muttering from many of the older students, confused worry in the faces of the Slytherin students, and looks of open glee from a group of redheads at the Gryffindor table. Hermione, entirely ignorant of the social currents here, could make neither heads nor tails of all of it. It couldn't be that bad to be sorted into a house known for academic achievement at a school, could it?
The next name Hermione recognized was standing a couple of spaces behind Malfoy.
"Potter, Harry!"
As Harry stepped up to the stool, whispers broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.
"Potter, did she say?"
"The Harry Potter?"
Now Hermione looked back down at her plate. She had hoped, for a brief hour, that Harry might be her first friend at Hogwarts. Now she was sure that Harry thought her insufferable, and after how she had acted on the train, she couldn't blame him.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted, and on this announcement the already boisterous table exploded to a volume she might have expected had it just been announced that England had won the World Cup. Over the clapping and whooping, Hermione could make out a chant of "WE GOT POTTER! WE GOT POTTER!" From their brief interactions on the train, Hermione didn't think that Harry Potter was terribly interested in being famous, but the rest of his new house seemed to be of a different opinion.
The first years continued to be sorted, and Hermione clapped along politely whenever one of them landed in her new House. Finally, "Zabini, Blaise" was Sorted into Slytherin, and Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.
Hermione looked down at her empty golden plate.
She tried to convince herself that the fiasco on the train was for the best. She was here to learn. She didn't want to make friends with wizards–she wanted to learn enough magic that she could get her real friends back.
So why did it hurt her so much to see Ron Weasley clearly reenacting their interactions on the train, while Harry Potter added details, Neville Longbottom looked close to tears again, and a crowd of approving Gryffindors roared with laughter? She didn't care what they thought of her. She didn't!
"Welcome!" said the Headmaster, interrupting her reverie. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
"Thank you!"
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered, and Hermione joined in half-heartedly. She heard a sniffle to her right and realized with a start that she hadn't even noticed that Draco Malfoy had sat down next to her. If it weren't for the slicked back hair and black eyeliner, she wouldn't have recognized him as the arrogant boy from the train. He now looked as lost as any of the new muggleborns.
Hermione heard a series of small, barely audible pops. She looked down, and the dishes in front of her were now piled with food. It was like a potluck at Uncle Chris's, multiplied tenfold: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.
As the students ate, the castle ghosts floated along the tables. Over the Ravenclaw table was the ghost of a young woman, tall, with waist-length hair. She wore a haughty expression, and seemed to be looking down on the students seated at the table.
One of the older students noticed the first years watching the ghost. "That's the grey lady," he said, "the Ravenclaw House ghost. Don't worry if she doesn't talk to you–she rarely decides students are worth speaking to before their fourth year or so."
"What do the House ghosts do, anyways?" asked Michael Corner.
The older student shrugged. "Maintain House traditions, I guess? They're also an extra set of eyes for the teachers and prefects to keep watch on the younger kids. And I guess in some houses students can ask questions. Just not ours!"
Hermione ate mostly in silence, which was easy because Draco, sitting on her one side, spoke to nobody and didn't even take any food, and on her other side was an older student who practically turned his back to Hermione in an effort to talk to his friends farther down the table.
As the feast went on, she overheard the older student from before, who introduced himself as Roger Davies, point out some of the Professors at the head table to Michael and a group of first year boys.
"That's Professor Flitwick," he said, "you'll get to know him well soon enough. He's the head of our House."
Professor Flitwick was a short man–he was shorter than all but the smallest of the first year students. He had long fingers, which he moved precisely as he cut and ate his meal. Hermione noticed that, although many of the teachers at the Head Table were drinking deeply from the goblets in front of him while talking with each other, Professor Flitwick merely sipped at his, and kept his eyes on the table of students in front of him.
The Head of House finished his meal well before the rest of the teachers, and proceeded to walk down the Ravenclaw table, sharing brief words with a number of students. He must have been paying close attention to the Sorting, because as he passed he greeted each new student by name. Then, perhaps sensing that the meal was coming to a close, he made his way back to the head table as the desserts vanished from the tables.
Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.
"Ahem–just a few more words now that we are fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
Dumbledore seemed to grin slightly at the Gryffindor table.
"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.
"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."
A few people laughed, but most of the students–particularly the older ones, Hermione noticed–seemed to take this comment at face value.
"He's not serious, is he?" Michael Corner asked in a low voice.
"Must be," said Roger Davies. "Though normally he gives a reason for why things are out of bounds–dangerous beasts or curses gone wrong or some such."
"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Hermione noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.
Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.
"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"
The most bizarre song Hermione had ever heard followed. Every student was apparently supposed to pick their own tune, and the result was an excellent example of why choirs generally practiced singing together.
When the last, painful tones had finally died away, Dumbledore spoke again.
"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
Music, thought Hemione, is not what gives wizards their power.
Hermione had been distractedly piling the food in front of her onto her plate and eating it during the feast, and it was only as she rose that she realized just how full she was. She rather regretted not paying more attention to how much she was eating as she stepped over the bench and followed the rest of her new House out of the Great Hall.
The group of students, a little subdued from the meal but still chattering amicably as friends caught up with each other and speculated on classes, followed the prefects across the entrance hall and up the marble staircase. They passed down long corridors, which were lined with portraits of people who whispered and pointed as they passed, and climbed tall staircases. At one point one of the staircases, rather alarmingly, moved when only half the group had reached the top, shunting the remainder of the students onto another balcony. Professor Flitwick had prepared for this, however, by stationing prefects all along the line of students, and so the two groups were able to meet up in the adjacent corridor without difficulty.
They marched through the castle until they reached a spiral staircase. "This way," one of the prefects, whose name Hermione hadn't caught, beckoned. They climbed the staircase in tight, dizzying circles, until Hermione's legs felt like lead. Her regret over how much she had eaten at the feast reached new heights, and only the presence of so many other people kept her from sitting down on one of the steps to give her stomach a bit to settle.
At last they reached a door. There was no handle, and no keyhole: nothing but a plain expanse of aged wood, and a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle.
One of the older prefects reached out a hand and knocked. At once the beak of the eagle opened, but instead of a bird's call, a soft, musical voice said, "How many divisions should a circular ward have?"
"See," the prefect said to the group, "other houses have passwords to get into their common rooms, but in Ravenclaw you have to answer a challenge question instead. Like so:" The prefect turned to the door and spoke clearly: "Seventeen, being the seventh prime."
"Correct." said the voice, and the door swung open. The group of students filed into an airy, circular room. The walls were hung with blue-and-bronze silks and punctuated with regular windows. The ceiling was domed and painted with stars, which were echoed in the midnight-blue carpet. There were tables, chairs, and bookcases scattered about in clusters, and in a niche opposite the door stood a tall statue of white marble. The room was brightly lit, though Hermione couldn't see any sources of illumination. It was almost as if the walls themselves were glowing.
Professor Flitwick spoke a few words to the returning students, then dismissed them to their dorms to address the first years, who remained. It was a surprisingly small group. It had felt like hundreds of students had crowded the Great Hall, but split up by four Houses and seven years there were barely a dozen of them.
"The questions won't generally be that hard," the tiny man said. "When a group approaches the questions are aimed at the highest grade level in the group. So since we were all together just now it was a seventh year question. If some of you first years came to the door by yourselves it would be a first year question." There was a look of relief around the group; they had all been wondering how they would ever get into the room with the type of question the prefect had answered.
"Now students," Flitwick continued, collecting everyone's attention back at himself, "you heard the Deputy Headmistress talk about house points and the house cup. I'm going to be honest with you, we don't win too often—a bunch of points go to the quidditch winners, gobstones club champions, and not many go to academic accomplishment. So don't stress out too much. But we (he gestured around at the prefects who flanked him on both sides) will be very miffed if any of you lose points by being stupid. So use your heads, think things through in general, and think things through twice before you do any magic you can't undo.
"Now let me introduce you to the prefects. You can come to any of them, or myself, if you have a problem or a question. The prefects are also charged with keeping discipline, but I do want to make one thing clear: if you are in trouble, come talk to one of us. We're not Gryfinndors, running bold, do-or-die missions to save our friends from trouble, and we're not Slytherins, making deals to get out of consequences. We're Ravenclaws, which means we solve our problems intelligently. And for first years, intelligently usually means getting somebody older involved."
The professor's voice softened, and his face fell a bit. "I am serious about this. Magic… magic is wonder and awe, but it is also dangerous, and people have died because they didn't ask for help when they needed it. House points? Detention? I'd rather come fourth in the House Cup every year than see one of you seriously injured."
Hermione's classmates looked a little shocked at this speech, except for one, who Hermione vaguely recalled might have been named Anthony, who seemed to think their Head of House was laying it on a bit thick, judging from the small smile he was trying to hide, and of course Draco Malfoy, who was trying to look haughty while holding back tears.
Hermione was neither shocked nor incredulous. A flick of a wand had torn her whole life away; she hardly needed further evidence that magic could be dangerous.
While the speech was straightforward and believable, though, Hermione had a hard time trusting that this earnest teacher had her best interests at heart. She'd been willing to open up—just a little bit—to the boys on the train, but they were just kids starting out magic training, same as she was. But adult wizards? Hermione narrowed her eyes as Professor Flitwick pointed to each prefect in turn with their name. She would never make the mistake of trusting an adult wizard again.
The girls dormitory was in its own tower, a spur off of the main Ravenclaw one. Like the common room, it was circular, though obviously much smaller, with five beds evenly spaced around the wall, pointing inwards like the spokes of a gigantic wheel. There were tall windows between the beds, though since the curtains were drawn and it was dark anyway Hermione couldn't see what type of view they had. The beds were large poster beds, with thick curtains that would completely encase the bed if they were pulled shut.
Trunks (and Hermione's suitcase) were already laid out, and the girls set to unpacking their things into the dresser and set of shelves each had been provided.
Hermione noticed that the girl to her right was the girl she had sat across from at the feast, with her too-perfect hair and teeth. The girl put her things away quickly, and then sat on the end of her bed, facing the room, evidently waiting for the other girls to finish their own unpacking.
"So should we do introductions?" she asked. She directed this question to the room at large, but mainly to a red headed girl to her right, who merely shrugged.
The other girl went on undeterred. "Let's say, name–I mean obviously, our names, it's not really an introduction otherwise, right?–affiliation, and…" she thought for a second, then her face brightened as she got an idea, "what was the first magic you did on purpose."
She looked around the room, and while nobody spoke, nodded, or gave any other indication they agreed with this plan, Hermione got the impression that perfect girl would have taken anything short of physical violence as assent.
"So I suppose… well I suppose I should go first, as it was my idea. So: I'm Mandy Brocklehurst, my parents are in Gamp's Inn, and the first magic I did on purpose was unlocking the door to the children's library at the Inn. I'd finished one of the Boy Who Lived books, you see–you know, the one where Harry realizes at the very end that Yvette is actually a vampire–and I wanted to see what happened in the next one, and the library was closed for the day."
The Boy Who Lived books? Hermione wondered to herself. She thought the Boy-Who-Lived was what some wizards called Harry Potter, but as he had never heard of magic until a few months ago it seemed unlikely he was authorizing books about himself.
Mandy smiled and nodded to the redhead on her right. She was shorter than Mandy, her face rounded with the baby fat she was still holding on to and covered with freckles. Hermione approved of her hair, as it had fallen out of the clip she had used to pull it back and was something of a mess.
"I'm Isobel MacDougall. Of, well, Clan MacDougall. But I go by Izzy." Izzy spoke softly, and unlike the other wizard-raised students Hermione had met, she spoke with an accent Hermione immediately recognized, a thick Scottish burr.
"The first time I did magic on purpose… well I guess it was when I was hunting, with my family, in the Forest. Do you know about the Forest?" She tilted her head as she said this towards Hermione and the Asian girl who had taken up the bed to Hermione's left. Hermione assumed this was because they were the obvious muggleborns in the room.
Hermione shook her head, and Izzy went on. "There's an entrance here at Hogwarts, actually, but here they call it the Forbidden Forest to remind students not to go in. But it's huge, the forest. And, I guess, not entirely in this world? I mean, if you know what you're doing you can enter at Ardvreck Castle and come out here at Hogwarts, and you'd be in the Forest the whole time, but if you don't enter the Forest there you could walk to Hogwarts the normal way, and not see the forest at all. Does that make sense?
"Anyway, my family sometimes goes on these big trips into the Forest, and this time they were hunting a graphorn, which they were supposed to keep away from the kids, except it got around the hunters somehow, and I managed to wrap up its legs with some vines." Hermione had no idea what a graphorn was–she thought about asking but then decided she would look it up in one of her books later.
"You never told me that!" exclaimed Mandy.
Izzy shrugged. "It was a long time ago," she said simply.
"Still," said Mandy, "an incarcerous is pretty impressive to have done on purpose."
Izzy simply shrugged again. "It's different in the Forest, you know. Magic responds differently. I don't think I could've done it out in the world."
"No excuses, it was very impressive and you're sure to be a brilliant witch!" said Mandy with a good natured laugh.
They all turned to the witch on Izzy's right. The second thing Hermione had noticed about her was that she looked Indian; the first was the fact that she was glaring around the room with undisguised venom.
"Pam ydym ni'n gwneud hyn yn Saesneg? Dylen nhw fod yn dysgu siarad yn iawn!" she spat.
"Padma," said Mandy in a gentle admonishment. "I'm sure they'll learn Cambrian quickly. But they can't possibly have picked up that much since July. And what good would introductions do if they can't understand what we're saying?"
"Byddent yn dysgu'n gyflymach pe byddem yn rhoi'r gorau i'w codlo," said the Indian girl Hermione assumed was named Padma. Then she pulled the curtains on her bed closed, in a clear gesture that she was done with the conversation.
"That was Padma Patil," said Mandy to the rest of the room. "She, uh, thinks that muggleborns would adjust more quickly in a full immersion program–Hogwarts is actually one of the few magical schools in the world that uses a muggle majority language for instruction."
"And she's forgetting that Hogwarts isn't just English mages!" said Izzy, with a surprising amount of passion from the soft-spoken girl.
Hermione's curiosity finally overcame her reluctance to engage with the other witches. "So do they not speak Cambrian in Scotland? I thought it was standard for wizards in the UK."
"It is not," began Izzy hotly, but Mandy jumped up with her hands outstretched placatingly.
"She doesn't know any better, Izzy!" Then Mandy turned to Hermione. "Well, for one thing," she explained, "there is no 'UK' on the magical side. On your side–I mean, the muggle side, not your side, obviously–Britain and Ireland are, what, one country, right?"
Hermione shrugged. "It's complicated, but part of Ireland, yeah."
"Right. So, on the magical side, Ireland has always been separate. And within Britain the boundaries aren't the same. Like, when wizards talk about Scotland, they mean just the Highlands - everything south of Firth of Forth is considered part of England."
"So you don't speak Cambrian?" Hermione asked Izzy.
"No, I do, but only because I learned it in primary," replied the redheaded girl. "We speak Scots at home. And–I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude about it–it's just that your London wizards seem to forget sometimes that the Highlands are part of the country too."
With that, an awkward silence settled around the room, until it wasn't so much broken as intensified by Mandy. "So, what about you?" she put to the Asian girl next to Hermione.
"I'm Sue Li," was all the girl said.
After another pause, Mandy interjected again. "That's great, that's great. S'mae, Sue! So, um, right I guess you wouldn't have an affiliation, but what was the first magic you did on purpose."
Sue simply stared at the floor next to her bed.
"I haven't really done that," she said at last.
"Oh, it doesn't have to be anything big, you know. Just, what was the first time that you wanted to make something happen, and you just– you just did it! It's such a great feeling, isn't it?" said Mandy.
Sue didn't lift her head. "I haven't really done that," she repeated.
"Okay. Well, okay," said Mandy.
She turned to Hermione next, and Hermione could see that the happy facade was cracking. Mandy's introduction effort was so far one for three, not counting herself. Hermione was her last hope to bring it up to a technical pass. She felt the weight of Mandy's slightly manic smile like a physical pressure as a moment of silence dragged out.
"Oh all right," she said at last. "I'm Hermione Granger, affiliated with the Crips–that's a very prestigious muggle association, you know–and the first magic I ever did on purpose was bringing my friend's pet rabbit back to life after it died."
The silence around the room was now even thicker than it had been a moment ago. The other girls were all staring at Hermione. Even Padma had opened the curtains on her bed a crack to look at her.
"You're not– you're not serious, are you?" whispered Izzy.
Hermione let the silence stretch out just a moment longer. Then she laughed. "Of course I'm not serious, the Crips are an American gang. I don't have an 'association,' as you call it."
The other girls didn't react the way Hermione thought they would. If anything, their expressions gained a tinge of horror to go along with the shock they'd worn a moment before.
"You mean," said Mandy, "you really did raise your friend's rabbit from the dead?"
"On purpose?" added Izzy.
"I mean, yes?" replied Hermione. "She was really upset about it, and by that point I knew I could do strange things, so I figured I might as well give it a try."
Padma shut her curtains again. Mandy and Izzy just looked at each other.
"I think I'm ready for bed," said Izzy, in her softest voice yet.
"Yeah…" agreed Mandy. Sue said nothing, but it seemed that was pretty normal for her.
Hermione turned her back to the room, and quietly finished unpacking her things from her suitcase. Even after it was empty, her dresser and shelves looked half full. While the other girls had pictures from home, strange magical toys, novels, and leisure clothes, Hermione had only the bare minimum uniform, school books, and supplies.
Except for one thing. The last item Hermione unpacked was an ungainly contraption of struts and electronics, with wires covered in what once had been brightly-colored plastic sheathing before fading with dirt and use. There were motors attached to various junctions, and gobs of poorly added solder everywhere. Hermione lifted the contraption out of the newspaper she had wrapped it in, and gently placed it on top of her dresser.
She sat back down on her bed before she heard a small voice behind her.
"Um… Hermione?" Hermione turned around to see Sue Li. "Did you make that sculpture?"
Hermione looked at the mess of wires and metal. She could barely make out the word "Figaro" scratched into a plate at the front.
"I–" Hermione started, then sighed. "It's not a sculpture."
Hermione crawled into bed. After a short while, the lights dimmed on their own. Despite the exhaustion of the day, it took Hermione a long time to fall asleep.