For Harry, it was love at first meeting, and it started with Hagrid.
It had been a long day, the best of Harry's life, yet chewing the hamburger Hagrid had bought him, it hadn't all sat well with him.
"Don't you worry Harry," Hagrid had said. "You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts. You'll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do, 'smatter of fact."
Harry had tried to imagine that, but hadn't been able to picture Hogwarts at all. "What's it like?" he'd asked. "Where is it even?"
"Scotland," Hagrid had answered. "Gets a wee bit chilly in the winter, so yeh might dress warm as yeh can. It's a ruddy great castle, all turrets and pennants, with a very interestin' lil forest right out back. And Hogsmeade, the wizarding village, is hardly a mile from the edge of the grounds. Train tracks run right through it."
"There's a train?" Harry had asked.
"Hogwarts express, best train in the world." Hagrid had handed him an envelope. "First o' September, King's Cross, it's all on your ticket — go on, open it."
Harry had broken the wax seal and looked quizzically at the ticket. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?" He'd never been to King's Cross, but that didn't sound quite right.
"Blimey, I near forgot," Hagrid had said. "Get yerself between platforms 9 and 10, three quarters of the way to 10, and go through the brick. No tapping it with yer wand or the like. Just go on through when no one's looking — muggles won't notice."
"Through the brick?"
"It'll seem solid enough ter yer hand, but a bit of gumption and yeh'll slip right through. Might help to do it at a bit of a run. Get there right early, if you can. Merlin knows I get lost half the time in muggle places."
Harry had listened and nodded, and from there, perhaps it was destiny.
#
#
At quarter past nine, Hermione Granger was still alone in the train compartment. She'd got there at quarter to nine, just in case, and now she was beginning to worry that choosing the front compartment was a mistake and one else would join her in it. It was a silly worry, of course. It was 45 minutes from departure, and very few people had even got there yet. But Hermione had been born concerned. Her father liked to joke that when she'd come out of the womb she'd asked several probing questions of the doctor as to why he'd handled the labor that way. Mum usually told him to hush.
Hermione was determined to make friends. Not that she hadn't ever had a friend before. She'd got on well with the other girls in the gifted program, and she and a girl at summer camp had practically been bound at the waist at space camp for two years running, but then Jennifer had stopped coming to space camp thanks to gymnastics, and except for a few phone calls and one parent-supervised trip to the planetarium in Gloucestershire, the friendship had piddled out.
She was nursing a secret hope that Jennifer would turn out to also be a muggle-born witch. It was vanishingly unlikely, but perhaps that was what magic was like. Maybe it chose people who were curious and liked talking about interesting things. She certainly hoped so. Hermione had had enough trying to make conversation with people who only ever talked about things like sport, arcade games and boys. Such subjects could be alright for a while, but after a few minutes, they became intolerably dull. At 11, she was still quite convinced that when other people disagreed, they were taking the mickey.
But magic was as if science and poetry had been combined neatly into a single subject, and no one could possibly pretend it was boring to talk about. Now that she was on the train, she was practicing all the spells she'd been salivating over since finding out about magic two months ago, and she was sure she wasn't the only one, or wouldn't be once more people showed up.
The Green Sparks Charm produced a shower of green sparks. The Wandlighting Charm lit the end of her wand. The Repairing Charm had fixed a quill she'd broken while practicing her quillmanship.
She was practicing such not only because she had been raring to, but also because, once people saw how much she already knew, they'd be terribly impressed and think she would be very interesting to talk to. Before long, she'd make a friend, which she imagined to be especially important at a boarding school.
Hermione was sure of the plan. After all, it would work on her.
As she was lighting her wand again, a boy poked his head into the compartment. He had messy black hair that covered his forehead, broken spectacles he'd fixed with scotch tape, and ratty clothes that were much too big, but he looked about her age.
Hermione smiled at him anyway. "Come on in."
His eyes lingered on the end of her wand (still shining brightly), and he dragged his trunk in behind him.
"Oh, what a beautiful owl!"
"Her name's Hedwig."
"After Hedwig of Silesia? Her life was ever so interesting. It's a wonderful name. I did think of getting an owl, but I wasn't sure it would be a good idea in a muggle neighborhood, and anyway, I figured I should live with owls for a year before getting one. And my parents don't like pets, and Professor McGonagall assured me I could use the school post owls just fine, but yours is very pretty. May I stroke her?"
Well," said the boy after a long blink, "That's up to her. But I'll let her out." And he opened the door to the cage. Hermione offered her hand to the snowy owl, who, after some contemplation, allowed Hermione to stroke her neck.
"Really lightly" said the boy. "And don't ruffle the feathers."
The owl responded positively to her ministrations, and she beamed at the boy before launching into her introduction.
"I'm Hermione Granger. 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 mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard — I've learned all our course books by heart of course, I just hope it will be enough — by the way, who are you?"
Instead of answering, the boy jerked his chin toward her shining wand and said, "What spell is that?"
"Oh, it's the Wandlighting Charm. It's on the sixth or seventh page of the first chapter of the Standard Book of Spells. Are you a first year too?" Not that there was much doubt, short as he was.
He nodded.
"Want to try the spell?" Without waiting for his response, she opened her book to the appropriate page. "Now, we do have to be careful. Don't say the incantation with the wand movement until you're sure you have the pronunciation right, and it's best not to use the wand motion either until you're sure you have it — it's best to practice with a quill beforehand, at least at first. Keep your wandtip down, and pointed away from other people, and you should always read about the spell before trying it. Have you?"
He had, and while it took him a few more tries than it had Hermione, he managed the spell quickly enough. He beamed first at the glowing tip of his wand, and then at Hermione. Guessing that this was his first time properly casting a spell, Hermione counted it as her good deed for the day.
He was eager to continue, though, and Hermione loved helping. He managed Periculum on just his second try, and Hermione happily demonstrated the Repairing Charm on his broken spectacles, rather proud of herself for thinking to make it easier with the modifier 'Oculus.'
They didn't work on that spell just then, though. More and more people were coming onto the platform, some people in quite odd clothes, many carting owl or pets, and rather than hurrying onto the train, most of them were standing around talking. The platform was just then more interesting than anything else.
A number of people passed by their compartment, but most of them were much older and went by after looking in. A few were more their age, but they went by too. Hermione was tempted to blame her new companion for looking so rumpled, but she told herself not to.
Watching other students pass by grew tiresome, and Hermione said, "Do you have any idea what House you'll be in? Gryffindor sounds by far the best, though I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be bad."
"What are they?"
"You mean you don't know?"
He shook his head. "Hagrid mentioned Houses, but I didn't see anything about it in my textbooks."
"Didn't you buy any extra books?"
"Hagrid didn't let me."
"Who's Hagrid?"
"The Groundskeeper. He took me shopping for my things in Diagon Alley."
Hermione stared. "He didn't let you get any extra books?" she repeated.
"He said I could only get books on the list."
"But that's horrible! He can't do that. Books are important. Professor McGonagall, who is the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, took me shopping, and she pointed out several useful books and encouraged me to get them, which is what teachers normally do. Why was this Hagrid the one to take you shopping anyway?"
The boy shrugged.
"Are you muggleborn like me?"
"No. My mum and dad were a witch and a wizard, but they died, so I've always lived with my Aunt and Uncle, who are muggles. I didn't know about magic at all until July 31st."
"July 31st? Professor McGonagall brought me my letter on June 28th, and I thought that was late notice, but apparently they start on it as soon as the previous school year is done. July 31st is much too late. You're going to be so far behind!"
"Hagrid says everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts," said the boy uneasily.
"Not people who read! A lot he knows, stopping you from getting books. Was he very good in school, you think?"
"Er. He got expelled."
'There you go. Did you read your textbooks at least?"
"I skimmed them a lot."
"Well that's something. They are only textbooks, I suppose, which aren't meant to be the most interesting to read straight through. But you won't have any background. You'll be behind most of the muggleborns, nevermind the people who actually grew up here."
The boy was beginning to look nearly as panicked as Hermione felt on his behalf. "Don't worry," she said, "We'll be on this train for hours. I'll get you caught up."
She drew Hogwarts, A History from her trunk and spoke quickly, at times summarizing, at other times reading key passages out loud. She had been working lately on 'not talking people's ears off,' and 'noticing when people had stopped listening,' but the dark-haired boy was drinking in every word she said. Pleased to have such a receptive audience, she hardly noticed when the train began to move.
She was still explaining about the Four-Founders when the compartment was opened and a brown-haired boy popped his head in. He looked them both over, and said, quite boldly, "Have either of you seen Harry Potter?"
Hermione frowned at him. "Is he a friend of yours?"
"Never met him," the boy admitted, taken aback by the question.
"Then I don't think that's very clever of you, going around looking for him. You'll meet him at Hogwarts normally, assuming he actually is in our year, which I wasn't quite sure of. His birthday was well into the summer, if I recall, and I don't know what the cut-off date is, so I'm not sure if he'll be one of the youngest in first year or one of the oldest ne-"
The brown-haired boy closed the compartment, cutting her off rather rudely. "Well," she huffed, turning back to the black-haired boy, who was now staring at her oddly. "Imagine that, going around trying to meet him like he's an author at a book signing."
"You don't want to?"
"It just seems such a sad reason to be famous, everyone being terribly relieved about the night his parents were murdered. But I am curious, of course. I haven't ever met anyone who's in books before."
"Books?"
"Oh, yes, he's in three of the books I got for background reading. How do you know about him anyway? The textbook doesn't go that recent."
"Hagrid told me the story."
"Probably without much detail, from what else you've told me."
"Hagrid was really nice," he said, in a warning sort of tone.
She ignored it. "We'd better look at this too, if you're going to be in the same year as him." She took The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts from her trunk, as it had the longest section on the boy-who-lived, dwelling at length on just what might've happened that Halloween night.
It might have been, she explained, that Voldemort's wand had been cracked, or simply that he'd been holding it backward. Silly as it sounded, the fact was that every year a handful of witches and wizards ended up in Saint Mungo's from such mishaps, and how much more dangerous would that be if you were casting deadly dark magic? Or perhaps Harry Potter had surprised Voldemort with a powerful surge of unexpected accidental magic at just the right moment. Or perhaps his parents had done some nebulous, unknown something before dying. Sacrificial deaths had wrought strange effects before. The book favoured, however, the idea that Voldemort had defeated himself, that as dark magic was fundamentally self-destructive, all the terrible dark magic he'd committed had been bound to recoil on him at some point.
The dark-haired boy was tense as a guitar string, leaning toward her as if he were burning every word into his mind. She'd never been listened to so intently before, and it was quite flattering.
Hermione turned to the page that held a glossy picture of the Potters, a woman with dark red hair and a man with dark brown hair fussing over an infant, both seeming less concerned with the camera than with soothing the fretful baby in the woman's arms.
Hermione's companion snatched the book right out of her hands.
She started to protest, but was arrested by the look on his face. Fascinated, overwhelmed, finger tenderly brushing the surface of the picture, gasping when Mr Potter winked at the camera. In his eyes was a powerful hunger.
Eyes that were, beneath his spectacles, the same brilliant green as Lily Potter's. And otherwise, he looked a great deal like James Potter.
"You know, you never told me your name," Hermione whispered.
"I'm Harry Potter," he said, and Hermione's first wild thought was to feel guilty that she'd effectively lied to the brown-haired boy earlier. But that wasn't what she said.
"Had you never seen a wizarding photo? I was surprised too, the first time." The photos moved, and not like some short video on loop, but the people themselves fidgeting, existing and moving in the same attitude they'd been in when the picture had been taken.
"I'd never seen any picture of them at all."
Hermione gaped. She might not know much about wizarding society yet, but she was sure Harry Potter was very famous, not just to people who read history books, but to the average Jack or Jill in the street. And here he was, in old, badly fitted clothing and spectacles that had been broken till she'd fixed them, having had, apparently, no idea of his story until a month ago, and given what sounded like a terrible orientation. It didn't make sense, it wasn't right, and Hermione Granger knew only one response to things that weren't right.
To try and fix them.
"Could you tell me about your whole shopping trip with Hagrid? I just wonder if anything else got left out, other than certain books not being recommended to you that I assume were recommended to all the muggleborns."
Harry started the story with him being on a trip with his family, staying at a vacation rental on an island. Just after midnight, Hagrid had knocked the door in, given Harry a birthday cake, and given Harry's cousin a pigtail on his buttocks.
"He did what!?" Hermione exclaimed.
"It was brilliant," Harry assured her. "Dudley's terrible."
"And why did this Hagrid knock down the door instead of knocking?"
"He had. But my Uncle threatened to shoot him, so he knocked in the door. Then he cooked me sausages."
As told by Harry, the entire scene at the vacation rental was vague and confusing. The rental had evidently been extremely rustic, and his whole family sounded very unpleasant. It didn't help any that the more upset Hermione got, the more tight-lipped Harry became.
They moved onto Diagon Alley, which seemed much more normal and sensical. Hermione was grudgingly forced to admit that Hagrid (who she had by this point taken a distinct dislike to) had covered the essentials of the shopping trip, right up until the end, which was an absolute cock-up.
"And then I went home," Harry concluded.
"The rest of the way by yourself? On the underground? With a trunk and an owl? At night?"
"Right. I got some odd looks, but no one bothered me."
"How far from the nearest station to your house?"
"A couple miles. My arms got sore, but I managed it. Beat the Dursleys there, actually, so I had to wait for them to let me in."
Hermione stared. She couldn't imagine doing that, and she especially couldn't imagine not being spitting mad about it. Why couldn't Hagrid have accompanied Harry the rest of the way? It was what any responsible adult would've done.
But Harry didn't seem to think it was a big deal at all.
"You didn't get a physical at all, did you?" she asked.
"A what?"
"All muggle-borns get taken to Saint Mungo's —that's the Magical Hospital — for a quick check up by the Healers. The practice started about 30 years ago in response to a muggleborn girl with an undiagnosed heart murmur. You didn't get that?"
"No."
"Did you ever get checked out by a magical healer before?"
"I told you, I didn't even know about magic until my birthday."
"How about muggle doctors then?"
He frowned. "I went to the eye doctor when I was 8 or 9, after my teacher yelled at Aunt Petunia."
"Other than that?"
"I got some shots when I was really young."
Hermione bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled at her hair. She felt as if she were drowning under the relentless, slippery mound of things about Harry Potter that just didn't make sense.
So she ignored them and focused on the practical.
"Hogwarts has its own Hospital Wing. We'll get you a physical once you're there."
He blinked. "That's alright."
"You really should."
"I don't want to be any trouble."
"We all got one, and you're practically muggleborn, so it's not fair you didn't."
"Let's learn some more spells, alright?" said Harry. His voice was clipped, and even as small as he was in his too-big clothes, she had the sudden certainty that if she kept pushing, she'd make him angry but wouldn't convince him at all. Not just then.
"Alright," she said, allowing the subject change. "We can go back to that. But just for a bit, and then we'd better do more history."
They practiced the Wandlighting Charm further — making it brighter or dimmer, changing the light's colour, focusing the light into a narrow beam if desired — and were still working on that when the lunch cart rattled in.
Hermione looked at the offerings with interest. Most of them looked more like candy than lunch, though the pumpkin pasty might be better. Not that she needed to buy lunch off it: she took out cucumber sandwiches, a tupper of nuts, and tomato soup in a thermos. Still, she intended to try a few.
Harry pulled out a large bag of galleons and bought one or more of everything.
"You'll give yourself a stomach ache if you eat all that."
I'll trade you some for half that sandwich."
"You don't have anything else to eat?"
"Nope," he said, unwrapping a pumpkin pasty and taking a large bite.
Hermione ate along with him. Most of the food was sweet or silly or both, and she couldn't help giggling at Bertie Botts Ever Flavour Beans, even if she wasn't sure she ever wanted to try them again. Harry had bought a whole seven-pack of chocolate frogs, and they each were more interested in the cards than the chocolates — Hermione got Miranda Springgertop, who had made huge advancements to the theory of wand motions in the 13th century, and Harry got Albus Dumbledore.
Hermione allowed herself to be talked into trying more of the treats than she would've on her own, and they happily discussed how the sweets compared to assorted muggle products. When Harry had eaten the half sandwich she'd given him, and Hermione had finished nibbling at a fizzing wizbee — it was far too sweet, worse than pure sugar somehow, she didn't know how anyone could stand to eat it — she handed him six sickles. As Hermione calculated it, that, plus the sandwich, set them square for what she'd eaten.
"You don't have to," said Harry.
"Take it though, I have plenty. Now, going back to the Houses. The way we're sorted is through a magic hat called the Sorting Hat. It was enchanted by the founders of Hogwarts to decide which students would go into which Houses by seeing inside your mind when you put it on. I understand that it takes student preferences into account, so of course, when we put it on, we'll want to impress it so it'll listen to us more."
They talked a good deal more about the Houses, and about Hogwarts, and for a time Hermione was silent as Harry read the chapter of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts that had to do with him.
He had only just set it aside when the compartment door opened again, revealing a round-faced boy who swallowed nervously before stuttering out, "H-has either of you seen a t-toad?"
"No," said Hermione, immediately looking around. "Why, have you lost one?"
He nodded. "Trevor. I only just got him. I haven't seen him since the lunch cart came around. He must've got out then."
The boy, Neville Longbottom, had been all the way to the back of the train already looking for his toad. No one had been very helpful, and some hadn't even let him into their compartments to look.
Hermione quickly decided to go with Neville to help him, and they would start at the back of the train (since that was where he hadn't been in the longest) and move forward.
Harry came along as well, pressing his hair flat over his scar. Hermione opened the final compartment, saying, "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."
The compartment was crammed with several boys about their age. One of them was the brown-haired boy who'd asked after Harry earlier. Another, a red-haired boy with dirt on the tip of his nose, said, "We've already told him we haven't seen it."
The red-haired boy had his wand out and pointed at the rat on his lap, as if she'd interrupted him when he'd been about to try a spell.
"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it." Would he transfigure his rat? That would be much more advanced than anything she'd tried. Perhaps he was a second-year.
"Er — all right." He cleared his throat and began,
"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."
Halfway through the rhyme, Hermione had to suppress a nervous grin. Was this a real spell? She hadn't known about any incantations like this. It was very long, and she could've sworn casting magic in your own spoken language was dangerous.
But when the red-haired boy waved his wand, absolutely nothing happened. The rat didn't even wake up.
Before she could think of what to say, one of the other boys fell over laughing. "Sure you're a pureblood, Weasley? I reckon there are muggles who'd know better than that."
The boy, Weasley, turned bright red, and the laughing boy, after a breath, kept going. "Merlin, how'd you think that's a real spell? Don't you ever see your parents cast?"
Hermione cut in, "Perhaps his parents are so skilled that they perform all their spells wordlessly." Like Professor McGonagall. To Weasley, she said, kindly as she could, "I've tried a few simple spells — from the Standard Books of Spells, Grade 1, you should have it in your trunk — and they've all worked for me."
"The Wandlighting Charm's pretty easy," Harry put in from behind her.
"Yeah?" said Weasley, glowering at Harry, "Maybe you'd better find a spell for your clothing next. Looks like you found it in the rubbish."
Some of the other boys laughed. Hermione drew herself up to give them all, and especially Weasley, a good yelling at, but Harry nudged her with his elbow.
"Yeah?" Harry said. "Is that where you found the rat?" And without a backward glance, he exited the compartment, taking Hermione and Neville with him.
Hermione couldn't help it. She started giggling. "Oh Harry, that was brilliant. Is that where you found the rat? Just perfect. And I can't believe that boy thought that was a real spell. I mean, it'd be one thing if he'd grown up like us, but it sounds like he's grown up in the magical world. I know I said that about his parents performing spells silently, but really, how thick can he get? Does he never read?"
Harry smirked and opened the next compartment. It was full of much older students.
"Excuse me," said Hermione again. "Have any of you seen a toad? Neville's lost his."
"We haven't," said a dark-haired girl.
"But have you looked? What if he's hiding behind your luggage?"
"Look, we-" The girl stopped. She was staring past Hermione, at Harry, whose bangs had parted, revealing his scar.
"Blimey," she said. "Are you Harry Potter?"
"Er, yeah."
Neville started, and stared at Harry.
The girl's whole attitude changed. Hermione could see it on her face as they went from 'three annoying first years, one of them quite badly dressed,' to 'Harry Potter and friends.'
"Is it a magical toad?" the girl asked.
Neville nodded.
"How long since you've seen him?"
"A-a couple hours."
"You have a box of toad treats, don't you?"
Neville nodded.
"Then stop looking for him and just go back to your compartment and shake the toad treats. He'll come when he's hungry." With that addressed, she came forward and shook Harry's hand.
"Melinda Jeffries, pleasure to meet you."
In moments, Harry was shaking hands with everyone in the compartment, smiling and not-quite-mumbling that it was nice to meet them. He was awkward and uncertain, but not so much as she would've expected, as if he'd done this before.
They finally escaped the compartment, and accompanied Neville back to his own compartment, where he sat awkwardly among a group of girls, shaking his box of toad treats. Harry hurried away before he'd have to introduce himself, and Hermione went with him.
The moment they were back in their compartment, Hermione checked her watch, which she had got at Diagon Alley and had no dependence on electricity at all, though she'd never need to wind it either. "We ought to change into our robes now." She'd been planning to change into her robes right after lunch, but had been distracted from it first by Harry and then by Neville.
She took her robes into the loo, and brushed her teeth there as well. When she got back, Harry had changed too. He didn't look so small and bedraggled in robes that fit. Weasley wouldn't have had any cracks to make about him now, except perhaps about his hair being messy.
He took a shirt out of his trunk. It was much too big, torn along the side, and had a large yellow stain running down the front. She wondered where he'd got his clothes. What he was wearing just seemed to her like old and faded hand-me-downs, much too big, but for this shirt, in the rubbish didn't seem that bad a guess.
"Could you show me the Repairing Charm again? And I think there was another one for cleaning things."
Hermione kept her face blank. She was queerly certain that if an inch of pity ran across her face, the shirt would go back into the trunk. She broke a quill, repaired it, and had him try next.
For a while they did that, though neither of them had much luck with the Scouring Charm. But as the country outside grew dim and shadowed, their wands lay increasingly on the cushions next to them, and they spoke of what lay ahead, and of what Houses they might be sorted into. Though Hermione's heart was set still on Gryffindor, Harry didn't seem to care what House he was sorted into so long as it wasn't Slytherin. Hermione heartily agreed that even Hufflepuff would be far preferable — Professor McGonagall had subtly let her know that muggleborns often found Slytherin less than welcoming.
She was desperate to prepare, but how to prepare, exactly? Continuing to study was as much as saying she belonged in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. She'd hardly had had any opportunity to be brave on the train, and while she could always find a way to be stupid if she cared, she hardly thought stupidity counted. Perhaps she'd been helpful to Harry and to Neville, but helpfulness wasn't a house trait.
So she sat and stewed and made up three-quarters of a conversation that slowly lapsed into silence, until the wheels of the train ground to a halt.
Harry identified the enormous man shouting for first years as Hagrid. Getting into a boat at his direction, along with Neville and a dark-haired girl she hadn't met took a certain bravery, perhaps, but all her nerves were suppressed by the sight of Hogwarts from across Black Lake.
Its towers were high and beautiful, all crowned in stars, lights in the windows, as they moved across still, impenetrable waters.
But as soon as they were inside and Professor McGonagall announced they were about to be sorted again, her nerves returned with a vengeance. How exactly did the Sorting Hat sort? The book had given a lot of information on its history, and a lot on the Houses, but very little on the sorting hat other than that it would 'examine her qualities and match her to the appropriate House.' Would it test her knowledge? Would it ask her to demonstrate anything? She hurriedly recited spells to herself, wondering just how much like an interview this would be.
In the middle of that, a whole troop of ghosts came in. Some people screamed, but Hermione was relieved to be distracted. She'd read about Hogwarts' ghosts, of course, but it was only her second time seeing a ghost, the first time being that day in Corkworth when she'd been half convinced she'd been going mad.
Professor McGonagall led them into the Great Hall, and Hermione immediately looked up. Candles were floating through the air like little balloons, and though the ceiling wasn't quite so realistic as she'd hoped, she still might've thought there no ceiling at all if she hadn't known better. She saw the same whisps of dark, star blotting clouds as there'd been outside, with the constellations Pegasus and Ursa Minor nearly overhead. Harry was gaping in wonder, so Hermione said, just to make sure he knew it was actually ceiling and not the sky, "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, a History."
"That'll help with astronomy," he muttered, still looking up.
The Hat sang a song (it had been doing that at each Sorting Feast for the last 600 years, and except for once during the 17th century, when it had caught the grout) and Abbot, Hannah was sorted into Hufflepuff.
Hermione should've relaxed on seeing no one was having to demonstrate spells or anything like that, yet that almost made her more nervous. There was absolutely nothing she could do. She waited for her turn on pins and needles. She hoped she was put in Gryffindor. She hoped she was put in a House she'd like. She hoped she'd be put with friends.
And before long, because Granger was much closer to A than to Z, it was her turn. She walked up quickly, fighting the urge to run because she was so excited yet so nervous — and put the Hat on. It fell far down her forehead.
"Gryffindor," she said.
"Well now," a voice responded. "Don't be hasty. There's a lot to work with here. What a sharp and busy mind, and a very supple and easy talent. You could go into most any House."
"Definitely not Slytherin," she said.
It laughed. "Oh indeed not. I seldom Sort muggleborns into Slytherin, for reasons I see you somewhat understand. But even if not, you're far too forthright and oblivious for them, primed for loyalty that would last to the bitter end whether it was prudent or no."
"I don't want to be in Hufflepuff either."
"Yes, I quite agree. Oh, you could be a Puff, but they're too tolerant on the whole. You need more confrontation. You could do well in Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw would help teach you how to be wrong."
"I'd rather join Gryffindor," she said again, "And become a woman of action."
"Hmm. Oblivious to others' minds as you might be, you know your own rather well. If that's what you prefer… Better be GRYFFINDOR!"
That last, she knew, was heard by everyone. Professor McGongall removed the hat from her head, and she hurried over to the cheering Gryffindor table. An older red-headed boy with a badge on his chest seemed to be settling all the first years in. He shook her hand and introduced himself as Percy Weasley. She took the chair he'd indicated.
A blonde girl named Lavender Brown introduced herself, but their attention was quickly occupied by the continuing sorting. Neville Longbottom was sorted into Gryffindor, somewhat to her surprise, and the line of waiting students grew shorter and shorter. The Great Hall hushed when Professor McGonagall said, "Potter, Harry!"
Harry moved forward at a deliberate pace, eyes scanning the crowd. If he was nervous, Hermione couldn't tell by looking. He seemed very serious, and Hermione wondered if he'd be put into Ravenclaw. Professor McGonagall dropped the hat on him, and it covered his face all the way down to the tip of his nose. Whatever was said, no one could hear.
"Gryffindor!" the Hat shouted. Hermione shot to her feet, clapping with everyone else and as happy as any of them, though she wasn't chanting We got Potter! like some others.
Percy put Harry right next to him, nearly across the table from Hermione. He grinned at her, and she smiled nervously back.
The last student sorted into Gryffindor was Weasley, Ronald, the rat boy from the train, and clearly a relative of Percy, who was a Prefect. Percy sat him down next to Harry, and after a few words between them that couldn't hear, Harry and Ron shook hands and seemed to get on just fine.
When everyone was sorted, Professor Dumbledore stood up. This was the man who had defeated Grindlewald, who had placed the 12 uses of Dragon's Blood in a clear theoretical framework, correctly predicting three of them that had never before been tried, who had adapted countless alchemical processes to modern production techniques. He was a titan of the world, resplendent with his long white beard, and Hermione's eyes shone as he rose from the staff table.
"Welcome! 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. Around her, people laughed and cheered. She caught Harry's eye, and he looked as surprised as her, but immediately, the food appeared. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, oddly, peppermint humbugs. The spread was very meaty and extremely English. While Hermione was no believer in the foreign libel that English food was bad, she did admit, based on several trips to the continent, one to Hawaii, and countless to the curry shop a mile from their townhouse, that it wasn't one of the world's great cuisines either. She presumed more variety would be in the offing later on.
As dinner went on, Hermione kept half an ear on the conversations other first-years and the ghosts were having even as she asked Percy a battery of questions about their classes. She was especially anxious to start Transfiguration, having stuck to Charms on the train, which were supposed to be much easier.
When dinner was done, all the food disappeared and Professor Dumbledore stood to give several announcements, the last being rather ominous.
"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 who does not wish to a die a very painful death."
A few people laughed, but to Hermione, he looked dead serious, which made no sense. If some part of the castle was under construction, why not say so? And if the danger wasn't construction, what else was it? Why should there be certain death in a school? It didn't make any sense to her, but there must be a good reason. She understood that magic could be quite dangerous. Perhaps in a magical school, 'don't go down that corridor,' was much the same as 'don't jump off a cliff.' She had, however, a nasty suspicion that some other students would go looking for the Forbidden Corridor precisely because the Headmaster had told them to avoid it. But she certainly wasn't going to. She was far too responsible.
They sang a terribly dissonant version of the school song, where everyone chose whatever tune they liked and then, rather than following the rest of Gryffindor to the dorm, Percy pulled the first years aside and led them up by a different route. The female prefect, whose name Hermione hadn't caught yet, trailed at the back of the group, content to let Percy do all the talking.
Once they reached the dorm, Hermione waved bye to Harry, who was surrounded by the other first year boys, and she was put in a dorm room with only two other witches — Lavender Brown, and Parvati Patil. Tired as they all were, they stayed up for a while in their pajamas, admiring their four-poster beds and chatting. The other girls were quite nice, but the more Hermione talked with them, the more she had a sinking feeling in her gut.
Parvati and Lavender were already fast friends and had the feel of girls who were much too interested in boys for her taste — they kept asking about Harry in a tone totally at odds with his existence as a small, quiet and badly dressed 11-year-old. She brought up books, and was disheartened by their response.
Hermione read a tremendous amount, but mostly of a passably peculiar kind. She was, and had always been, far more concerned with non-fiction than with fiction. First there had been her dinosaur phase in the toddler years, and then marine biology, then space, biology, more space, and then on into History with pre-Norman England and the British Raj in India. All along, as more and more unexplainable things had happened around her, she'd been developing a reluctant interest in paranormal events. When she did read fiction, she much preferred books about solving murders to books about 16-year-olds falling in love.
And 16-year-olds falling in love was nearly all Parvati and Lavender had ever read. Very thin teen romances with blonde girls on the covers. And more than the interest itself, there was the impression Hermione got from how they both talked — the impression that said, 'oh, these aren't my type of person, and I'm not theirs either. We might all be perfectly nice, but we'll be lucky to get more than 10 minutes of mutually enjoyable conversation out of each other in an hour of trying.'
She thought then of Harry, who had been much more interesting, if rather quiet, but even he was no Jennifer, and he would likely forget her now. He was in a dorm with several other boys who all knew now that he was Harry Potter.
But there were other girls, a whole castle of them. Surely among them, she'd find a fast friend, someone who didn't wish she'd be quiet the moment she opened her mouth, who'd think that at least some of what excited her wasn't dead boring. And even if not, she was terribly excited to learn magic. She'd much rather be friendless here than up to her neck in friends at the muggle boarding school her parents had been planning to send her to before Professor McGonagall had come.
With that happy thought, Hermione went to sleep.
When she went downstairs bright and early the next morning, the only thought in her mind, other than excitement over classes, was whether she ought to wait for the other girls in her dorm room or brave the corridors herself. For once in her life, she didn't mind the idea of getting lost, and she had the time for it.
"You ready?" said Harry.
Hermione blinked. He was in uniform, standing by the portrait hole with a beat-up muggle school bag slung over his shoulder.
"Were you waiting for me?"
"Right."
"You want to go down to breakfast together?"
"Er, if you don't mind." He backed off half a step.
"No, that sounds lovely. If we get down the Great Hall soon enough, we might explore the ground floor before breakfast."
He nodded, and they went out the portrait hole together, not arm in arm or hand in hand or any such thing, but companionably enough, two curious students venturing out into Hogwarts together, and quickly taking a wrong turn and becoming horribly lost.
The remarkable thing about Hermione Granger's 'friendship through intellectual excellence' plan was that it had actually worked.
/
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I made Hermione a bit more self-aware and socially aware than I think she should've been, but I needed to in order to get the full emotional arc stuffed inside what's probably just a oneshot.
You can imagine yourself how Hermione-appreciation and book-appreciation might affect the highly impressionable Harry.
Harry from someone else's perspective can be pretty dang cool. I like this dynamic.
That Ron doesn't know how people are sorted means little about its status as a possible secret. In canon, one gets the impression Hermione doesn't know either from how she's reciting spells to herself, but I find it far easier to retcon that than to suppose that the famous magical object most emblematic of Hogwarts is not written up in Hogwarts, A History.
In canon, Hagrid really did send Harry off on his own on a train from Paddington station, at night, with his trunk and his owl, to get 'back to the Dursleys.' It's right there at the end of chapter 5. Of all Hagrid's screwups, that seems the least explored, perhaps because it's so surreal it doesn't quite register.
