All the different nouns—

she says them in rotation.

Death, husband, god, stranger.

Everything sounds so simple, so conventional.

I must have been, she thinks, a simple girl.

"The Myth of Innocence," Louise Glück

Year One

Part One

As soon as the Sorting Hat was placed on her head, she knows. She'd felt the apprehension on the train ride, a knot in her stomach only growing as Ron talked about how sure he was that all three of them would be in Gryffindor.

You could be great, in Gryffindor, the Hat says, as if picking up on that thread of apprehension. Clever, brave little witch .

Clever she is, but she has never felt brave. Those boys on the train, the Boy who Lived, those boys are brave. She is not brave. She is clever.

Already she knows, already she can hear the whispers that follow her. Already she sees how the other Muggle-borns are treated, how the half-bloods are treated, already she has deduced that those whispers do not happen to the Slytherins. No matter that there are no Muggle-borns in Slytherin.

I don't want to be brave or great , she thinks. I want to be cunning. I want to survive.

The Hat does not hesitate.

"Slytherin!" it booms, and there is no applause like there was for pureblood Millicent Bulstrode. There is nothing but stunned silence before whispers break out among the Ravenclaws, who were sure Hermione would be theirs; among the Gryffindors, who now eye her with suspicion.

Among the Slytherins, who are sure she doesn't belong.

Even the teachers watch her like they don't know what to make of her. Professor McGonagall looks like she might cry. Professor Sprout looks pained. Professor Snape, her new Head of House, looks like he'll try to revoke the Sorting Hat's decision himself. Only Hagrid is smiling at her; only Dumbledore is looking at her with a curious expression rather than one of horror.

She holds her chin up higher and takes her seat at the Slytherin table, the other students immediately vacating the space next to her like she's carrying something contagious.

She watches as the other first-years are sorted, as Harry ends up in Gryffindor and two of Ron's older brothers thump him on the back so hard it almost knocks him over. As Neville Longbottom, the boy with the lost toad, is also sorted into Gryffindor and the entire table erupts in cheers.

Something aches in her chest as she watches the Gryffindors easily embrace him-awkward, stumbling Neville-but she ignores it, because she has to.

She watches as the Hat barely touches Malfoy's head before sorting him into Slytherin. He catches her eye as he sits, his cold gray eyes narrowing at the sight of her at the table, and he mouths a word she has already quickly learned the meaning of.

Mudblood .

She presses her pale fingers into the wooden bench beneath her until the tips of her fingers ache, and turns her attention back to the ceremony.

The Hat takes a long time with Harry, longer certainly than it took with her, and for a second something like hope beats wildly in her chest because if there is anyone, anyone who might get sorted into Slytherin, it is The Boy Who Lived himself.

When the Hat yells out "Gryffindor," though, she finds she isn't surprised, that knot in her chest so tight she can barely breathe. Harry looks relieved, and the entire Gryffindor table erupts into cheers. Malfoy's lip curls like he's smelled something rotten.

She does not pay attention for the rest; there is nothing exciting after Harry. Ron's placement comes as no surprise, neither does Pansy Parkinson's, the latter of whom takes her seat at the Slytherin table next to Malfoy with a flourish.

She doesn't mouth a slur at Hermione. She doesn't have to. The look she gives her conveys the same feeling.

When the meal concludes, Dumbledore gives his announcements; she tunes them out until the mention of the forbidden corridor, watches as Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle elbow each other, lean their heads in to whisper.

For the first time, her curiosity is piqued. What do they know?

She does not get a chance to ask; Malfoy catches her looking and immediately his expression sours, and Hermione turns back to her pudding until Gemma Farley claps her hands for the first years to follow her.

Gemma is a tall, pale fifth-year girl with black hair that's almost as curly as Hermione's own. Hermione finds herself staring at it, winding a frizzy strand of her own hair around her fingers, wondering if she could perhaps ask Gemma for advice, but when Gemma's eyes meet hers the older girl's mouth flattens into a thin line.

Hermione's heart sinks a little further.

Maybe she should have been put into Gryffindor.

By the time she makes it to the dormitory she shares with the first-year girls, she feels sick, wondering if Madame Pomfrey would let her spend her first night in the hospital wing. Especially when she enters the dorm and sees her belongings strewn all over the ground next to her bed.

"Guess your suitcase wasn't latched thoroughly enough," Pansy says, laughing. Hermione's face burns as she picks up her clothes, her books. "Pity, the porters here are so clumsy." And then there are a pair of black loafers directly in Hermione's line of sight, and she makes herself look up. Pansy stands in front of her, pale arms folded, nose upturned. Hermione straightens so she's face to face with the other girl.

"You don't belong here, Mudblood," Pansy says quietly, and Hermione notices the other girls looking like they're trying very hard to listen in. "You don't belong in Slytherin, you don't belong in Hogwarts, and I'm going to make absolutely sure you never forget that."

Hermione bites her lip. "The Hat put me here," she says, her voice wavering. "I belong here just as much as you do."

"The Hat put Potter in Gryffindor, what does it know?" Pansy says. She pushes Hermione's shoulder, not lightly, so the smaller girl almost stumbles backward. "You. Don't. Belong."

She wrenches the books out of Hermione's grasp and throws them down on the floor as the other girls explode in laughter.

Hermione doesn't try to pick them back up again.

She thought it would be easier, once classes began. Once she got the chance to prove to them she's clever enough, she thought it would be easier.

She was wrong. Is wrong. Slytherins, she's quickly learned, especially pureblood ones, don't like being shown up in every subject by a witch with Muggle parents. Even Snape shows disdain at every right answer she gives, and she has the distinct impression that if she were not in Slytherin he would simply pretend she wasn't there at all.

As it stands, when she is the only one to correctly brew a Cure for Boils potion in their third week of term, he merely gives her a nod.

It is elating, that nod, the only acknowledgment she will ever get that she's done anything good.

It is gone just as quickly when she glances over and notices Malfoy's potion looks almost as good as hers. He smirks when she does so, and the praise Snape heaps on him leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She's better. She knows she is.

But being better, she's finding out, doesn't matter where school and grades are concerned. Being better in Slytherin only counts in other ways, such as your lineage or how much money your parents have.

(It does save her, though, when she wakes the following morning after the Potions assignment to find her own skin covered in boils and Pansy shrieking with laughter, having sprinkled some sort of powder on Hermione's sheets the night before. Hermione uses her own potion, she does not want the embarrassment of going to Madame Pomfrey and explaining how such a thing happened.)

The boils sting, but she does not give Pansy the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

The weeks of term trip on, and after Halloween there are only two things anyone can talk about: Harry Potter and Ron Weasley defeating a troll in the boys' restroom, and Quidditch.

Malfoy, she's surprised to learn, is as obsessed with Quidditch as the rest of the boys seem to be. She'd figured it beneath him.

"It really is a shame," he says loudly at dinner, "that first years aren't allowed on teams; I'd have liked to be the youngest Quidditch player this century. Of course father is talking to Madam Hooch, but–"

"Potter's on the team," Hermione says, and Malfoy stops talking, narrowing his eyes at her. It's the first time she's spoken directly to him.

"What?"

"Potter's on the team," she says again, forcing herself to sound casual. "I overheard him and Ron Weasley talking about it after Transfiguration." She smiles, taking delight in this information that Malfoy clearly did not know.

"You're lying," he says, and she shrugs.

"Maybe. See for yourself this weekend. Pity Daddy couldn't buy you a place on the team," she says. She does not know what compels her to say it, but the words fall out of her mouth as easily as a spell.

Malfoy's mouth hangs open before he rapidly shuts it, his face growing red.

"How dare you talk to me that way–" he begins, but Hermione stands up, hurrying away before she can hear the rest of his sentence.

The Quidditch match is brutal up until the final moment, there's no way to describe it, and Hermione's nerves are raw by the time it ends. The silver and green scarf wound around her neck feels like it will choke her, and every time a Gryffindor passes her in the hall, they cannot help mention the match. Even Ron and Harry, usually friendly to her, cannot help but lord it over her.

In the worst mood, though, is Malfoy. He sulks around the common room the day after the match and snaps at anyone who tries to draw near him. Even Pansy, normally simpering after him, keeps her distance.

Hermione tries. But two days after the match she's entering the common room late, having stayed at the library to study until Madam Pince made her leave.

And there is Malfoy, his lanky form slumped in a chair, blond hair reflecting the dying firelight. Crabbe and Goyle are nowhere to be seen.

He does not look up as she enters, and she presses her books against her chest, intent on hurrying back to her room before Pansy can slip something else nasty into her bed.

"Mudblood," he says, and she stiffens.

"What do you want?"

He unfolds himself from the chair. He is her age but he seems so much older.

"You were right about Potter."

"I–yes," she says, surprised that he's conceding the fact.

"What else do you know?"

She stares at him a beat before realizing he's serious and laughs. "What do you mean, what do I know?"

"They fought that troll. Potter's on the Quidditch team. He's clearly got Dumbledore in his pocket."

"And?"

"And," he says. "I want to know why."

"Please," she says. "I thought you'd be clever enough to figure that out. He's The Boy Who Lived, Malfoy, or did you forget? Of course Dumbledore's going to be in his pocket."

"And he likes you ," Malfoy says. "Potter." He practically spits the name out. "I think he knows what's locked behind that third-floor corridor, and I think you could find out."

"Why would I help you?" she asks, but her heart is beating fast.

"Because," he says. "Your life is a living hell in Slytherin, isn't it? No one notices you, and if they do, it's for something bad." He smiles a lopsided smile. "I could change that."

"You'd help me." She juts her chin out. "Why?"

"Because, Granger, you're clever," he says. "And I want to use that cleverness to become something great." His voice lowers. "I think you do, too, or you wouldn't be in Slytherin. So find out what Potter knows and tell me, and I won't make your life here any worse than it already is."

She wavers. She knows he's right and she hates it, knows he has the upper hand. But she remembers that his potion was the only one besides hers that had any promise.

Remembers the anger flaring in her chest at the praise he got because of it.

If she helps him, maybe they'll all finally stop ignoring her.

Besides, he's right. Her life could get worse, so much worse, if Malfoy decides to make it so. She's seen how the Slytherins listen to him, even the ones years above him.

"All right," she says. "I'll do it."

It's only later, lying in the dark of her dorm room staring up at the ceiling that she realizes—

He'd called her Granger.