AN: I don't own Harry Potter. Extended AN at the end.
Chapter 3
She doesn't see Harry again until they are ushered off the train by a giant man with long brown hair and an equally long beard. He organizes them into rowboats, two students per boat. (She wouldn't admit it, but the man makes her nervous, mostly because she couldn't help but imagine how strong his backhand must be.) As Hogwarts comes into view, a thrill goes through her. The castle looks just like she imagined the castles in fairy stories might look. They follow the man up a set of stone steps and to an intricately-carved oak door, which the man knocks on three times. It swings open at once to reveal Professor McGonagall, dressed in deep emerald robes.
"The first years, Professor McGonagall."
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."
The professor leads them through the entrance hall and into a smaller room off to the side.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall says, "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats, you will be sorted into your houses." She goes on to explain the house system, although Hermione has already learned about it through her books. At the end of her speech, McGonagall concludes, "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. She likes that the professor doesn't sugar-coat her words or talk down to them just because they are children.
"I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."
Harry speaks to the red-headed boy whose mother had helped them get onto the platform. "How exactly do you think they sort us into houses?"
"Some kind of test, I think," the other boy replies. "Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."
She considers this. Hogwarts: A History had focused more on the four founders and how they built the school and education system, more than the details. Even if the process is painful, she is certain she can handle it, and perhaps she can impress people with her fortitude. Then, she has a thought that sends panic through her, crisp and painful as a lightning bolt.
"Do we have to perform magic to be sorted?" she asks Neville, who is struggling to hold on to his toad once again. "I really don't know that many spells, I just tried a few basic ones from the books we were told to buy, and they don't necessarily work all the time. I tried to read ahead as much as I could, but I don't know if it will be enough!"
"Er," Neville stalls, looking overwhelmed by her intensity, "you don't have to worry. I think they use some sort of magical artefact. Gran was vague about it, said the surprise is a rite of passage or something like that.
She suddenly realizes she has been flapping her hands and makes a conscious effort to be still. She ends up bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet instead. "Oh," she says, panic simmering to a moderate anxiety. "Okay. That's okay then."
At this point, about twenty ghosts materialize out of the back wall. There's a collective gasp, and Neville's toad uses the opportunity to pull a Houdini.
"Trevor- oh no."
Even Hermione is distracted as the ghosts float across the room. They appear to be arguing. Finally, one of them notices the group of children and says, "What are you all doing here?" as if this, presumably, doesn't happen every year.
"New students! About to be sorted, I suppose? Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know."
"Move along now," comes a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."
They do as Professor McGonagall says, although some of them linger to watch as the ghosts float away one by one through the opposite wall. Single file, they enter the Great Hall. The entire school is staring back at them, but the lighting makes it hard to tell. It reminds her of looking out into the audience during the one and only Christmas play she was part of (her parents didn't want her to get used to the spotlight), all dark blurs and the occasional flash of movement. It makes her feel stiff and self-conscious. She is hyper-aware of the indistinct mass of the crowd and the heat emanating from the bodies in front of and behind her.
Any murmuring dies down as McGonagall places a four-legged stool in front of the first-years. On top of the stool, she sets a pointed hat that has seen better days. McGonagall stands back. Everyone stares at the hat. Then, a rip near the brim opens wide like a mouth, and the hat begins to sing. The song describes the four houses and their adjectives: the daring Gryffindor, the tenacious Hufflepuff, the witty Ravenclaw, and the ambitious Slytherin. Once applause for the song dies down, McGonagall unrolls a long scroll.
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she says. "Abbott, Hannah!"
As Hannah Abbott stumbles from the line and dons the hat, she considers what house she might like to be in. She likes to think that she's brave, smart, hard-working, and cunning. Nobody is really ever one thing, she muses, like her parents. They're kind at times and cruel at others, well-respected by other adults, and sometimes she almost gets along with them. Bravery without brains is just a lack of impulse control; hard work is nothing unless you have a goal in mind. She feels another jolt of panic. Perhaps the hat will tell her that she is the jack of all trades of personality, not quite suited for any of the houses. A little bit of everything that belongs nowhere.
Too soon, the professor is calling, "Granger, Hermione!"
She practically runs to put on the hat. It's like going through the wall at the train station, like ripping off a plaster. She might as well get it over with before she can work herself up any more. As the hat falls over her eyes and her view goes black, she hears a small voice speak inside her head.
"Hmm… interesting... very, very interesting…"
Is interesting good or bad? she thinks, and she swears the hat laughs.
"You certainly have nerve, and a loyalty that will serve you well, and my, what a thirst for knowledge, so I think-"
Put me in Slytherin, she interrupts, having a sudden realization. There's a pause.
"Slytherin?"
Put me in Slytherin and I'll put those other traits to good use.
She can feel the hat hesitate. "A muggleborn Slytherin… there aren't many of those, you know."
All the better.
This time, the hat definitely laughs. "All right then, little witch. Better be SLYTHERIN!"
The hat is lifted off her head, and as polite applause breaks out, she goes to join her new house.
Harry Potter is sorted into Gryffindor. When Harry is sorted, the Gryffindor table claps and hollers as if their favourite football team has just won the international championships. The red-headed twins yell, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" and Harry himself looks like he might pass out from shock. She feels bad for him. Neville is also sorted into Gryffindor, but his reception isn't quite so ear-splitting. Neville also looks ready to pass out, but she gets the impression that it's from relief more than anything.
She has nine year-mates in Slytherin. It quickly becomes apparent that the sorting hat was right about the difficulties of being a muggleborn Slytherin.
"So, Granger," says a blonde-haired boy named Draco Malfoy. He's filling his plate, but his eyes keep sliding towards her. "Any relation to the Dagworth-Grangers?"
She takes a sip from the goblet in front of her (the juice is strange and thick, but she doesn't dislike it) as she considers her answer. She's a good actor, but she's going to be here for seven years. If she lies now, the chances it will come back to bite her are pretty good. With this in mind, she says, as casually as she can, "No, I'm a muggleborn."
All conversation within hearing distance dies. A stocky boy to Malfoy's left chokes on his food. (There are two stocky boys. One is Vincent Crabbe and the other is Gregory Goyle, but she can't remember which is which.)
A girl named Pansy Parkinson breaks the silence with a high-pitched laugh. "Hah! Good one, Granger."
She stares at Parkinson until the other girl realizes that she is serious and Parkinson's eyes darken in disgust. She knows that look. It's the look her parents gave her when she started doing accidental magic. Under the table, she grips the edge of the bench so hard it's surprising that it doesn't splinter. You're unbreakable, she reminds herself.
"Is there a problem?" she asks, lifting her chin, proud that her voice doesn't tremble. She looks around the table. Nine pairs of eyes stare back. Seven of the expressions are hostile, but the remaining two look interested, or at least fascinated, the way one might be fascinated by a passing freakshow. She files away the names of Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass for later reference.
"Mudbloods don't belong in Slytherin," jeers a boy named Blaise Zabini, while several others nod in agreement.
"The sorting hat didn't seem to think so," she challenges.
Malfoy scoffs. "A ratty old hat doesn't know everything. My father is on the Board of Governors. Once he hears that I have to share a house with a mudblood, he'll get you re-sorted."
Parkinson leans forward and adds nastily, "Or expelled."
As if on cue, discussion resumes as if the confrontation never happened. Nobody even looks at her for the rest of the feast. It's as if she doesn't exist. She eats her dinner with more force than necessary, partly because if she doesn't grip the fork like her life depends on it, her hands will shake. It's just like primary school, she thinks, but then she pushes the thought away. It's not the same, because this time the rejection makes her angry. She knows she's not in the wrong. It's not her fault she's muggleborn, just like it's not her fault she's magical. She'll prove them wrong one day. She just has to be patient.
AN: For everyone who is asking, yes, Hermione's parents will one day get their comeuppance. The exact method is as of yet undetermined, but it will be very satisfying. On another note, I am tentatively committing to updating weekly on Thursdays. Depending on how it goes, I may change this to bi-weekly.