AN: I don't own Harry Potter.
Chapter 4
After dinner (she helps herself to pudding; her parents won't know about the illicit indulgence, but it brings her satisfaction), the headmaster stands up and claps his hands. All heads turn towards the staff table.
She knows who Albus Dumbledore is. Everyone knows who Albus Dumbledore is. She herself learned about him from Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. Before Voldemort, there was another dark wizard named Grindelwald, whom Dumbledore defeated single-handedly. Now, he's regarded as a hero and holds more titles than any one person should ever have, although headmaster at Hogwarts seems to be his main position.
While Dumbledore's opening words ("oddment," "blubber," and "tweak") were quickly forgotten as she dove into the icy water that is being a Slytherin muggleborn, she doesn't think she'll ever forget the speech he makes after the feast. There's nothing wrong with it, per se, nothing at all that should make her uneasy, but she can't ignore the tug in her gut telling her Dumbledore is not all that he appears to be. Perhaps it's the jovial way he imparts his warnings about venturing into the Forbidden Forest or the third-floor corridor, even making a joke about "painful death," or perhaps she's simply imagining the false kindness of her parents in the grandfatherly headmaster. Still, from that moment on, she decides she'll avoid the man as much as possible.
After these first impressions, meeting her head of house is like a breath of fresh air.
"First-years stay here, everyone else can go to their dorms," instructs a tall girl with a shiny prefect's badge and a bad haircut. "Professor Snape will speak with you shortly."
It turns out that Professor Snape is the headmaster's polar opposite. Whereas Dumbledore is candy floss and sunshine, Snape is all Sturm und Drang, from the black robes that cover everything but his hands and face to the scowl that suggests he is already displeased, or expecting to be displeased, or maybe just perpetually displeased. He gives them a speech that far surpasses Dumbledore's, speaking in soft but dangerous tones, like the casual threat of a hand in a pocket that hides a knife. He is obviously not a person to be crossed. (He's also an utter jerk, but at least he's honest about it.)
"If you are here," says Snape, "that means you have had the privilege to be sorted into Slytherin House. I expect all of you to conduct yourself with decorum. There will be no brawling, or running in the corridors, or starting food fights, as you may see students from the other houses do. They are uncultured hooligans. I expect you to do well in your lessons and behave respectfully, inside the classroom and out. I will know if you do not, and you will not like the consequences."
He takes a pause to look each of them in the eye. It's ridiculous, but she feels like he can see into her soul.
"You are to keep your petty, childish squabbles to the common room. As Slytherins, we must present a united front. You will find that others are prejudiced against you. Get used to it. Even some of your professors will show bias, whether they mean to or not. Slytherins look out for themselves, but they also look out for their own. Even after you graduate, people will automatically dislike you once you reveal your former house affiliation. You are your own and only allies.
"Over the coming week, I will meet with you each individually and address any valid concerns you have. You may be young, but I will not coddle you. Furthermore, until you prove otherwise, I will assume that you are all fortunate enough to possess a brain that works, and unlike some of my esteemed colleagues, I expect you to use it. Now, go to bed. I expect everyone to be awake and at breakfast by eight-thirty. Anyone found in the dorms between the times of eight-thirty and nine-thirty will be dealt with accordingly. There will be no tardiness on my watch. Good night."
Snape disappears as swiftly as he arrived, and the prefects take over again. She is shown to her room, which she shares with the other first-year girls (they continue to ignore her). Their trunks have already been delivered, one trunk at the end of each bed. The beds themselves are four-posters with green velvet canopies atop and curtains surrounding them for privacy, which she greatly appreciates. She knows that if her roommates' looks could kill, she'd be dead; but out of sight, out of mind. Thankfully, her roommates don't bother her as they commence their evening routines. In another act of defiance, she crawls into bed and draws the curtains without brushing her teeth (her parents are dentists). Then, she falls into a blissful, dreamless sleep.
She is the first to wake up the next morning. She makes her bed and dresses as quietly as she can before going out into the common area. There's an ornate clock on the mantle above the fireplace, which tells her that it is barely after seven. Before she can decide whether or not to go back and read in bed for a while, Snape enters, looking exactly as he did the previous night. She's starting to get sense that Snape is one of those people who seems frozen in amber, immortal and unchanging in both looks and disposition.
"Granger," he says after a pause, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing up?"
"I always wake up at this time, sir," she says.
"Do you?"
She holds his gaze, forcing herself not to blink or look away as she becomes increasingly anxious. It occurs to her that he may be just like the others, believing that she isn't even worth spitting at. The difference is that, unlike her year-mates, Snape has real power. Her toes curl inside her shoes, and she focuses on resisting the urge to fidget with her hands, to flap them or tap them or brush her hair back. She must convince him of her sincerity, because the suspicious look on his face eventually lessens.
"You might as well get to breakfast," he says, "it'll just be starting. Professor McGonagall will come around a bit later to hand out timetables. I have an early meeting with the prefects. Now go."
"Yes, sir." She doesn't turn around, but she can feel his dark eyes assessing her as she leaves.
Breakfast is quite peaceful until the rest of the Slytherins filter in. As soon as she hears Draco Malfoy's loud, nasally voice drawl, "Looks like the house elves forgot to take out the rubbish last night... I still can't believe they let mudblood trash into Slytherin!", her second piece of toast loses its appeal. She buries her nose farther in the textbook that she's balancing between her body and the edge of the table, pretending not to hear him, although she's painfully aware that she is no longer taking in any of the words on the page.
"Two points, Malfoy," snaps the voice of an older student, "save it for the common room."
She notes that the prefect does not take points for insulting her heritage, only for doing it in public. Her fingers grip the edges of her book until they turn white. So, it isn't only the first-years that are bigoted arses. She'd held a small hope that there might be an older student who would overhear the nastiness and come to her defence, or take her under their wing, or show some sort of genuine kindness despite her being a muggleborn. In that moment, the hope dies.
Malfoy sits across from her with Pansy Parkinson to his left and one of the chubby boys to his right. (She still can't remember which is Crabbe and which is Goyle. It is becoming apparent that they both trail after Malfoy like his personal security guards, so she supposes they're interchangeable.) Malfoy leans over to Parkinson and asks, eyes on Hermione, "Does she turn into an ogre at night?" His voice is too low for the prefects to hear.
Parkinson giggles viciously. "No, but maybe someday she will," she sneers.
"Is that a threat?" she can't help but say, finally raising her head from her book and giving them her best glare.
"I don't know," says Parkinson in a voice that is high-pitched, sweet, and very, very fake. "Is it?"
She doesn't want to be the first to look away, but just then, Professor McGonagall comes around. She feels as though she's lost, even though she hasn't exactly backed down.
"Miss Granger," says McGonagall, handing her a stiff piece of paper that feels like it's reinforced with cardboard, although there is no evidence of such a thing.
"Thank you."
She studies her schedule until the deputy headmistress moves on to the next table.
"Oh, good," says Malfoy, and she immediately grits her teeth. "We have potions first. Maybe a cauldron will explode and take out all the scum."
She picks up her rucksack from where it's been sitting at her feet and shoves her book and timetable into it. "Or maybe some of the scum will surprise you and rise to the top," she hisses. She shouldn't encourage Malfoy to make an enemy of her, but if they're talking cauldrons, she's like one about to boil over.
She walks away, the other children's snickering following her out of the hall. Even by the time she's traversed the moving staircases and located the potions classroom, she can still hear their derision ringing in her head.