xiv. house of serpents

Hermione woke to the sound of groggy cursing.

For the briefest of moments, she thought she was at home—home, as in not with the Malfoys but snuggly tucked into her bed in her Muggle house surrounded by her books with the smell of pancakes drifting down the hall from the kitchen. Then Hermione remembered the train ride, the lake, the Sorting and the feast. She sat up and reached out to jerk the jade hangings aside.

Dark still encumbered the first-year girls' dormitory, though morning light filtering through the lake outside the windows illuminated the ticking clock set above the student carrells. Hermione squinted at the clock and saw that while early, it was almost time to get up. Harriet knelt on the stone floor by the bed next to Hermione's, hissing underneath of it for some unfathomable reason.

"Harriet!" Hermione said, and the other girl jumped, banging her head on the bed's rail.

"Bloody hell—."

"Harriet!" Hermione said again, chiding. "Really. What are you doing?"

"Oh, er, nothing." Rubbing her head, the girl straightened the bed's skirt until it lay flat once more. Hermione narrowed her eyes when she thought she saw the cover move, wondering if she should say anything. Was Harriet hiding something? What if it got the rest of her dorm mates in trouble? Hermione had been at Hogwarts for less than a day and she did not want to be in trouble!

Then she looked into Harriet's smiling face and she bit her tongue, swallowing the building lecture. Right. Don't be bossy. Don't be too much. I'm sure it's nothing.

"Morning, Hermione!" Harriet chirped. She still wore her clothes from the day before, robes wrinkled beyond salvaging, her thin face marked where her glasses must have pressed into the skin. Elara had deposited the exhausted girl in her bed last night, stopping only to remove her shoes and jerk the covers over Harriet. With the collar of Harriet's shirt stretched and displaced, Hermione could plainly see the rather ghastly scar that originated from her right shoulder. Of course, Hermione didn't mention the scar to Harriet, thinking the other wouldn't like having the old injury pointed out in casual conversation. Hermione did wonder how she'd gotten it, though.

"Good morning. You're up early. Are you excited for classes?"

"Yeah," Harriet agreed with a nod. "You?"

"Definitely. Gemma said we get out timetables at breakfast, didn't she—?"

A groan emanated from behind the curtains two beds over. "Will you two be quiet?"

That's Daphne Greengrass, Hermione told herself, summoning in her mind the sheet of pure-blood families she'd had to study. From the Noble House of Greengrass. The eight beds were arranged in a line against one wall, the carrells on the opposing one, and Hermione had been the bed second closest to the door, with Tracey Davis first. Davis. That wasn't one of the families Mr Malfoy had me study, but I don't think she's Muggle-born like me.

Harriet—from the Noble House of Potter, why does she seem so much like a Muggle-born?—had the third bed, and Elara Black the fourth. Black. Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Mr Malfoy said it was only extant in the female line, but he also said Mrs Malfoy was the last free member of the family? Odd. Hermione would ask if Elara really was from the House of Black and not, say, a Muggle-born with a fortuitous surname, but she doubted the quiet girl would answer.

She gathered her things for the shared bath and Harriet joined her, wrangling a clean uniform out from her ancient trunk. When Hermione asked her about it, Harriet said, "It belongs to my family." Her green eyes were bright behind her glasses. "It's really nifty, too."

Hermione made quick use of the showers and dressed behind the divider before returning to the dormitory. She was at the room's threshold, mind full of her perspective classes and which text books she might need—when she almost collided with someone. Hermione started to apologize, then they knocked her folded pajamas out of her hands. Hermione ground her teeth as she met the gaze of Pansy Parkinson, of the Most Noble House of Parkinson.

"Watch where you're going, Granger," Pansy sneered, wrinkling her short nose. Pansy had a hard-face framed by short brown hair and pricey stud earrings pierced her ears, diamonds glittering on her lobes. Millicent Bulstrode standing behind her was a solidly built girl with dark hair and an unfriendly expression—from the Ex-House of Bulstrode, Hermione's brain supplied without prompting. She remembered the genteel snickering of the Malfoys as they discussed the fallen fortune of the once Noble House.

"I already said sorry," Hermione snapped, picking her things up. She'd met Pansy briefly over the summer when the other girl had come to visit Draco, and she'd sneered at Hermione then, too.

"So tell me—," Pansy continued. "How did you make it into Slytherin? I was under the impression Mudbloods weren't allowed in. How does one go about bribing a hat?"

Hermione straightened her spine as she met Pansy's gaze again. She was used to bullies. There had been boys in primary who'd loved knocked her things off her desk and they once threw her bag in a pond because she was too 'bossy.' "Your impression is wrong. Plenty of Muggle-borns have come through Slytherin before. I didn't have to bribe the Hat. Did you?"

Pansy went to rebuke Hermione, when somebody else coming out of the dormitory spoke. "You're blocking the door."

Elara was an inch or so taller than Millicent, which made her several inches taller than Hermione or Pansy and a whole head higher than Harriet, who had come up behind Hermione with her wild hair tamped down with water. Elara's face was elegant but tired, black smudges under her colorless eyes, her temper visibly thin, and Hermione guessed she was not a morning person. Pansy gave Elara a look that clearly conveyed her displeasure but kept her mouth shut, because she couldn't say anything rude to her. The House of Black was above the House of Parkinson—was above most everyone, really. Their pseudo-feudal system is both terribly archaic and utterly fascinating.

Pansy stepped back. Elara scoffed as she entered the bathroom, and Hermione made good on her escape.

xXxXx

The first day of classes proved as exciting as promised.

The Slytherins spent the morning outside the castle, in one of the many greenhouses dotting the grounds, joined by the Ravenclaws and a plump, earthy witch who introduced herself as Professor Sprout. Hermione and a few Ravenclaws took feverish notes, journal popped on their arms, as they stood between muddy planters and the Head of Hufflepuff introduced to all manner of mystical flora and fungi, most of which moved or bit, could poison, stun, or kill the unwary. Most wore wary expressions when Professor Sprout asked for volunteers, so Harriet was the first to raise her hand, jumping in with both sleeves rolled up. Elara Black later managed to kill her own plant seemingly by touching it and lost Slytherin five points.

Expectations ran thick as they made their way to Charms after that, holding their wands in their hands, itching for a chance to use them. Hermione's was yellowish in color, made from vine wood, excellent for those who sought a great purpose—according to Ollivander, at least. Pansy and Katherine Runcorn—the final first year Slytherin girl—both had elm wands and said they made for the best pure-blood wands. Draco didn't like that and he sniffed a he informed them that hawthorn wands were obviously the greater choice.

Harriet got quite vague when Hermione asked about the pale wood of her wand. It was only later that Hermione realized she never got an answer out of her.

After Charms with Professor Flitwick—which only had theoretical studies on the first day—came lunch, then History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs, taught by Professor Otho Selwyn. Hermione knew of him, of course, because he was one of the final living members of the Noble and Ancient House of Selwyn, a family that hotly contested they'd been in Great Britain longer than the Blacks. Professor Selwyn didn't appear to very much want to be a professor, as he spent the first half hour of class muttering about children who didn't know anything about history or magic or the world in general. He scowled with ferocity at the Hufflepuffs—and Hermione.

Their last class of the day was Transfiguration, taught by the stern Head of Gryffindor, Professor McGonagall. Hermione had read all about Transfiguration, of course, and loved how very complex this particular branch of magic was. She had to suppress the urge to laugh when the others babbled in the corridor on the way there, excited to jump right in, when Hermione knew they wouldn't touch anything even remotely difficult until they had practiced and studied Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. She had dozens of questions written in a notebook already and hoped the older witch had open office hours.

Professor McGonagall passed out a match each with instructions to turn the matches into silver needles. Hermione felt quite smug indeed when she alone fully managed the feat, earning ten points for Slytherin and a warming smile from the strict professor.

Then Harriet somehow managed to turn her match into a short wooden javelin.

"Miss Potter, what are you doing over here?"

"Er…."

Many of the other Slytherins were torn between being elated about the points or glaring at Hermione. She really hoped their antagonism would pass. Logically, the antipathy pure-bloods showed toward Muggle-borns didn't make sense. They had emotional bonds to their family heritage Hermione understood, but wasn't magic magic? She'd read some absolute tosh about how Muggle-borns stole pure-blood magic—but Hermione had found nothing credible that said the ability of Muggle-borns or half-bloods was any less than a pure-blood's!

But what do you know, really? A sharp, cold voice in the back of her mind demanded. It had always been there, but lately it had begun to sound more and more like Lucius Malfoy. An entire world of magic existed without you having a clue. You know so little.

Hermione wondered if she'd made a mistake in letting the Hat place her in Slytherin. She fretted over the decision. Oh, she had ambition in spades, but she wasn't—wasn't cunning, wasn't sneaky or subtle or traditional. She passed the perfect needle from hand to hand and sighed. The House of Serpents was home to people like Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Could it be home to someone like Hermione, too?

"Father says Mudbloods are always thirsty for attention," Draco said to Goyle once Professor McGonagall moved away. "He says you have to watch how much you feed them or they'll forget their place—ow!"

Harriet's javelin slid off her desk and landed on Draco's foot. Given the thunk it made, Hermione guessed it was solid wood.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Malfoy," Harriet said in a flat voice, twiddling with her wand. The pointy faced boy turned an unattractive red. "I'm just so clumsy."

Then Harriet winked.

Hermione covered her mouth to hide her smile.

A/N: Set basically handed Harriet a stick of dynamite instead of a sparkler, so there'll be repercussions—good, bad, and probably hilarious. Harriet, Hermione, and Elara will each have their own strengths, weaknesses, and interests in classes.