So another thing I realized while looking at these chapters of the original text is that there will be a lot of things that Hermione doesn't get to observe. Just like with Ron in TKC, she will have to rely on Harry to tell her things that only he observed. So, you will see not only missing moments with Ron and Hermione, but also moments with Hermione and other people.

There will also be things that won't be mentioned because either Hermione hasn't noticed them yet, or she really doesn't care as much about it as Harry or Ron does. So it wouldn't be noted.

You probably already know that, but me realizing it makes me even more excited. We get to explore more of Lavender, Parvati, Ginny, and Neville, as she will be around them sometimes. Especially in Sorcerer's Stone. The chapters before the trio is formed will have a lot that will be explored. Things having to do with her own internal thoughts of herself and other people. A lot more than Ron and Harry paid attention to, that's for sure.

Again...this book, especially the chapters, is gonna be long af. Hope yall wasn't looking for a short story.

Anyways, on with the fic

Chapter 8: Navigating Hogwarts

The first week at Hogwarts was nothing short of a whirlwind. Every corner of the castle seemed to hold a new mystery or challenge. I was determined to thrive here, and while it wasn't always easy, I relished every moment of discovery.

Hogwarts itself was as fascinating as I'd imagined, though its quirks could be maddening. The staircases, for instance, seemed almost determined to throw me off course. One moment, I'd be confidently heading to the library, only to find myself on the wrong floor entirely. Twice, I'd nearly tripped on the vanishing step of the fourth-floor staircase, though I managed to catch Neville once when he wasn't as lucky.

The portraits were another marvel. They moved, talked, and even visited each other. I often lingered to watch them bicker or gossip, though I quickly learned that dawdling could make me late for class.

And there were so many classes to attend.

Transfiguration quickly became one of my favorite subjects. Professor McGonagall was stern but brilliant, and when she transformed her desk into a pig during our first lesson, I was enthralled. By the end of the class, my matchstick had turned silver and pointy—not a complete transformation, but enough to earn me a rare smile from Professor McGonagall. That smile stayed with me all day.

Charms was just as exciting. Professor Flitwick's enthusiasm was infectious, and his tiny stature—he had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk—only added to his charm. When I demonstrated a particularly precise wand movement during our first practical session, he clapped his hands together in delight, and I couldn't help but beam with pride.

Herbology was an unexpected delight. Professor Sprout was kind and patient, and the greenhouses were filled with the most extraordinary plants I'd ever seen. Neville seemed to have natural talent for the subject, and I often partnered with him. He had a way of calming even the most temperamental plants, and I found myself admiring his quiet determination.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, was a disappointment. I'd imagined thrilling lessons on dueling and protecting ourselves from magical creatures and dangerous curses, but Professor Quirrell's nervous stammer and overly cautious approach made it hard to stay engaged. The classroom reeked of garlic, and his turban had an odd smell that the Weasley twins claimed was due to garlic stuffed inside.

Then there was History of Magic. And despite seemingly everyone else, I absolutely loved it.

Most of my classmates found Professor Binns dull—his ghostly monotone could certainly lull you into a stupor if you weren't paying attention—but I was captivated by the stories he told. Uric the Oddball, the Giant Wars, the Statute of Secrecy... every detail fascinated me. I filled pages and pages of notes, my quill flying across the parchment as I tried to capture every date, name, and event he mentioned.

"How can you possibly find that interesting?" Parvati had asked me after one lesson, raising an eyebrow as she packed her bag.

"It's not just interesting—it's essential," I replied. "Understanding magical history helps us understand how the wizarding world works today. Don't you think it's fascinating how the Giant Wars influenced wand law?"

Parvati had just blinked at me, clearly unconvinced.

No matter. I didn't mind being the only one who appreciated the class. History was like a treasure chest, and every lesson felt like unlocking a new secret.

Making friends, however, was proving to be more difficult than I'd hoped.

I began to notice a pattern: people didn't seem keen on holding conversations with me for long. The same feedback kept bubbling to the surface, even if no one said it outright—I was too much of a "know-it-all." I couldn't help it! Sharing my knowledge felt natural, like breathing. Was that such a bad thing? I'd always thought that learning and helping others learn was a good thing. Why did it push people away?

I tried to bond with the other girls in my dormitory, but Lavender and Parvati didn't seem particularly interested in the things I wanted to talk about. Lavender was always chatting about clothes and hairstyles, and while Parvati was kinder, she was equally absorbed in gossip and social matters.

I'd tried to share my excitement about Hogwarts: A History during one conversation, but Lavender had giggled and changed the subject, and even Parvati had looked politely disinterested. It was frustrating. I wanted to talk about the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall or the moving staircases, not which boy had spilled pumpkin juice at lunch.

At least Neville seemed to appreciate my company. He was shy and clumsy, but there was a sweetness to him that made me feel at ease. We worked well together in Herbology, and I often found myself laughing at his self-deprecating jokes.

Dean Thomas, another Muggle-born like me, was also friendly. He had a laid-back demeanor that made it easy to talk to him, and we often compared notes on how strange and wonderful the wizarding world was.

Then there were Harry and Ron.

Harry was impossible to ignore. Whispers followed him wherever he went, and students craned their necks to catch a glimpse of his lightning-shaped scar. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to have so much attention thrust upon you. Yet, Harry handled it with a quiet resilience that I found intriguing. It was almost as if he didn't realize what a phenomenon he was. That or he truly didn't care.

Ron, on the other hand, was loud and brash, with a ready wit that often had others laughing. He seemed completely at ease in the wizarding world, but I sometimes caught a flicker of insecurity in his eyes when someone mentioned his family. Especially his twin brothers. Or maybe that's just an annoyance. He seemed to try to avoid them whenever he could.

I'd tried to talk to them once or twice, but it was clear they were more focused on each other than on making new friends outside of the ones they already made, which were very few. They always sat together at meals, whispering and laughing like they'd known each other for years.

I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. I wanted that kind of connection—someone to share the excitement of Hogwarts with, someone who understood.

Sitting in the Great Hall on Friday morning, I glanced around at the Gryffindor table. The chatter and laughter felt comforting, even if I wasn't fully part of it yet. The enchanted ceiling above us showed a pale, cloudy sky, and the warmth of the castle seemed to seep into my bones.

Potions lessons took place in the dungeons—a place so different from the rest of Hogwarts that it felt like stepping into another world. The air was colder here, damp and heavy, carrying the faint scent of something sharp and metallic. Lanterns cast long, flickering shadows on the stone walls, and jars lined every shelf. Each jar contained something pickled and preserved—creatures and parts of creatures that seemed to float, waiting, watching.

I clutched my books tighter, my fingers digging into the cover of Magical Drafts and Potions. It wasn't fear exactly, but there was something about the atmosphere that made me feel uneasy, as though the walls themselves held secrets they weren't ready to share.

Professor Snape entered with a swish of black robes, his presence commanding immediate silence. He didn't speak right away, letting the weight of his gaze settle over the room. He was tall and thin, with sallow skin and a curtain of black, greasy hair that framed his pale face. But it was his eyes that struck me most—dark and bottomless, like the shadows of a cave. They weren't warm or inviting; they were cold and sharp, dissecting each of us as though determining our worth in an instant.

I respected him instantly. How could I not? He had an air of authority, of knowledge, and I was here to learn. Yet, there was something else about him—something that made my stomach twist with apprehension. I couldn't explain it, but I already knew he wasn't going to be my favorite professor.

Snape began with the roll call, his voice monotone. Each name was like a thread he was weaving into his web, and when he reached Harry's name, he paused.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."

The Slytherins erupted into quiet sniggers, with Malfoy leading the pack. My nose scrunched up with indignation though I wasn't sure why. Harry hadn't done anything to deserve that tone.

Snape's cold eyes swept over the room. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried through the dungeon like a spell. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."

I leaned forward slightly, my quill poised over my parchment.

"I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

I was spellbound. There was something mesmerizing about the way he spoke, as though the words themselves were magic. The idea of potions wasn't just academic—it was art, science, and power.

But then his gaze shifted again, landing on Harry.

"Potter!" he snapped. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

My hand shot into the air so fast I nearly knocked over my ink bottle. A Draught of Living Death. Powdered asphodel root of asphodel and infusion of wormwood make the Draught of Living Death, I thought desperately, my arm straining.

But Snape ignored me entirely, his focus solely on Harry.

"I don't know, sir," Harry said quietly.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything."

The Slytherins snickered again, and I bit my lip, my arm starting to ache. That was rather cruel of a professor to say.

"Let's try again," Snape said, his tone laced with mockery. "Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

My hand stretched higher. A bezoar is a stone found in the stomach of a goat. It can save you from most poisons, I thought, willing him to notice me.

"I don't know, sir," Harry said again.

Snape's sneer deepened. "Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

The comment made my stomach churn. It wasn't fair to expect Harry to know all the answers on his first day. He hadn't even grown up in the wizarding world!

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, I couldn't contain myself. I stood up, my hand practically brushing the ceiling.

"I don't know," Harry said, his voice even quieter now. "I think Hermione does, though. Why don't you try her?"

A few people laughed, but I was too flustered to care. Finally, Snape turned to me—but not to call on me.

"Sit down," he snapped at me. I did as I was told, my bum slightly pained as hard and as fast as I sat.

"For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."

I could have said all of that! Why wouldn't he give me a chance? It was almost as if he wanted to embarrass Harry. For what reason, I couldn't think of in the slightest.

His voice was sharp, each word delivered like a blow. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

The room erupted into the sound of frantic scribbling as quills scratched against parchment. I kept my eyes on my parchment as I wrote, my cheeks burning.

"And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter," Snape added coldly.

The rest of the lesson didn't improve. Snape paired us up and instructed us to brew a simple Boil-Curing Potion. I threw myself into the task, determined to get it right. The instructions were clear, and I carefully measured each ingredient, double-checking before adding anything to the cauldron.

But Snape was relentless, sweeping around the room in his long black cloak and criticizing nearly everyone. He barely glanced at me and my partner, but when he passed Malfoy, his lips twitched into a smile.

At least...I thought it was a smile. It could have been a smirk. A wince maybe?

"Perfectly stewed horned slugs," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

I ground my teeth but said nothing. It wasn't worth drawing his attention.

Across the room, Neville let out a startled yelp. I turned just in time to see his cauldron collapse into a melted heap, green smoke billowing into the air.

"Idiot boy!" Snape snarled, his wand flashing as he cleared the mess. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville nodded miserably, red boils already sprouting across his arms.

"Take him to the hospital wing," Snape barked at Seamus, who scrambled to help Neville out of the room.

Snape turned sharply toward Harry and Ron, who had been working at the table next to Neville.

"You—Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you?"

"That's not fair," I whispered under my breath, my hands curling into fists.

"That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor," Snape finished, his voice cutting through the room like a knife.

As we left the dungeon, the chill of the room seemed to cling to my skin. My respect for Snape's knowledge hadn't waned—he was clearly brilliant—but his cruelty left a sour taste in my mouth.

It seemed as if Snape had it out for both Harry and Neville. Or maybe it was Gryffindor in general. I could see their blatant favoritism as he did not act so horribly towards the Slytherins. A girl with a blunt bob cut practically threw ingredients at her friend and he didn't even bat an eye.

"Are all the professors like this?" Neville asked, his voice trembling as Seamus helped him up the stairs.

"No," I said quickly, though the certainty in my voice faltered. "Professor McGonagall isn't. Neither is Flitwick."

But Snape? Snape was different. And while I admired his skill, I knew I wasn't going to like him.

Sitting by the window in the common room later on that evening, I watched the stars twinkling faintly above the castle towers. The light from the fire danced across the stone walls, and the hum of distant laughter echoed softly in the background. Hogwarts was magical, and I knew I was lucky to be here. But I couldn't help feeling… a little out of place.

Still, I wasn't ready to give up. I reminded myself that making friends took time. Maybe the issue wasn't me entirely, maybe I just hadn't found the right people yet.

As I climbed the stairs to the dorm that night, I held on to a cautious hope. I didn't know what the future held, but perhaps the uncertainty wasn't all bad. After all, there was so much more to learn, so much more to experience, and so many more people to meet. Somewhere in all of that, I might just find my place.