The cool, pine-scented night air was a welcome shock after the stuffy warmth of the train. Hogsmeade station was little more than a small, dark platform, but looming over it all was Hagrid, his massive silhouette blotting out the stars, a single, swaying lantern held high in his hand.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" he boomed, his voice a warm, rumbling counterpoint to the nervous chatter of the students. "C'mon, follow me – any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now!"
Hermione watched as Harry's face lit up with a wide, relieved grin at the sight of the familiar giant. It was a grounding presence in a world that was still profoundly strange to him. She stayed quiet, falling into step beside Harry as he joined the throng of small students stumbling down a steep, narrow path after Hagrid.
The path opened up, and a collective gasp rippled through the group of first-years. Across the smooth, black glass of a great lake, a vast castle sat atop a high mountain, its many turrets and towers silhouetted against the starry sky, warm light spilling from its windows.
For a single moment, the boy on the train simply stared. It was beautiful. More beautiful than any words had ever described. A genuine, unexpected wave of awe washed over her, a feeling so pure it was almost painful. This was the magic she had dreamed of, the escape she had craved in another life, made real and solid before her.
Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood. "Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.
They were led up through a passage in the rock and finally arrived at a huge, oak front door. Hagrid knocked three times, and the door swung open to reveal Professor McGonagall, her expression as severe as ever.
The entrance hall was vast, the stone walls lit with flaming torches. McGonagall led them into a small, empty chamber off the hall and began her familiar pre-Sorting speech. Hermione only half-listened, her mind more interested in looking at her surroundings.
As McGonagall left them to their nerves, they were soon all discussing how they would be sorted. She could already hear the more outrageous suggestion from the others. Soon, many students jumped up in fright, as the hall was invaded by the ghosts of the castle.
Hermione couldn't help but observe them, finding them a bit fascinating. A piece of a person's personality, left behind on the mortal plane, unable to move forward, because of a regret they couldn't fulfil in their life.
Professor McGonagall returned, silencing the room with a single, sharp look. She led them through the double doors into the Great Hall. The sight was even more spectacular than the castle itself. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air, and the ceiling above was a velvet black, dotted with stars.
As they walked towards the front, Hermione's gaze swept the staff table, her mind cataloging and assessing. Her eyes moved past the various professors until they settled on the Headmaster. Albus Dumbledore. The ambient magic in the hall seemed to bend around him, a quiet testament to his power. It was a vast, and deeply complex energy signature, far greater than even her own at its current level. He's most likely even more powerful than I thought, she noted to herself. Better to avoid direct confrontation for now.
Her gaze shifted. Severus Snape, his greasy hair and sallow skin making him look like a predatory bat. And then, Professor Quirrell. Her senses immediately registered a dissonance. It wasn't just Quirrell's magic she felt. There was a second signature clinging to him like a shroud—a faint, yet utterly foul echo of dark, corrupted power. It felt wrong, unnatural. Voldemort.
Professor McGonagall placed the tattered looking Sorting Hat on the stool in front of the first. IT certainly was a sight to see it moving. Soon, it sang its song. Then, the ceremony began. One by one, many were called and placed, many she remembered from the first books, others were more hazy. And soon, her name was called.
"Granger, Hermione."
She gave Harry's arm a light pat. "Remember what we talked about. Make the right choice for you." She walked to the stool with confidence. The last thing she saw before the Hat dropped over her eyes was Harry's nervous, encouraging nod.
The world went dark.
Now, what do we have here? a small, dusty voice echoed in the sudden silence of her mind, sharp with a thousand years of insight. I have sat on thousands of heads, yet never have I felt one so... tempered. And such shields... oh my. The voice chuckled at that. Don't worry, child. I do not see memories, only what you are.
That's good to know, she thought back. But what about what you learn? Do you report what you make of a student's mind to the Headmaster?
A wave of what felt like ancient, dusty amusement washed through her. A question no one has thought to ask in over eight hundred years. How delightfully cautious. My purpose is to place a student where they will best thrive, child, not to act as the Headmaster's informant. My counsel is my own. Your thoughts are safe with me, not because you hide them well, but because they are not relevant to my task.
With that assurance given, the Hat's voice turned analytical. And what a task it is with you. I see courage, yes. More than enough for Gryffindor. The courage to act, to jump when necessary, but it is tempered, not reckless. It is the courage of a survivor, I see, not a hero... I feel a mind that craves knowledge, a hunger that would place you in Ravenclaw without a second thought. But it is not for the love of learning, is it? Maybe it once was, but not anymore. For you, knowledge is a weapon. And loyalty... a deep, unshakeable loyalty that would have made Helga proud. But it is not given freely. It is reserved for a precious few, for those who have earned their place inside the walls.
The Hat hummed in her ear. Difficult, very difficult indeed... Courage as a tool, knowledge as a weapon, loyalty as a shield... the Hat mused. They all serve one master. The ambition. It is the core of you, is it not? A drive for the ultimate security. For freedom. For such a soul, whose every virtue is honed for a single purpose, there is only one place you will truly thrive.
Hermione couldn't help but snort in amusement in her mind. You want to put me, a Muggle-born, in the one house that despises my kind? That seems like a good way to shorten my life expectancy. Hermione replied to the Hat, amusement evident in her mental voice.
That house has forgotten what real strength is, child, the Hat retorted, its voice firm. It has mistaken the purity of blood for the purity of will for far too long. Perhaps it is time someone reminded them what true power looks like, and what real ambition, stripped of petty prejudice, can achieve.
A pause, and then the voice returned, tinged with a distinct note of amusement. And as for your own safety... Something makes me believe it would be the others who will need to be on the lookout.
It took a final, deep breath, and shouted its decision to the hall.
"SLYTHERIN!"
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