Professor McGonagall's hand, which had been steady for every student before, trembled as she lifted the Hat from Hermione's head. For a few seconds, the Great Hall was completely silent. The crackling of the floating candles was the only sound.
From her vantage point on the stool, Hermione took in the scene with a calm, sweeping gaze. The Gryffindors, who had been ready to cheer for the clever-looking girl, stared with open-mouthed shock. The Ravenclaws looked intellectually baffled, as if a fundamental law of their universe had just been violated. But it was the Slytherin table that held her attention. They stared at her, a sea of pale, aristocratic faces frozen not just in shock, but in a mixture of confusion and visceral disgust. A Mudblood? In their house?
She slid off the stool and began her long walk. As she did, the trim on her plain black robes shimmered, the threads magically reweaving themselves from black to a sharp, elegant silver and green. She glanced down at the new colours on her sleeve and a small smile touched her lips. "Green does look good on me," she murmured to herself, the words a quiet affirmation in the tense silence.
Her movement broke the spell. The silence didn't just break; it shattered into a thousand hushed, frantic whispers. The sheer, unbelievable event was the only topic of conversation in the Great Hall. The noise seemed to snap Professor McGonagall from her stupor. She cleared her throat, her expression still tight with disbelief, and read the next name from the scroll.
As Hermione approached the Slytherin table, the students recoiled. They didn't just make room; they actively shuffled away, their movements a clear, deliberate act of social ostracization, leaving a conspicuous, empty space on the bench. It was an island of rejection in a sea of green and silver.
She saw the empty space, saw the hostile, sneering faces of her new housemates. She saw their disdain, their prejudice, their absolute certainty that she did not belong, and she was highly amused by it all. She looked at the empty seat they had created for her, and she grinned at them, some actually flinching at that.
A few more names passed, before Professor McGonagall called the name that brought the hall's attention to a new focal point. "Potter, Harry."
From her new seat at the silent, stunned Slytherin table, Hermione watched him walk to the stool. This was it. The culmination of her first, decisive gambit. She saw him muttering, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping the stool so hard his knuckles were white. He was arguing with the Hat. He was making a choice based on new data, on a new perspective.
One minute passed. Then two. The silence in the hall was deafening. Three minutes. Four. It was a Hatstall, a rare moment.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the brim of the Hat opened wide.
"Better be... GRYFFINDOR!"
The thunderous roar that erupted from the Gryffindor table was a physical force, a wave of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. Harry Potter, his face a mixture of relief and dazed happiness, was swallowed by a sea of red and gold, immediately surrounded by cheering older students and his new housemates.
Hermione watched the scene unfold and offered a small, polite clap, the sound utterly swallowed by the overwhelming noise. A familiar flicker of disappointment passed through her. It was the quiet, immediate acceptance of a truth she had learned over a long and difficult first life: gambles, especially impulsive or fun ones, never really paid off for him. Luck had never been his friend; it seemed it wasn't hers either.
Her "fun idea" on the platform had failed to alter the final outcome. The canon, it seemed, had a powerful inertia.
Ehh, so be it. Not like it was a loss or anything. She thought with a mental shrug, her mind already moving on. A predictable complication, but a manageable one. The connection they'd formed on the train was now made more difficult by house lines, but it wasn't severed. She was, as she had always truly planned to be, on her own. It was time to get to work.
The moment Harry sat down, the spell holding the hall's attention broke. Dumbledore, his benevolent smile back in place and the twinkle fully restored to his eyes, rose to his feet.
"Welcome!" said Dumbledore, his voice radiating a genuine warmth now that the proper order of things had been restored. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."
He sat back down, and this time, the hall responded with easy laughter and cheers. The golden plates before them magically filled with food, and the shocked silence that had followed Hermione's own sorting was washed away by the clatter of cutlery and a rising tide of cheerful conversation.
At the Slytherin table, however, the atmosphere remained arctic. The students around her, who had been recoiling from her as a singular anomaly, now began to close in, their shock curdling into a predatory curiosity. She was a puzzle, an insult, and now, a target.
She picked up her fork and began to eat, her movements completely unbothered. The venomous whispers and overt, hostile stares from her new housemates were not something to be ignored; they were simply irrelevant, like the distant chatter from the Gryffindor table or the flicker of the floating candles.
In her first life, he had spent years mastering the art of being alone in a crowd, of building a quiet, internal space that no amount of external hostility could breach. She was not anxious or embarrassed. She was simply an observer in her natural habitat: a quiet island of solitude in a sea of noise. Her focus was on observation, her senses taking in the complex social hierarchy of the table.
She saw Malfoy holding court among the first-years, his arrogance on full display. She noted the older, powerful-looking students who commanded respect with a glance, and the few quiet, watchful ones who actually seemed to be assessing the new landscape just as she was.
Soon, the feast concluded, the remains of the food vanishing from the golden plates, leaving them sparkling clean. A moment later, Dumbledore was on his feet again, his benevolent smile radiating over the hall.
"Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." His twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Gryffindor table, where two identical red-haired twins were visibly trying to look innocent.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact their Head of House."
"And finally," he said, his voice becoming loud and serious, "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
A ripple of confused, nervous laughter went through the hall, but few students seemed to take him seriously. Hermione, however, did not laugh.
She stared at the Headmaster. His intentions so obvious it was almost insulting. Really? she thought, a spark of dark, cynical amusement flickering in her mind. 'Don't go to the third-floor corridor if you don't want to die.' You might as well hang a giant, glowing sign that says 'Adventure This Way, Chosen One Only'.
After all, no educator this experienced would ever say things like that to teenagers, especially to teenagers with magic. The old man wasn't just playing games; he was setting up the board for his star player. The first test in the training course, she concluded. Step one in preparing the pig for slaughter.
Dumbledore, seeing his warning had landed with the desired effect of piquing everyone's curiosity, clapped his hands together cheerfully. "And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" he cried.
A long golden ribbon shot out of his wand, twisting itself into the words of the song. "Everyone pick their favourite tune!"
The result was pandemonium. The entire school bellowed the song, but to a thousand different tunes, creating a cacophony of disorganized noise. Hermione's eyebrow twitched. The sheer, overwhelming noise was a physical assault.
With a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of her fingers hidden in the folds of her new robes, she wove a small, localized silencing charm around her head. The deafening chaos instantly receded to a dull hum.
Now able to think, she watched the bizarre spectacle with amusement. The spectacle reached its peak when only the Weasley twins were left, singing along to the tune of a slow, mournful funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their final few lines with his wand, and when they had finished, he was one of the few who clapped.
"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
A great scraping of benches echoed through the Hall as hundreds of students rose to their feet, the air filling with the excited chatter of the first night. But amidst the general chaos, the Slytherin table moved with a different, more orderly grace. A tall, sharp-featured fifth-year prefect stood, her voice cutting cleanly through the rising din.
"First-years," she commanded, her voice low and carrying an authority that cut through the lingering chatter of the hall. "Follow me. Do not stray."
Hermione fell into the back of the small group of new Slytherins, a solitary green-and-silver island. Malfoy and his two lumbering cronies made a point of staying at the front, as far from her as possible. The other first-years, a mix of nervous and arrogant pure-bloods, followed his lead, creating a conspicuous gap around her. She noted the dynamic with the detached interest of an anthropologist studying a primitive tribe, having witnessed same behavioral patterns in her previous life too more times than he'd care to admit.
The prefect, whose name she overheard was Gemma Farley, led them towards the castle's lower levels. The moment they left the warmth and noise of the Great Hall, the atmosphere changed. The cheerful, golden glow of the main castle was replaced by a colder, more utilitarian light from torches set in brackets along the stone walls.
Their path was a steady descent. They went down flight after flight of wide stone stairs, the air growing noticeably cooler with each level they passed. The corridors narrowed, the high, vaulted ceilings of the upper floors giving way to lower, more oppressive arches of stone. The chatter from the first-years died away, replaced by the rhythmic slap and echo of their own footsteps on the flagstones. The sounds seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence of the dungeons.
Hermione ran a hand along the wall as she walked. The stone was cold and damp to the touch, slick with a faint, unseen condensation. The portraits they passed here were different, too. Gone were the smiling, waving figures from the main castle; these were severe-looking wizards and witches with pale faces and dark, watchful eyes that seemed to follow their every move with silent, aristocratic disapproval.
The temperature continued to drop until the air was genuinely cold, carrying the faint, clean scent of stone, damp earth, and the distant, deep water of the lake. It was a chill that seemed to seep into their robes, a stark welcome to their new home, but Hermione appreciated it. Cold is always nice. Farley didn't seem to notice, her pace never faltering as she led them deeper into the labyrinthine corridors. Finally, she stopped before a blank, featureless stretch of wall, slick with moisture and bare of any ornamentation.
"This is the entrance to the Slytherin common room," Farley said, turning to face them. Her eyes swept over the group, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Hermione, her expression unreadable. "The password changes every fortnight. It will be posted on the notice board. Do not, under any circumstances, share it with anyone outside of this house. Do not write it down. And do not bring anyone from another house down here. Ever. The consequences for doing so are severe."
She turned back to the wall. "Pure-blood."
A section of the stone wall slid away with a low grinding sound, revealing a rectangular opening. They followed her through into a long, low-ceilinged room that was both impressive and deeply unnerving.
The common room was a vast, dungeon-like space that extended out from under the Great Lake. The rough-hewn stone walls were hung with elegant, silver tapestries depicting the great deeds of famous Slytherins. A grand, carved fireplace dominated one wall, casting a flickering, greenish light over the room. The furniture was all dark wood and black leather, arranged in tight, conspiratorial clusters.
But it was the windows that were most spectacular—they weren't windows at all, but large, enchanted panels that looked directly out into the black, murky depths of the lake. What she presumed was the giant squid, drifted lazily past one, its tentacles waving in a silent, hypnotic dance. The entire room was bathed in a dim, watery, green glow.
It was a beautiful, cold, and deeply isolated space.
Farley led them to the center of the room, where the other Slytherins were already gathering, their conversations low and muted. She turned to face the assembled first-years, her expression unyielding.
"Welcome to Slytherin," she began, her voice now carrying a distinct edge of steel. "You are here because you are ambitious, you are cunning, and you have a desire for greatness. But let me be clear about the rules of this house, the ones that are not written in any Hogwarts charter. Outside these walls, we are a united front. You will never, ever side with a Gryffindor, a Hufflepuff, or a Ravenclaw against one of your own, no matter the disagreement. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Publicly, we are a house of serpents, and we present a single, unbroken coil. Is that understood?"
A chorus of murmured "Yes" answered her.
"However," she continued, her gaze sweeping over them again, "within these walls, things are different. This is not Gryffindor. We do not reward foolish bravery or sentimental loyalty. Here, you will earn your place. Your name and your blood may grant you a certain starting position, but it is your power, your intelligence, and your usefulness that will determine your standing. We do not tolerate weakness. We do not suffer fools. Prove your worth, or you will be left behind."
With that final, chilling pronouncement, her gaze swept over all of them one last time, a silent challenge issued to every new face in the room. The implicit message was clear, even without singling anyone out.
"That is all," Farley concluded, her tone brisk and dismissive. "Boys' dormitories are up the stairs and to the left. Girls', to the right. Your belongings have already been brought up. Curfew is at ten. We'll take you the hall in the morning. Do not be late."
With a final, dismissive wave, the prefect turned and strode towards the upper-year dorms, leaving the first-years to fend for themselves.
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