Undivided

September 1st, 1991

The oak doors swung open, and Hermione Granger stepped into the Great Hall of Hogwarts for the first time.

Her breath caught in her throat. The pages of Hogwarts: A History hadn't prepared her for this—for the vastness of it, the soaring enchanted ceiling that mirrored the night sky outside, stars glittering against velvet darkness as though the roof had simply melted away. Thousands of candles hovered in midair, their flames unwavering despite the slight draft that rustled her robes. The light they cast was golden and warm, illuminating the scene below like something from a Renaissance painting.

"It's even better than I imagined," she whispered, the words escaping on a breath of wonder.

The hall stretched before her, dominated by four enormous wooden tables running parallel to each other, each crowded with students in black robes. Their voices created a symphony of chatter and laughter that echoed against the ancient stone walls. At the far end, perpendicular to the student tables, sat the teachers on a raised dais—figures of authority in more ornate robes, watching the proceedings with varying degrees of interest. Hermione's eyes were immediately drawn to the center, where an elderly wizard with a silver beard so long it could be tucked into his belt sat in a high-backed golden chair. Albus Dumbledore. She recognized him from her Chocolate Frog card.

Magic. Real, tangible magic surrounded her—not just in the floating candles or the bewitched ceiling, but in the very air itself. It seemed to hum against her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. She felt as if she were a tuning fork that had just been struck, resonating with something ancient and powerful.

A strange sensation blossomed in her chest, a feeling of rightness that brought unexpected tears to her eyes. This was where she belonged. After years of being the odd one out, the girl whose books levitated when she was angry and whose hair occasionally sparked with static electricity when she was particularly excited about a test, she had found her place in the world.

But what came next filled her with dread. The sorting. No book had explained precisely how students were sorted into their houses. It was tradition, apparently, to keep the method a secret from first years.

"Do you know what spell they'll test us with?" she whispered to the red-haired boy next to her—Ron, she thought his name was. "I've been practicing all summer. Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, Alohomora..." Her fingers twitched reflexively through the wand movements as she listed the spells. "I hope it's not transfiguration. That seems terribly advanced, but I did try turning a teacup into a rat. It still had a handle for a tail, though."

The boy looked at her as though she had sprouted a second head. "My brothers said something about wrestling a troll," he muttered, his freckles standing out starkly against suddenly pale skin.

Hermione's stomach lurched. A troll? That wasn't in any of the books she'd read. She began muttering under her breath, reciting spell incantations faster now, her right hand mimicking the proper wand movements. "Incendio might work on a troll. Or perhaps Flipendo? No, that wouldn't be strong enough..."

Her mind raced through the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, page by page. Would they be disqualified if they couldn't perform the test? Sent back to the Muggle world in disgrace? The prospect made her throat tighten with panic.

Professor McGonagall's voice cut through her increasingly frantic thoughts. "This way, please."

The first years clustered together, following the tall witch up the central aisle between two of the long tables. Hermione could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes upon them—curious, evaluating, remembering their own sorting ceremonies. She caught snippets of whispered conversations as they passed.

"Smaller than last year's batch—" "Look at that one with the red hair, another Weasley—" "Wonder how many we'll get in Hufflepuff—"

The flagstone floor was cool beneath her feet, even through her shoes. The scent of beeswax and old parchment mingled with something distinctly magical—like the air before a lightning storm, crackling with potential. A suit of armor in an alcove turned its helmet slightly to watch them pass, the metal creaking so softly only Hermione seemed to notice.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild thing seeking escape. She wiped her clammy palms against her robes, leaving damp patches on the black fabric. She'd practiced for this moment obsessively, had memorized every detail she could find about the four houses, had recited their qualities, their founders' names, their colors and emblems until she could do it in her sleep. Knowledge was her armor, her shield against uncertainty. But now, walking between these tables of strangers—peers who had grown up in this world of wonders while she'd spent eleven years not knowing it existed—the armor felt flimsy, inadequate.

The ceiling above reflected a clear night, stars arranged in familiar constellations—Cassiopeia, Draco, Ursa Major. She'd studied astronomy with her father in their back garden, but seeing the night sky reproduced with such perfect fidelity inside a building made her breath catch again. She'd read about it, of course—"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History," she heard herself saying to the girl beside her, the words spilling out in a nervous rush.

The girl edged away slightly, and Hermione felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. The familiar sting of rejection lanced through her excitement. Not here too, she thought desperately. Please, not here too.

At the front of the hall, Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool precisely in the center of the open space before the teachers' table. The wood was dark and polished from centuries of use, the legs carved with symbols Hermione didn't recognize. Atop the stool, McGonagall set a wizard's hat—pointed and frayed, its fabric patched in multiple places, bearing the signs of extreme age. A thin layer of dust seemed to cling to it, and Hermione wrinkled her nose reflexively.

Her parents would be appalled—the world's leading magical school using such a filthy object on the heads of children! She could almost hear her mother's voice: "Hermione Jean Granger, you are not putting that on your head until it's been properly sanitized." The thought of her parents, so far away in their neat little house with its immaculate dental practice attached, sent a sudden pang of homesickness through her so intense she nearly gasped aloud.

But then the hat twitched, and all thoughts of home vanished as wonder took their place once more. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth—and the hat began to sing:

Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart.Ravenclaw, where those of wit and learning will always find their kind.Hufflepuff, where they are just and loyal.Slytherin, where cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends.

She had analyzed herself ruthlessly. Certainly, she was clever enough for Ravenclaw—that seemed the most obvious fit. But she also valued fairness and worked diligently, which spoke to Hufflepuff. And hadn't she shown bravery, venturing into a world so different from the one she'd known her entire life? There was ambition too, burning inside her—to prove herself, to show that a Muggle-born could be just as good as anyone else.

The ceiling above was velvety black and dotted with stars, just as she'd read about. "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History," she whispered to the girl beside her, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. The girl edged away slightly, and Hermione felt her cheeks burn.

This is why I don't have friends, she thought bitterly. I always say too much.

Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat, patched and frayed and extremely dirty.

Hermione wrinkled her nose before she could stop herself. Her parents would never allow something so filthy in their immaculate dental practice. For a second, a wave of homesickness crashed over her, so intense she nearly gasped aloud.

The hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth—and the hat began to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,But don't judge on what you see,I'll eat myself if you can findA smarter hat than me..."

Hermione barely heard the rest of the song, her mind already racing ahead to what was coming. A test of character, of personality, of potential—not knowledge, as she'd secretly hoped. You couldn't study for this. Either you were brave or clever or loyal or cunning, or you weren't.

What if I'm not enough of any of them? What if the hat can't place me? What if it tells me there's been a mistake and I don't belong here after all?

Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause—

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

The process continued, and Hermione found herself tracing patterns on her palm with her thumb, a nervous habit she'd developed when she was six. Each student took a different amount of time—some were sorted almost instantly, while others sat for nearly a minute before the hat decided.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Her heart leapt into her throat. On legs that suddenly felt wooden, she almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.

Darkness fell as the oversized hat dropped over her eyes. The muffled sounds of the Great Hall faded away, and for a bizarre moment, she felt completely alone.

"Well, well, well," said a small voice in her ear. "What do we have here? Oh my... how interesting."

Hermione's fingers clenched the edge of the stool. Please put me in Ravenclaw, she thought desperately. I love learning more than anything.

"Ravenclaw, is it?" the voice sounded almost amused. "Yes, you certainly have the mind for it. Such a thirst for knowledge! But there's more to you than that, isn't there? I see courage here, oh yes, plenty of that. And loyalty too, to those who earn it. Not to mention ambition that burns white-hot."

Hermione frowned slightly under the brim of the hat. I just want to belong somewhere. Please.

"Ah, but that's exactly it, you see," the hat whispered. "You could belong in any of the four. You're what's known as an Undivided."

An Undivided? The term was unfamiliar. She hadn't encountered it in any book she'd read.

"No, you wouldn't have," the hat replied, as if reading her thoughts. "It's a rare thing, very rare indeed. Most students have qualities that naturally align them with one house over the others. But a few—a very few—possess all the qualities in equal measure."

Is... is that bad? Hermione's heart was pounding so loudly she was certain everyone in the Hall must hear it.

"Bad? No, child. Dangerous, perhaps. Powerful, certainly. The last time I encountered an Undivided was... well, that's neither here nor there. What matters is this: you must keep this knowledge to yourself. These are perilous times, and those with your particular... balance... would be of great interest to certain parties."

Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through her. What do you mean? What parties?

"Listen carefully," the hat continued, its voice becoming urgent. "Your nature is your own business. Tell no one unless you absolutely must. Watch for others like yourself—you'll know them, in time. Now, you must choose. Which house would you like to join?"

I get to choose? The thought was startling. But that's not how it's supposed to work. The hat is supposed to decide!

"For most, yes. For you, no. Where do you wish to go?"

Her mind whirled. If what the hat said was true, she could go anywhere. But which house would accept her most fully? Which one would give her the best chance at friendship, at belonging?

Ravenclaw seems the most logical choice, she thought. But...

She thought of the books she'd read, of the famous witches and wizards from each house. She thought of Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the age—a Gryffindor. She thought of the bravery it would take to enter this strange new world and not just succeed, but thrive.

Gryffindor, she decided finally. I want to be in Gryffindor.

"Are you certain? You could do well in Ravenclaw. You could rise to greatness in Slytherin."

I'm certain. Gryffindor, please.

"Very well. Remember what I've told you. And good luck, Hermione Granger. You're going to need it. GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat shouted the last word to the entire hall. She removed it with shaking hands and walked on trembling legs toward the Gryffindor table. The sound of applause washed over her, but it felt distant, muffled by the racing of her thoughts.

As she took her seat, she glanced back at the Sorting Hat, now being placed on a blonde boy's head. Undivided, she thought, testing the word in her mind. She wondered if there were others like her—and if so, how she would ever find them.

Harry stood in line, his stomach churning with nerves. The Sorting Ceremony was progressing alphabetically, and they'd only just reached "P."

"Parkinson, Pansy," became a Slytherin. Then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil," then "Perks, Sally-Anne," and then, at last—

"Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out across the hall.

"Potter, did she say?" "The Harry Potter?"

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

"Harry Potter," whispered a small voice in his ear, sounding almost awed. "I've been expecting you."

Harry gripped the edges of the stool, unsure how to respond to a talking hat.

"Such a complex mind," the voice continued. "So many layers... so many possibilities. Hmm. Difficult. Very difficult."

Please just put me somewhere I'll fit in, Harry thought desperately.

The hat seemed to chuckle. "But that's just it. You could fit anywhere. Courage in abundance—yes, I see your confrontation with your cousin, standing up despite the consequences. Not a bad mind either, sharp when you apply yourself. Loyalty to those who've shown you kindness. And oh—" the hat's voice lowered, becoming almost somber, "—such a thirst to prove yourself. To show the world you're more than just a famous name or a lightning scar."

Harry's fingers dug deeper into the stool.

"You could be great in Slytherin," the hat whispered. "They could help you on the path to greatness, no doubt about that."

Not Slytherin, Harry thought firmly, remembering Hagrid's words about dark wizards. Not with Malfoy. Not in the house that Voldemort was in.

The hat went very still on his head. "You speak his name in your thoughts. Interesting. Few dare to do so, even silently." There was a pause. "But I see something else now. Something extraordinary. You're an Undivided, Harry Potter."

What's that mean? Harry thought, confused.

"It means you embody all four houses equally. Brave as Godric, wise as Rowena, loyal as Helga, and yes—ambitious as Salazar. It's rare. Dangerous, even." The hat's voice took on an edge of urgency. "Listen carefully. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will return. He is not gone, merely waiting. And when he does... he will hunt those like you."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. Like me? What do you mean?

"Undivideds. Those whose magic cannot be categorized, contained, controlled. Those who could unite what he wishes to divide. You carry a power the Dark Lord knows not—it is not just your mother's protection, but your very nature."

Harry felt his heart hammering. I don't understand.

"You will. In time. But know this: there are others like you at Hogwarts. Find them. Trust them. Together, you may stand a chance when he returns." The hat's voice turned grim. "For return he will, and he will seek to finish what he started with your parents."

Harry swallowed hard. Others? Who?

"That, you must discover yourself. I cannot tell you directly. But watch for those who seem... out of place in their houses. Too brave for Slytherin. Too cunning for Gryffindor. Too loyal for Ravenclaw. Too scholarly for Hufflepuff."

This is madness, Harry thought. I'm eleven. I just found out I was a wizard a month ago.

"And yet, destiny rarely calls upon us at a time of our choosing," the hat replied softly. "Now, you must choose a house. As an Undivided, that right is yours alone."

Harry thought of his parents, both Gryffindors according to Hagrid. He thought of Ron, hoping they'd be in the same house. And he thought of standing against Voldemort, if what the hat said was true. He would need courage for that above all else.

Gryffindor, he decided. I want to be in Gryffindor.

"Are you certain? In Slytherin, you could develop the cunning needed to outwit your enemies. In Ravenclaw, you could gain the knowledge to defeat them. In Hufflepuff, you would find unwavering allies."

Gryffindor, Harry repeated more firmly.

The hat sighed. "So be it. But remember my warning, Harry Potter. Find the others. Before he finds you. GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat shouted the last word to the hall. Harry took off the hat and walked shakily toward the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

As Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff, his eyes caught Hermione Granger's for a brief moment. Something passed between them—not recognition exactly, but something else, something he couldn't quite name. Then she looked away, and the moment was gone.