The Sorting
King’s Cross was quite the spectacle; a cacophony of sound and motion, where the crowd surged like the ebb and flow of a great tide. Muggles bustled about in a blur of beige and grey, their trolleys rattling over the uneven tiles, their voices mingling into a dull roar beneath the station’s high, smoke-streaked ceiling. Amid them, almost hidden in plain sight, were the unmistakable wizards—oddly dressed in cloaks and hats, their trunks stamped with foreign crests, boarding trains bound for places like Athens, Alexandria, and beyond.
A few months ago, Hermione Granger’s eyes would have skipped over them entirely. These peculiar figures would have melted into the background noise of her tidy, logical world. Wizards weren’t—couldn’t be—real, after all.
But that was before.
Before the emerald-inked letter arrived. Before she’d stood in awe on the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, before she’d been given a wand.
“Ten-and-three-quarters,” Mr. Ollivander had said, his silvery eyes peering into her brown ones curiously, his wrinkled hand stroking his hairless chin. “Dragon heartstring. Vine. Ivy, specifically, not the usual grapevine. Powerful, yet understated. Candid, yet hidden depths lie within.”
Before she’d known that the odd happenings that forever followed her had been magic , of all things; that she was a witch, and not just one horribly unlucky little girl.
Now, standing before the innocuous wall between Platforms Nine and Ten, Hermione felt an electric thrill run through her. Her gaze was fixed upon the unremarkable brick wall ahead. It looked solid, immovable. But so had the barrier to Diagon Alley, and it had given way to Professor McGonagall after a few properly-placed wand taps…
“This is where Professor McGonagall told us the barrier is, right?” she asked worriedly, turning to her parents.
Mum, her pin-straight hair done up in a haphazard bun, smiled tightly. “Yes, it is, Hermione. Just a little run through the barrier, and you’ll be gone. It really isn’t as scary as it may seem.”
“I’m not scared!” Hermione shot back, her voice betraying a hint of a quiver. She turned to face her mother, cheeks flushed with defiance, though her trembling hands gave her away. “I just—well, I’ll miss you both, that’s all. Couldn’t you come through with me?”
Her father wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his smile soft and tinged with sadness. “I’d only embarrass you, love. You don’t need your dad blubbering all over Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, now, do you?”
Hermione’s lips wobbled into a smile at that, and she stepped forward to hug them both tightly, their warmth grounding her in this moment of dizzying change. “I’ll write all the time,” she promised fiercely. “Twice a week, at least. I’ll tell you everything—what I learn, who I meet, even what I have for breakfast.”
Her father let out a dramatic sigh, earning an eye-roll and a grin from her mother. “It’s not breakfast I’m worried about, it’s—” He broke off, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Go on, Hermione. Show that wall who’s boss.”
Steeling herself, Hermione turned back toward the barrier. It seemed so solid, so real, and yet the others rushing past and vanishing into it propelled her forward. She squared her shoulders, gripped the trolley tightly, and forced her feet to move.
Step by step, faster and faster, her heart thundered like a caged bird, her eyes squeezing shut as the wall rushed toward her. For one wild moment, she was certain she’d crash, certain the wizarding world had made a terrible mistake, that she wasn’t a witch at all. But the expected collision never came.
Instead, the air around her shifted, a strange warmth spreading over her skin. Hermione opened her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters stretched out before her, a scene plucked from the wildest reaches of imagination. The Hogwarts Express stood resplendent at its heart, its scarlet engine gleaming like a jewel in the thick, silvery steam that curled through the air like living tendrils. Wizards and witches swirled in every direction, their thick robes and pointy hats catching the light in dazzling flashes of color. Cats darted through the crowd, owls swooped overhead, and trunks floated on invisible currents of magic.
For a moment, Hermione could only stand there, drinking in the sight, her chest tight with awe. Then, the whistle of the Hogwarts Express rang out, a commanding note that sent the crowd into a final flurry of goodbyes and hurried steps. Hermione tightened her grip on the trolley, hurriedly navigating through the bustling throng. Trunks hovered overhead, guided by wizards waving their wands, and the shrill chatter of children mingled with the deeper tones of parents offering last-minute advice.
Once she reached the train, its bright red surface gleaming like polished ruby, Hermione let out a sigh. Porters and older students moved about, helping younger ones lift their trunks aboard. A tall, freckled redhead boy with a gleaming gold badge encrusted with a large ‘P’ pointed his wand at her blue trunk, incanting:
“Wingardium Leviosa! ”
Hermione’s trunk floated effortlessly off the trolley, rising through the air as if weightless. She stared, her lips parted slightly in awe. Even though she’d practiced the spell herself over the summer, watching it done so casually—so expertly—was something else entirely. Even though she’d practiced the spell herself over the summer, watching it done so casually—so expertly—was something else entirely. The trunk disappeared into the train with a faint clunk as it settled into place.
“There you go,” the boy said, brushing his hands together though he hadn’t lifted a thing. “First year, right?”
Hermione nodded, still slightly stunned. “Yes. Thank you…?”
“Percy Weasley,” the boy said, straightening his badge with a sense of practiced importance. “Gryffindor Prefect. And you are?”
“Hermione Granger,” she replied, stepping onto the train with a small but growing sense of excitement. Her eyes flicked to the side, catching sight of two identical stocky red-haired boys further down the platform. They were laughing and making exaggerated gestures as they helped a messy-haired boy about her age wrestle with his trunk.
“Are they your brothers?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.
Percy’s expression shifted slightly, his lips pursing with a mix of resignation and faint disapproval. “Yes, Fred and George. Twins. Trouble, the both of them.” His tone was clipped, but the affection beneath his words was unmistakable.
Hermione glanced back at the scene, her brow furrowing slightly as she watched one of the twins mime an elaborate bow while the other tossed a bright green candy into the air, catching it theatrically. The messy-haired boy, who seemed utterly bemused, offered a hesitant smile.
Percy cleared his throat, pulling her attention back. “Well, Miss Granger, if you need anything, Prefects are here to help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve duties to attend to.”
“Of course. Thank you, Percy!”
He nodded crisply and moved on, his badge glinting in the sunlight as he disappeared into the crowd.
The narrow corridor of the Hogwarts Express bustled with students, voices overlapping in a chaotic melody as Hermione made her way down, her trunk clattering behind her. The polished wood gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and the faint scent of brass and something sweet—perhaps chocolate—hung in the air. Every compartment she passed seemed alive with chatter and laughter, old friends reuniting or new ones exchanging excited introductions.
She hesitated at one, peering inside to find two girls about her age sitting together. One had warm red hair pulled back into a loose braid, her round face lighting up with a smile as she talked. The other, a blonde with soft curls, giggled, her laughter bright and infectious. Perhaps—just perhaps—Hermione was on the verge of making her first ever friends.
And so, summoning her courage, Hermione slid the door open just enough to poke her head inside. “Excuse me,” she began tentatively. “Is there room for one more?”
The red-haired girl looked up first, her smile broadening. “Of course! Come in,” she said, gesturing toward the empty seat across from them.
Hermione heaved her trunk inside, managing with far less grace than she’d hoped. The blonde girl quickly stood to help, and between the two of them, they managed to stow it away.
“Thanks,” Hermione said, brushing a stray curl out of her face and sitting down. “I’m Hermione Granger. All of this is awfully exciting to me—you see, no one else in my family has got any magic at all. When Professor McGonagall came to my house, explaining everything, my mum had a near-heart attack, I swear. What of the two of you?”
“I’m Susan Bones,” said the redhead, offering a friendly hand.
“And I’m Hannah Abbott,” said the other, beaming. “My family’s mostly magic. But…I think maybe my grandfather had one Muggle-born parent.”
“Did he?” asked Susan Bones, tilting her head. “I thought your family was pureblood, like mine.”
Before Hannah could answer, Hermione went on:
“Oh, it’s so great to meet you both,” she said cheerfully, arranging her robes and trying to make herself comfortable. “I’m really looking forward to this year. I’ve already thoroughly studied all the Hogwarts textbooks, you know. So much to learn!”
Susan Bones exchanged a quick glance with Hannah Abbott, both girls stiffening slightly at Hermione’s eager enthusiasm. There was a pause, and then Susan forced a polite smile. “That’s... really impressive, Hermione,” she said slowly. “You must be really prepared.”
Hannah, who had been quietly observing, let out a small, almost inaudible sigh. “I suppose it helps to be ahead,” she added, glancing at Susan. "I’m sure we’ll all catch up soon enough."
Hermione beamed. “Oh, I’m sure. I just think it’s better to be prepared, don’t you think? I mean, I’ve been studying for weeks! I even know most of the spells from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 —I can already do a perfect Levitation Charm,” she added, her voice rising with excitement.
Susan’s smile faltered for a moment, her fingers tightening around her book. “Well, that’s good,” she began, “but I’m sure there’s plenty to learn here that won’t be in any textbook.”
The train rocked gently as it now sped down the tracks, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the rails a constant hum in the background. Hermione, blissful from the two new friends she had made, continued to chat away enthusiastically about all the things she’d read and all the things she hoped to achieve at Hogwarts.
“...I do hope I get the Medal for Magical Merit,” she went on, “The Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, got one when he attended Hogwarts, you know, and he’s the greatest wizard of all time…”
Susan and Hannah exchanged yet another glance.
"Hey, Hermione," Susan said suddenly, a glint in her eyes. "You said you’re so good at charms, right? Maybe you could show us a spell."
Hermione blinked, her enthusiasm spiking. “Oh, sure! Which one would you like to see?” she asked eagerly. “I’ve been practicing simple ones like the Levitation and Wand-Lighting Charms , but I could try something a bit more complicated if you’d prefer.”
Hannah leaned forward, her expression an unreadable mix of curiosity and something else. “Maybe Alohomora ? You know, to open a locked door?”
“Oh, the Unlocking Charm! Yes, of course!” Hermione said, almost bouncing in her seat with excitement. She gripped her wand tightly, her eyes gleaming as she raised it. “I’ve read that one a few times—should be easy enough!”
With her wand held high, Hermione muttered the incantation confidently. " Alohomora! "
Nothing happened.
For a moment, Hermione stared at her wand, then at the door across from them. She frowned slightly, muttering under her breath as she repeated the charm. " Alohomora! "
Still, the door remained stubbornly locked.
Hannah bit her lip to stifle a laugh, glancing at Susan, who raised an eyebrow.
Hermione’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she straightened up, refusing to let herself falter. "It’s—it's just a mistake. I must have said it too softly. Let me try again!" she insisted, her voice full of determination.
“Are you sure you know the spell?” Susan asked sweetly.
Hermione’s eyes widened, taken aback by the insinuation, but she didn’t let it show. She steeled herself and, for the third time, repeated the incantation, her voice firm and resolute. " Alohomora! "
The door clicked open, but it wasn’t quite the dramatic result she’d imagined. The door simply slid a few inches, and then jammed. Hermione’s smile returned in full force. “There! See? It worked!” she exclaimed delightedly.
"Well, that’s something," muttered Susan, no longer smiling.
“I’m really glad I could impress you both! What other spell would you like to see? I could even try the Locomotion Charm, if you want—though I haven’t perfected that one yet...”
Hermione leaned back in her seat, her eyes bright as she continued to ramble about the myriad things she had read over the summer. The landscape outside the window began to change, the bustling streets of London giving way to the rolling green countryside, dotted with thatched cottages and sprawling fields.
"Isn't it amazing?" Hermione said, leaning toward the window, her voice tinged with awe. "The way the scenery changes so quickly? I read that we're passing through some of the most magical parts of the country right now, places where Muggles wouldn't even know to look. I wonder how many magical creatures live just beyond the trees, hidden from view. Maybe—"
"Er… excuse me," a shy, hesitant voice interrupted.
She turned to see a sandy-haired boy, his round face flushed pink with embarrassment. He stood awkwardly in the doorway of the compartment, shifting from one foot to the other, his watery blue eyes darting around the room.
"Have you… have you seen a toad?" he asked timidly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—I think it’s lost. My toad, I mean. I—I’m Neville Longbottom.” He awkwardly fumbled with the strap of his bag, looking quite fascinated with the polished surface of his shoes.
Hermione’s eyes widened. "A toad?" she asked, a bit too loudly, before quickly lowering her voice, aware that her enthusiasm might come off as a bit overbearing. "Oh, of course! I haven’t seen one, unfortunately; but I’m sure it’s somewhere around here, don’t worry! They’re very good at hiding, you know, but they’re particularly fond of dark, damp places—so if you find any corners or crevices, it might help if you look there."
Neville gave a nervous little nod, still looking uncertain. “I—I can’t find Trevor anywhere,” he muttered, his cheeks flushing even darker. “I—I thought he might’ve jumped into one of the compartments, but I haven’t seen him.”
Susan and Hannah exchanged an almost imperceptible glance, and Susan shrugged. “Well, maybe you should check the other compartments. It’s a big train.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, though not unkind—just indifferent.
“Oh, don’t worry, Neville,” she said with an encouraging smile. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. Have you tried asking the Prefects? They might have seen him.”
Neville hesitated, clearly still a little embarrassed at having to ask for help, but nodded. “Yeah… maybe I should. Thanks, though.”
As he left, Hermione bit her lip. She was making her first ever friends here, but…it would be wrong to leave this poor boy alone, fruitlessly searching for his lost toad, wouldn’t it?
Without warning, she stood up, brushing the folds of her robes down with a quick gesture. “I’ll go with you, Neville!” she said, her voice filled with determination. “I’m sure we’ll find him in no time.”
Neville looked at her, startled. “Oh, you really don’t have to. It’s just a toad…”
“Don’t be silly,” Hermione said with a bright, encouraging smile. “I’m not going to leave you to search all alone. Besides, I’m sure the toad would appreciate a little extra help.” She looked to Susan and Hannah, who were still sitting together, looking at her with expressions that ranged from mildly amused to indifferent. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t worry!”
Hannah didn’t look up, but Susan gave her a brief, almost imperceptible nod. “Sure, go on,” she said, her tone a touch dismissive.
Hermione didn’t notice. She strode into the corridor, her shoes clicking on the polished floor as she followed Neville. The train rattled beneath their feet, and students’ voices buzzed faintly behind compartment doors. Her eyes darted to every shadow and corner, half-expecting the missing toad to suddenly hop into view.
“You know,” Hermione said, her voice carrying an air of authority, “if we divide and conquer, we’ll cover more ground. I’ll check this half of the train, and you take the other. If I find him, I’ll bring him straight to you!”
Neville hesitated, his wide eyes flickering with uncertainty. “Are you sure? What if—”
“Trust me,” interrupted Hermione. “We’ll meet back here in, say, fifteen minutes.”
Before Neville could respond, Hermione marched off, her mind already running through the most efficient search plan. She approached the first compartment and slid the door open with a flourish, prepared to deliver her practiced line about the missing toad. But the sight before her stopped her mid-step. Two older students sat opposite one another, surrounded by a deck of cards that was… smoking . Sparks hissed and popped as one of the cards erupted into a miniature burst of flame, leaving a faint scorch mark on the table.
“Goodness!” Hermione exclaimed, her voice rising in astonishment. “What on earth are you doing? That—that’s not a normal deck of cards!”
The boy glanced up, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “It’s Exploding Snap,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she stepped fully into the compartment, her curiosity outweighing any sense of propriety. “Exploding Snap? I’ve never heard of that. What’s the point? And isn’t it dangerous? I mean, if those sparks hit someone—”
“It’s just a game,” the girl said, rolling her eyes. She flicked a card onto the pile, and it gave a tiny pop, a wisp of smoke curling up into the air.
“A game?” Hermione repeated, incredulous. “Where the cards explode? ” She tilted her head, her tone edging into a mix of skepticism and faint disapproval. “That doesn’t seem very practical. Aren’t there better ways to pass the time? Like reading, or practicing spells?”
The boy snorted. “Yeah, sure. Reading. Fun.”
“Well, I think reading’s plenty fun!” Hermione declared. “I’ve already read all our coursebooks, cover to cover. Twice, actually. Made notes and guides and quizzes on them, too. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 , Magical Theory , A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration… ” She rattled off the titles with evident pride. “Oh, but I didn’t memorise all of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi , unfortunately. From what Professor McGonagall said, it’s supposed to be a reference book for quite a few years though, so I do hope the teachers don’t hold that against me too much. Did you know that dittany has extraordinary healing properties?”
The girl exchanged a pointed look with her companion, who smirked.
“I bet you haven’t studied nearly as much,” Hermione continued, oblivious. “Not many people know how important it is to be prepared, after all. That’s why I’ve been practicing spells all summer, and all of them have been working for me so far. Still, I don’t know whether I’ll be at the top of my year, like I was in my Muggle school. I won first place in my school’s science fair three years in a row there. And last year, I won the regional spelling bee—beat everyone by a mile! Not to show off, of course—that’d be awfully rude.”
“Of course not,” the boy muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
Hermione didn’t hear him—or chose not to. She leaned closer to the still-smoldering cards, her eyes narrowing in thought. “I suppose a game like this would require precise timing, wouldn’t it? I’m very good at that sort of thing. I was on the top maths team at my primary school.”
“It’s just a bit of fun,” the girl said with a tight smile. “You don’t have to overthink it.”
“But surely there are rules?” Hermione pressed. “I’m excellent at learning rules. Is it a points system? Or do you win by making the other player’s cards explode? Oh! Or is it like chess, where you plan several moves ahead? I’ve never quite liked chess much—although I’ve read that wizard chess is quite different. Is it true the pieces actually move by themselves?”
The boy slammed a card down on the pile, which exploded with a particularly loud bang. “Look, we’re kind of in the middle of a game here.”
“Oh! Of course,” Hermione said, straightening, a bit wounded at that. “Well, if you ever need someone to explain strategy—or spells—I’d be happy to help. Anyway, I’m looking for a toad. Neville Longbottom’s lost his, and I promised to help him find it. You haven’t seen one, have you?”
“Can’t say we have,” the girl replied flatly, clearly hoping Hermione would take the hint.
“Right, then,” Hermione said brightly. “Well, do let me know if you spot it. It’s green, slimy, and terribly good at hiding. I’d better keep moving—lots of ground to cover! Good luck with your… explosive cards!”
And with that, she swept out of the compartment, utterly unaware of the bemused and exasperated looks exchanged behind her.
In the second compartment she entered, two older girls were flipping through a fashion magazine that shimmered faintly, its pages alive with moving photographs of witches posing in elaborate, gaudy robes.
“Excuse me,” Hermione announced, startling them both. “Have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville has lost one.”
The girls exchanged glances, and one shook her head, but Hermione didn’t leave. Her gaze locked on the animated magazine. “Is that enchanted? Oh, of course it must be! I’ve read all about those in Magical Media . Did you know that the first moving photographs were actually—?”
“Look, we’re kind of busy,” one of the girls interrupted, her tone clipped.
“Oh, right! Of course,” Hermione said hastily. “I just think it’s fascinating, don’t you? And I can’t wait to learn how to enchant objects like that myself. I’ve already memorized all the wand movements for the basic Charms. In fact, I practiced so much this summer that my mum had to take my wand away at night!”
The girls stared at her, unimpressed, until Hermione finally seemed to sense that her welcome had worn thin. “Well, if you see the toad, let me know!” she chirped before exiting, leaving the compartment in relieved silence.
Further down, she slid open another door to find two boys dueling with their wands, their shouted spells filling the small space.
“Excuse me,” Hermione said loudly over the commotion, her hands on her hips. “That’s highly irresponsible! You could hurt someone!”
One of the boys, a lanky kid with freckles, lowered his wand just enough to glare at her. “What’s it to you?”
“Well, I’ve read Hogwarts: A History , and it specifically states that first-years aren’t allowed to practice magic unsupervised! You’re breaking the rules already, and term hasn’t even started yet.”
The other boy smirked. “Oh yeah? And who made you the boss?”
“No one,” Hermione shot back, her tone brisk. “But you’ll thank me when you don’t end up in the hospital wing because you accidentally cursed yourself!”
The duelers snickered as she huffed and turned to leave, muttering under her breath about reckless behavior. They’d see how funny rule-breaking was once she told the prefects all about this…
Hermione’s journey through the train was equal parts determined search and inadvertent disaster. Each new compartment brought another series of frowns, raised eyebrows, or barely concealed sighs. As she called out, “Excuse me, have you seen a toad?” time and again, her cheerful smile faltered under the weight of mounting rejection. She wasn’t completely oblivious—Hermione could sense the undercurrent of irritation in their gazes, the quick glances exchanged when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Still, she clung to her optimism like a lifeline. Susan and Hannah didn’t dislike her, and Neville seemed sweet enough—he’ll be grateful once she tracked down Trevor. Perhaps then, she’d have friends here. Real friends.
The thought gave her enough hope to press on, even as her encounters grew more strained.
Finally, she reached the last compartment at the very end of the train. Her feet ached, and her spirits had dipped precariously, but she shook it off, straightened her robes, and slid open the door.
Inside were four students who turned as one to look at her. The boy closest to the window was pale with sharp, aristocratic features and slicked-back blond hair. Next to him, a dark-haired girl with a pug-like face tilted her head, smiling. On either side of them sat two burly boys with dull expressions, their uniforms already looking rumpled and stretched over their broad shoulders.
“Can we help you?” drawled the blond boy, his grey eyes narrowing.
Hermione hesitated, suddenly keenly aware of how out of place she felt under their scrutinizing stares. “I—I’m looking for a toad,” she said, her voice wavering for the first time. “Neville Longbottom’s lost it.”
“A toad?” the blond boy interrupted, his lips curving into a slow, mocking smile. “What sort of pathetic excuse for a wizard brings a toad?”
Hermione’s cheeks burned, but she pressed on. “It’s not pathetic to have a toad,” she said firmly, her voice rising slightly. “It’s a perfectly acceptable pet. The Hogwarts letter said so.”
The dark-haired girl sitting next to him giggled—a high-pitched, sharp sound that prickled at Hermione’s nerves. “What kind of person wastes their time looking for someone else’s toad? You mustn’t be from a very respectable family at all. I would know, of course; I’m a Malfoy—Draco Malfoy.”
“I’m Hermione Granger,” Hermione said briskly, her nostrils flaring. “And helping someone in need is hardly a waste of time.”
Malfoy leaned back, his arms draped casually across the seat. “Granger,” he repeated, as if testing the name. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re Muggle-born, aren’t you?”
The tone in which he said that was not a particularly kind one—and Hermione, for all her strengths, was not known for picking up on social subtleties. Hermione swallowed; she’d read all about the war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts . A man, as powerful as the Hogwarts headmaster himself, had led an army of his own to wipe out those he considered unworthy to participate in the Wizarding World; in other words, Muggle-borns just like her. Hermione had thought that after the war had ended…that all of that bigotry would have ended as well. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem that was the case at all.
Hermione’s chin tilted upward. “Yes,” she answered, her voice unwavering. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ve read every book on the school list. I’ve practiced spells all summer. I’m just as prepared—more prepared, probably—than anyone else.”
“Have you?” said Malfoy, his voice dripping with mock admiration. “Well, aren’t you clever.”
The girl leaned forward, her dark eyes glittering. “I’m Pansy Parkinson—of pure stock, myself. Nice to meet you, Granger,” she said sweetly. “You know, I’ve always wondered how the other half lives. Is it really true that Muggles and their spawn use their own excrement to power their vehicles and such?”
The two boys beside her snickered, low and guttural.
“A potty joke,” said Hermione slowly, slightly sneering. “How mature.”
Malfoy’s smirk deepened, his gray eyes glittering with malice as he leaned back in his seat, gesturing lazily toward Hermione. “You’ll have to forgive Pansy,” he drawled. “She has such an... earthy sense of humor. Must be hard for you, though, Granger. Coming from a world where people still think that electricity is impressive.”
Parkinson giggled, her laugh sharp and cutting. “Honestly, Draco, I’m surprised she even understands half the words in her spellbooks. I suppose Muggles get by through sheer... stubbornness?”
Hermione’s lips tightened, but she forced herself to remain composed. “Stubbornness and intelligence,” she shot back. “Something I’m sure you’d find hard to relate to.”
The laughter faltered, Pansy’s smile twisting into a scowl. Draco’s eyes narrowed, his lazy demeanor shifting into something sharper. “Careful, Granger,” he said softly. “You’re awfully bold for someone so out of her depth.”
“I’m not out of my depth,” Hermione retorted, her chin lifting even higher. “I doubt you’ve cast many spells at all—definitely not charms taught in second term and beyond, like I have.”
Malfoy stood abruptly, his taller frame casting a shadow over Hermione. Pansy’s smug grin returned, and the two brutish-looking boys loomed closer, their sheer size adding an air of menace to the compartment.
“Is that so?” said Malfoy, his voice deceptively calm. “Let me tell you something, Granger. No amount of book knowledge will change what you are. You might know the spells, you might even get a few things right, but you’ll never truly belong here. You’re nothing but a Mudblood .”
The word hung in the air, and the group leered at her, their eyes lit up with cruelty; yet Hermione simply tilted her head, unfazed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “is that word supposed to mean something?”
Their eyes all flashed with surprise; Malfoy’s lips curled into a thin, disdainful smile. “ Mudblood is what we call people like you. Muggle-borns. Filth, really. No matter how many books you read, you’ll never be as good at real magic as someone with pure blood.”
Hermione's heart was hammering in her chest, but she refused to let the trembling warmth of anger take command. This was a familiar battlefield. She had faced mockery before, but this taunting carried the bite of prejudice, something far more insidious than any mere insult she had encountered in her years at Muggle primary.
“Is that really the best you can come up with?” she spat back, her cheeks flushed pink but her voice steady. “Sticking labels on people doesn’t make you special, Malfoy. It just shows how small you really are.”
Pansy laughed again, the sound sharp enough to cut. “It must be hard living with your limitations, Granger. Not knowing the joy of being born into greatness. Tell us, do Muggles even know they lack something, or are they blissfully ignorant?”
“Blissfully ignorant?” Hermione echoed, her voice growing increasingly louder. “As if you’re exactly omniscient yourself?”
“We practically are, Granger.” He took a step forth; Hermione stood still. “You didn’t even know you were a witch a few months ago, and now, you think you’re somehow more knowledgeable than even us, who have grown up in this world our whole lives? That’s not intelligence, Mudblood; just classic Muggle ignorance.”
He glanced over to his friends, who had taken a step forward as well, as if preparing for a physical confrontation. Hermione could feel the heat gathering at the nape of her neck, a peculiar impatience igniting within her. “You think your pure lineage entitles you to something? It’s laughable! Real magic isn’t about bloodlines; it’s about intention, intelligence, and hard work!”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “Bold words for a girl who will end up in the dustbin of history, compared to the legacy my family has built. The name ‘Granger’ will hardly be remembered—”
“Better just another name in a history book than a title wrapped in shame!”
The boys behind Pansy looked unsure now, their laughter faltering as they exchanged glances. Hermione doubted they even understood half of what was going on.
Malfoy scoffed. “Your beliefs can only take you so far, Mudblood.”
Hermione’s breath heaved, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she stared defiantly at him. “You know nothing . And once we’re at Hogwarts, I’ll more than prove it!”
With that, Hermione stormed out, the door of the compartment crashing with a great BANG! Their laughter, like echoes, followed soon after.
Hermione stormed down the train corridor, her hands trembling with barely-contained anger. She kept her head high and her strides purposeful, determined not to let her emotions show. She wouldn’t give Malfoy—or any of them—the satisfaction of knowing how deeply their words had cut. But the further she got from their snickers and sneering faces, the harder it was to hold back the storm brewing inside her.
Finally, once she’d spotted a completely barren compartment, She slid the door open with more force than necessary, stepped inside, and slammed it shut behind her. The sharp bang echoed in the small space. Dropping onto the bench by the window, Hermione buried her face in her hands.
The countryside whipped past outside, a blur of green and gold, but Hermione barely noticed. Her breath hitched as she tried to collect herself.
Is this what Hogwarts was going to be like?
She had dreamed about the school for weeks, ever since she’d received her letter. It had felt like a lifeline—a place where she could finally belong, where her love of books and learning wouldn’t make her an outcast; after all, if magic was taught, everybody would be just like her. But now, Malfoy’s venomous words rang in her ears. Mudblood. The very sound of it made her stomach twist.
Hermione wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them tight to her chest. It wasn’t as though she’d never been insulted before—primary school had been its own kind of battlefield. She had always been the girl who knew too much, who spoke too loudly, who tried too hard. Hermione had been called many names before— bossy, annoying, teacher’s pet —but those words had never stung quite like this.
This was different. This wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even just cruel. It was hateful. It was something she couldn’t fix, no matter how hard she worked or how much she studied. She could be the cleverest witch in the world, but in their eyes, she would always be less than.
Her throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, tears spilled over. “What if Hogwarts is just like my old school?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “What if it’s worse?”
A soft rattle at the door startled her, and she hastily wiped her face, sitting up straighter. The door slid open to reveal a kindly-looking woman with a trolley full of sweets.
“Anything from the trolley, dear?” the woman asked warmly.
Hermione nodded, her fingers fumbling with the wrapper. “Yes.”
“Don’t you worry, love. First days are always the hardest,” the witch said, smiling with much sympathy, before moving on down the corridor.
Hermione stared at the brightly wrapped Chocolate Frog in her hands. She turned it over once, then twice, before carefully unwrapping it. The small figure inside sprang to life, leaping onto the window ledge before Hermione caught it with her free hand. Left behind in the package was the card.
Staring back at her was a wizened old man, with long silver hair and an even longer beard. His eyes were of a brilliant blue, looking directly at her through his crescent-shaped spectacles.
Turning over her card, Hermione narrowed her teary eyes at the text:
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS
Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.
She read and reread the text on the other side of the man's portrait, the words almost mocking her with their description of someone so accomplished, so universally admired.
“The greatest wizard of modern times,” she whispered softly, brushing a tear from her cheek. Her grip on the card tightened. Dumbledore had achieved so much—not through birthright, but through brilliance, determination, and the willingness to stand against dark forces. She wondered if he’d ever been underestimated, if he’d ever had to fight for his place in this world.
In The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, she’d read about his extraordinary deeds—his defeat of Grindelwald, who had wished to destroy the Statute of Secrecy and rule over all Muggles, his mastery of spells powerful beyond belief, accomplishments that seemed impossibly far from where she was now….But perhaps Dumbledore hadn’t started off as the world’s most powerful wizard. Perhaps he had once been just another student at Hogwarts, learning as she was about to.
A spark of defiance flared in her chest, pushing back the lingering sting of Malfoy’s words. I’ll show them, she thought fiercely. I’ll show all of them that I’m just as good as anyone else—better, even. One day, people will remember my name too.
She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a plain wooden matchstick. Professor McGonagall had mentioned it during her visit to Hermione’s house, explaining that one of their first Transfiguration lessons would involve turning a matchstick into a needle. The exercise was meant to teach patience, precision, and control, she’d said. Hermione had pocketed the matchstick that day, vowing to perfect the spell before she even arrived at Hogwarts.
Now, with her wand trembling slightly in her hand, she placed the matchstick on the seat in front of her, pointing her wand at the tiny sliver of wood.
Nothing happened.
Her cheeks flushed, and she straightened her shoulders, her grip on the wand tightening. She incanted the spell once again, more firmly this time.
The matchstick twitched ever so slightly, but it remained stubbornly a matchstick. Hermione let out a frustrated huff, but instead of giving up, she planted her elbows on her knees and focused harder.
This is what it takes, she thought, ignoring the sting in her eyes. Dumbledore didn’t become great by giving up. He became great because he kept trying.
She tried again. And again. And again. Her frustration grew, but so did her determination. Each failure only hardened her resolve, her mind racing through every Transfiguration rule she’d read in A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.
And then, on her fifteenth attempt, there was a tiny shimmer of silver on the matchstick’s surface. It wasn’t much—barely a suggestion of a transformation—but it was something. Hermione’s heart leapt.
She cradled the matchstick-turned-almost-needle in her hand, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips. The faint echo of Malfoy’s words lingered in her mind, but they felt distant now, almost laughable.
One day, she would be just as great as Dumbledore, and all those bullies would regret their words. Hermione was not their lesser, just by the simple fact of her birth; but, eventually, she would be their superior.
After what felt like hours of effort, Hermione finally did it.
The matchstick shimmered, then solidified into a slender, perfect needle, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the sunlight streaming through the window. She stared at it, breathless and triumphant, as if the small transformation symbolized far more than just a spell—it was proof. Proof that she could do this. That she could belong in this world, despite what Malfoy or anyone else thought.
A rare smile of pride tugged at her lips, but it was short-lived. Guilt prickled at her. Neville . She’d gotten so caught up in her determination to prove herself that she’d completely forgotten about helping him find his toad, Trevor.
What if he was still looking, oblivious to the fact that she’d abandoned him?
Quickly pocketing the needle, Hermione stood and left the compartment, scanning the corridors. The train felt emptier now, the corridors quieter, with most students settled into their compartments, chatting excitedly or changing into their robes. She hurried past, peeking into open compartments and calling out Trevor’s name, but there was no sign of the toad—or Neville.
As she neared her original compartment, Hermione slowed. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear Susan and Hannah talking. She paused, intending to step inside and ask if they’d seen Neville, but froze when Susan’s voice reached her.
“…honestly, the way she went on and on about everything she’s read—”
“I know,” Hannah giggled. “She’s such a know-it-all. I bet she’s already memorized the Hogwarts rulebook.”
“Probably added a few amendments herself, too,” Susan added with a snort.
Hermione felt as though the air had been knocked out of her. She stood frozen in the corridor, her hand gripping the doorframe as their laughter rang in her ears.
She had thought —
She swallowed hard, her throat tightening painfully. Hermione had thought she’d finally found friends. After years of being ostracized at her Muggle primary school for being “odd,” she’d hoped that this magical world might be different. That maybe here, she could belong.
But it wasn’t different. It was worse.
Her fingers tightened around the needle in her pocket as she turned and walked away, her heart pounding and her face hot. She wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not now
If they didn’t want her as a friend, then Hermione didn’t need them. She’d prove them wrong—all of them.
One day, they’ll wish they’d known me, she thought fiercely. One day, they’ll regret laughing.
She straightened her shoulders and quickened her pace, determination hardening her heart. She would become the greatest sorcerer Hogwarts had ever seen, greater even than Dumbledore himself. She’d show them.
Hermione resumed her search for Neville and Trevor, her voice sharper now as she called out, though she received only indifferent shrugs and dismissive answers from the compartments she passed. The train rattled on, the countryside outside rolling past endlessly, now under a deep purple sky.
Then, a voice, cold and metallic, echoed through the train:
"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately."
The train began to slow, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks growing softer. Hermione hurried along the now-crowded corridor, weaving between students pulling on their robes or jostling to peek out the windows for their first glimpse of Hogwarts. Her search for Trevor had yielded nothing but frustration, and her calls for the toad were drowned out by the chatter and excitement filling the train.
Ahead of her, a familiar figure came into view: Neville, still looking utterly despondent. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his expression was one of utter misery as he stumbled through the crowd, seemingly as lost as his toad.
“Neville!” Hermione called, raising her voice to be heard over the commotion. He turned toward her, his face a mixture of hope and desperation. “I haven’t seen him!” she shouted, trying to make herself heard as the corridor swelled with students.
Neville shook his head, his cheeks streaked with fresh tears. “Neither have I!” he wailed. “Oh, poor Trevor…my grandmother's going to murder me!”
Hermione’s heart twinged at the sight of his distress, but before she could say anything else, a booming voice filled the air, commanding everyone’s attention.
“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”
The voice was as deep and rough as the rumble of the train, and Hermione turned toward the source, her breath catching in her throat. At the far end of the train, near the front, a man was leaning into the corridor, calling out with a broad grin.
Man hardly seemed the right word, though. He was enormous—easily twice the size of any adult she’d ever seen—with a long, tangled beard and a mane of wild, dark hair that strongly reminded her of her own frizzy curls.
“C’mon now, firs’ years! Follow me!” he bellowed again, waving a massive hand.
The other first years began to push toward him, the crowd parting slightly in awe of his sheer size. Hermione hesitated, glancing back at Neville, who was clutching his wand in one hand and wringing his empty other hand helplessly.
“Come on, Neville,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find Trevor later, I promise.”
He nodded, sniffling, and together they joined the throng of first years moving toward the giant man. As they neared him, Hermione craned her neck to look up at his towering figure, her curiosity momentarily overwhelming her nerves.
“Everyone here? Good!” the man said cheerfully, his beetle-black eyes twinkling as he surveyed the group. “Name’s Hagrid. Keeper o’ Keys an’ Grounds at Hogwarts. Follow me now—mind yer step!”
Hagrid led the group of first years down the steep, narrow path, his lantern swinging in his massive hand. The light it cast was dim, barely enough to illuminate the rough trail beneath their feet. Around them, the darkness was thick, the night air cool and heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine.
“Watch yer step now!” Hagrid called over his shoulder, his voice gruff but kind.
Hermione clutched her robes tightly, her eyes darting around as the path twisted and turned. The low hum of nervous whispers filled the air as the first years stumbled along, the occasional crunch of gravel or snap of a twig breaking the eerie silence.
Then, suddenly, the path opened up, and a collective gasp rippled through the group. Before them stretched a vast, glittering black lake, its surface smooth as glass and reflecting the countless stars scattered across the night sky. The air was cooler here, the water amplifying the crispness of the night.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes were drawn upward. High above them, perched atop a jagged cliff, was the most magnificent sight she had ever seen.
The castle.
It was sprawling and majestic, its towering spires and battlements silhouetted against the starry expanse. Hundreds of windows glowed warmly, their golden light spilling out into the night, dancing on the surface of the lake below. The castle seemed alive, as though it were welcoming them, its beauty both awe-inspiring and slightly intimidating.
“There she is,” Hagrid said proudly, stopping to let the first years take in the view. “Hogwarts.”
Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away, her earlier anger and sadness momentarily forgotten. The grandeur of the castle was overwhelming, filling her with a strange mix of wonder and determination. This was where she was meant to be.
“Right, this way!” Hagrid called, beckoning them forward. “The boats are waitin’—four to a boat now!”
As the first years began to shuffle toward the lake’s edge, Hermione glanced at Neville, who was still wiping at his eyes. She gave him a small, encouraging smile before following the crowd. Her heart pounded with every step, the sight of the castle burning itself into her memory.
She would prove herself here, she promised.
As the first years all slunk into their boats, Hermione and Neville squeezed into one with two others—a gangly red-haired boy, and a small, messy-haired boy with striking green eyes.
The vessel bobbed slightly as they settled in, and the lake’s cool, glassy surface rippled faintly under the weight. Hermione clutched the edge of the boat, her knuckles white, the castle's towering spires reflecting in her wide eyes.
She opened her mouth almost immediately, her nerves bubbling over into a stream of chatter. “This is incredible, isn’t it? I mean, I read about it in Hogwarts: A History, but seeing it in person is so much more—well, it’s just amazing, isn’t it? Did you know that the lake is enchanted to prevent anyone from falling out? Not that we’d want to test that theory!” She laughed nervously, glancing around at her companions.
Neville nodded weakly, still looking pale from his earlier tears. The red-haired boy stared at her blankly, but it was the black-haired boy who seemed the most distracted, his gaze fixed on the castle looming ahead.
Hermione leaned closer to him, noticing his scuffed glasses perched crookedly on his nose. “Oh, your glasses are broken!” she exclaimed, pulling her wand from her pocket before he could protest. “ Reparo! ”
A soft light emitted from the tip of her wand, and the glasses mended themselves with a faint click. The boy blinked in surprise as Hermione smiled, clearly proud of her work. “There! Good as new. You’re welcome.”
“Er—thanks,” the boy said awkwardly, adjusting the now-straight frames on his face.
Something seemed to dawn on Hermione as she scrutinized him more closely. Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute,” she said sharply, her voice rising in pitch. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
The boy stiffened, clearly uncomfortable under her sudden scrutiny.
Neville gasped, his round face lighting up with astonishment. “Harry Potter? The one who—who—”
Hermione cut in: “The one who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” she said briskly. “I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. You were just a baby! No one knows exactly how you did it, but you survived the Killing Curse! It’s really extraordinary.”
“Oh,” said the boy. “I—er—didn’t know there were books about me.”
“Well, it wasn’t all about you,” said Hermione. “There were many Dark Wizards and their respective defeaters introduced in the book—my favourite is Professor Dumbledore, I think; it’s so noble how he defends non-magical people! Still, I can’t imagine how you haven’t read about yourself at all—if I were you, that’d be the first thing I did!”
Harry flushed and shifted uncomfortably, but Hermione didn’t notice, her excitement carrying her forward. “I can’t believe I’m in the same boat as Harry Potter! This is so fascinating. Anyway, my name’s Hermione Granger. My family’s all non-magical, but I’ve read every coursebook, so I’m more than prepared, of course. Oh, and he’s Neville Longbottom—anyway, have you two seen a toad by any chance? We still haven’t found Neville’s, unfortunately.”
The two other boys blinked at her.
“No,” said the redhead, “we haven’t seen any toads, thanks.”
“What’s your name?” asked Hermione, leaning toward the red-haired boy now. He looked a bit like the prefect that had helped her on the train—Percy Weasley. He had the same gangliness, the same thin, long nose, the same muted blue eyes. “Are you related to Prefect Weasley, by any chance.”
“I’m his brother, Ron,” said the boy, with odd reluctance.
“I suppose you’re aiming for Gryffindor, then?” she asked eagerly. “ Hogwarts: A History claimed that Houses tend to run in the family. I’ve been reading all about the Hogwarts Houses, actually. Did you know that Gryffindor was the House of Albus Dumbledore himself? It’s for the brave and chivalrous, and I think it’s probably the best House, don’t you?”
“I guess,” muttered Ron.
She barely paused for breath as the boat glided smoothly across the lake. “Of course, Ravenclaw would be wonderful too—it's all about wisdom and knowledge. Hufflepuff is for loyalty and hard work, so that’s admirable as well, I suppose. But Slytherin…” She wrinkled her nose, her tone turning serious. “Well, Slytherin has a dark history. According to Hogwarts: A History, Salazar Slytherin didn’t accept Muggle-borns as students, and the House became infamous for its blood purity ideals. Most of the dark wizards—including supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—came from Slytherin.”
Neville fidgeted nervously. “I—I’d be happy just to get into any House, really.”
Hermione puffed out her chest. “Well, I hope for Gryffindor, of course. Dumbledore was in it, and he’s the greatest wizard of modern times. I’m going to work so hard—I’ll prove to everyone that Muggle-borns can be just as great as anyone else!”
As the boats moved forward through the dark lake, Hermione stared up in awe at Hogwarts Castle. It loomed over the incoming first years, perched atop a cliff. The castle’s windows gleamed like diamonds, and its many towers seemed to reach high, grasping for the heavens.
It was enchanting and daunting at the same time. Hermione had never seen something so grand and magnificent before—Hampstead Garden Suburb, her hometown, wasn’t exactly the kind of place where castles were built. What would there be to protect, save a few richer-than-average Muggles?
To Hermione, this was true magic. This was everything she had hoped for, and more. A silly grin came across her face as she stared at it.
“Heads down!” ordered Hagrid.
The first year ducked under the short cave, cloaked in ivy, waiting for the dark tunnel to end.
“Oh, I’m just so excited!” said Hermione to the boys.
Harry and Ron nodded at that, before going back to their hushed conversation. Neville, for his part, was now just staring aimlessly with wide, watery eyes; he was about to cry again.
Hermione bit her lip. She needed friends here—and this was her best opportunity.
“You know,” began Hermione, interrupting the boys’ talk, “King’s Cross is said to be the site of Boudica’s final battle. Interestingly enough, her body’s rumoured to be buried under one of the platforms, specifically between platforms nine and ten. Do you think that’s why Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was chosen by the Ministry to be the starting destination for the journey to Hogwarts?”
The boys went silent; the redhead smiled, although even Hermione could sense it was strained. Was Boudica a sensitive topic for him? Perhaps he identified more so with his Anglo-Saxon ancestors than his Celtic ones?
“I don’t even know who Boudica is.”
“How can you not?” demanded Hermione, her mouth open in horror. “The Roman Conquest of Britain is tested this year. You’ll fail if you don’t know her!”
“What’s school for, again?” asked Ron; behind him, Harry smiled.
"Are you truly saying you haven’t done any studying?” said Hermione, aghast. She was going to rocket up and affix a glare at the boys, but they were still crouched due to the tunnel’s narrow overhead space. “I learned all the course books, and half the ones Professor McGonagall recommended, by heart ages ago! It isn’t that hard, honestly—even the spells themselves. How are you all so complacent in needless mediocrity when—”
The shrill lecture continued on, even up until they reached the harbour.
“We are given the opportunity to do magic ! One that most would kill for, so why are we instead wasting our time on frivolous games and such when we could be exploring the fascinating, complex arts we’ve been given access to? I suppose I can understand not studying for History—well, not really, but I’m polite enough to see and acknowledge alternate points of view—but not even Charms? Transfiguration? Potions?”
The boys shook their heads at each. Then, Ron whispered something to the others, and they all began holding their hands over their mouths, their shoulders shaking—even Neville.
Hermione huffed, climbing out of her boat and onto the rocky ground with no small deal of annoyance.
“Oi, you there!” called Hagrid, and Hermione’s head whipped around to see a toad perched on the man’s gigantic palm. “Is this yer toad?”
"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully. At that, Hermione allowed herself a small smile, despite her shivers.
The first years quickly continued past the rocky harbour and into a small, damp passageway the guide led them to.
Hermione clambered in after the boys. “Did you know Rowena Ravenclaw herself was the one to form this passageway? She used this really advanced Shaping Charm, I heard—we don’t learn about even the basic version until much later, third year or so. In the Siege of Hogsmeade, it helped evacuate—”
As they reached the rocky shore, Hermione stumbled , her shoes slipping slightly on the dewy grass. She straightened herself quickly, her breath catching as she tilted her head back to take in the view before her.
They were at Hogwarts now.
The castle rose above them, a masterpiece of stone and enchantment. Its towers stretched into the sky, each one distinct yet harmonious with the whole. The sloped gables of the Great Hall loomed high above the group, its pointed roof kissed by the faint glow of the crescent moon. Gryffindor Tower stood proud and solid, its turret like a sentinel watching over the grounds. Ravenclaw Tower was elegant and slender, crowned with an intricately carved eagle that seemed to glint in the starlight. And the Astronomy Tower—the tallest of them all—stood apart, as though to touch the heavens themselves.
Hermione’s heart soared. She’d read about every tower, every parapet in Hogwarts: A History, but seeing them in person was an entirely different experience. She couldn’t help herself.
“That one over there!” she said eagerly, pointing to a nearby group of students. “That’s Gryffindor Tower—where the brave and chivalrous reside. And look, that’s Ravenclaw Tower, known for wisdom and creativity. You can tell by the statue of the eagle on top—it’s their emblem, of course. And over there’s the Astronomy Tower, the tallest one. Did you know it’s been reconstructed thrice in Hogwarts’ entire history?”
The others gave her a range of looks—some interested, some indifferent, and most clearly wishing she’d stop talking—but Hermione didn’t notice.
As the first years started climbing the wide, worn steps leading up to the castle, she followed close behind, still gushing to no one in particular. The stone beneath her feet was ancient and slightly damp, but to her, it felt like stepping onto sacred ground.
Before she could point out another architectural detail, Hagrid’s deep voice rumbled through the night, cutting through the low murmur of chatter.
“Everyone here?”
The students quieted immediately, their wide eyes fixed on him.
Hagrid turned to the enormous oak doors at the top of the staircase and raised one of his massive fists. With three heavy knocks, the sound echoed through the cool night air, reverberating off the stone walls.
Hermione clutched her hands together tightly, her nerves and excitement mixing in equal measure. This was it—the moment she’d been waiting for, the threshold between her old life and the magical world she’d dreamed of.
The doors creaked open, spilling warm, golden light onto the group. A tall, stern-looking witch in emerald robes stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd.
Hermione's eyes lit up as the stern witch came into view. She knew her instantly: Professor McGonagall.
The witch who had appeared at her home that fateful day, her robes impeccable, her expression as sharp as ever. It was McGonagall who had explained magic to Hermione and her parents, who had patiently answered all their questions—even Hermione's endless stream of them. She was the one who had given Hermione her Hogwarts letter, along with a brief but awe-inspiring demonstration of magic: transforming her own teacup into a sleek tabby cat and back again.
"Follow me," McGonagall said crisply, her voice silencing the crowd with ease. She turned and began to lead them through the grand oak doors.
Hermione followed eagerly, her breath catching as they stepped into the Entrance Hall. It was even more magnificent than she had imagined. The ceiling soared high above them, the floor beneath their feet was made of polished stone, and the walls were lined with tapestries and banners that seemed to shimmer in the flickering torchlight.
To their right, a massive staircase swept upward, its banisters carved with tiny, intricate patterns of lions, eagles, badgers, and serpents—symbols of the four Houses. To their left, a grand set of double doors, slightly ajar, gave them a glimpse of the Great Hall. Hermione caught sight of floating candles and what appeared to be a starry ceiling that mirrored the one presumably outside.
The first years trailed after the brisk Professor McGonagall across the flagstone floor, before being ushered into a small chamber off to the side of the Great Hall; Hermione heard the faint din of the students there.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.
"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting. I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."
Hermione barely registered the words, her mind racing. She muttered under her breath, reciting every spell she could remember. The words of Hogwarts: A History swirled in her mind, but frustratingly, it had never fully explained the Sorting method. It only implied that it was some sort of test, and she couldn’t afford to fail. Not now, not after everything she had done to get here.
She walked a few paces, pulling out her wand and repeating the incantations she’d memorized. “ Lumos , Nox , Wingardium Leviosa ,” the words spilled from her lips, soft and rapid as her fingers twitched restlessly with the desire to do something, anything to calm herself.
She barely noticed the ghosts that floated past her, their transparent forms drifting along with an eerie quietness. When one of them, a bloodied spectre, gave a low moan, several students nearby shrieked. But Hermione didn’t flinch; she only turned her attention inward, her lips moving faster as she continued muttering every spell, charm, and curse she knew. Bogus Bogies . Flipendo . Colovaria —her mind raced through everything she could recall, even the names of potion ingredients and constellation names. Yet nothing seemed to quell the anxiety twisting in her stomach.
“Move along now," came a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."
Professor McGonagall had returned, and with a flick of her wand, the ghosts began to drift away through the stone walls, their translucent forms vanishing into nothingness.
"Form a line," McGonagall instructed, her tone brisk but not unkind. "Follow me."
Hermione trembled as she stepped into line behind Neville, still furiously whispering spells. Her thoughts whirled as she tried to push down the flutter of nerves in her stomach. She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. This was it. The Sorting was coming, and she had to be ready.
The group of first years shuffled into motion, walking across the cold, echoing stone floor of the Entrance Hall. Hermione’s eyes darted nervously to the walls, her heart thudding in her chest. She could see the flickering lights of the Great Hall just beyond the double doors, and the hum of voices from inside made her pulse quicken.
As they passed through the threshold, Hermione was struck by the sheer magnificence of the room. It was even grander than she had imagined. A vast expanse of polished stone, stretching high above her, with four long tables stretching the length of the room. Hundreds of students were already seated, their faces a blur of excitement and whispers as they looked upon the first years. The ceiling, enchanted to reflect the sky outside, glittered with stars, making it feel as though the room stretched on forever, as if it had no end. The long, sweeping banners of each house hung from the walls, their colors proudly waving above the students—scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, green and silver for Slytherin, yellow and black for Hufflepuff, and blue and bronze for Ravenclaw.
The magic in the air was palpable, and for a moment, she forgot to even breathe, her eyes tracing the familiar descriptions she’d read in the book.
“It's bewitched to look like the sky outside,” explained Hermione hurriedly to a few confused-seeming classmates. “I read about it in Hogwarts, A History."
When they reached the front of the room, a pointy Wizard’s Hat was placed atop a stool. Hermione’s gaze snapped to it immediately. This was their test, then. It looked so... ordinary. Just a shabby, old hat. But then, as she stared, it began to twitch, and the entire hall grew quiet in an instant:
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffis are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
if you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on!
Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap! "
When the song ended, there was a moment of stillness in the hall, and Hermione felt her heart pounding; then, applause broke out. Its patched-up tip bent towards all four House tables, before the hat went still once more.
The Sorting Ceremony had begun.
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," Professor McGonagall said, holding a long roll of parchment in her hands. Her calm, measured tone only seemed to heighten the tension in the room. Hermione’s palms were damp, and she rubbed them nervously against her robes.
"Abbott, Hannah!"
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line and approached the stool. She placed the Sorting Hat on her head, the oversized brim sliding down to cover her eyes. After a brief pause, the hat’s shout echoed through the hall:
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The table on the far right erupted into applause and cheers, and Hermione spotted a jolly, round ghost waving at Hannah as she hurried to join her new housemates.
"Bones, Susan!"
A girl with dark red hair approached with measured steps.
"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat declared again, and Susan scuttled off to sit beside Hannah.
Hermione’s stomach twisted. The sight of them chatting happily as if they hadn’t called her a know-it-all earlier made her scowl.
Not Hufflepuff, then .
"Boot, Terry!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
The table second from the left broke into polite applause as a dark-haired boy joined them, his face lit with pride.
"Brocklehurst, Mandy!"
Another Ravenclaw.
"Brown, Lavender!"
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The table on the far left exploded with cheers, the Gryffindors standing and clapping exuberantly as Lavender joined them. Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest.
What if nobody clapped for her? What if she wasn’t good enough for Gryffindor? She needed Gryffindor. Dumbledore had been in Gryffindor, after all. But what if she ended up somewhere else? What if the Hat cried out that she wasn’t a witch at all? There’d been a story just like that in Hogwarts: A History , Hermione knew…
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Hermione barely registered the applause this time, her mind too preoccupied with the sinking feeling in her gut. She clenched her fists, determination mingling with fear. She had to prove Malfoy and Parkinson wrong. She would prove them wrong.
Then came the moment she dreaded:
"Granger, Hermione!"
Her name rang out across the hall.
Hermione’s legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself forward. She walked so quickly toward the stool that it was nearly a run. She jammed the hat onto her head before she even sat down, blocking out the sea of faces staring at her. The wide brim fell over her eyes, plunging her into darkness.
Hmm, a small voice purred in her ear. What do we have here? Oh my, such a sharp mind… and such fierce determination. Yes, and a spark of chivalry, too, burning bright.
Hermione gripped the edge of the stool. Yes, she thought firmly. I am determined. I am chivalrous. Please put me in Gryffindor.
Hufflepuff certainly isn't a fit, the Sorting Hat remarked. Fairness and justness without humility or patience…
Hermione stiffened. Then Gryffindor! I’ll prove myself worthy there!
Interesting, the hat mused. But why Gryffindor, I wonder?
Because… Hermione’s thoughts surged with defiance. Because I want to be like Dumbledore! He was in Gryffindor. He’s brilliant, powerful, everything I aspire to be! I want to show everyone—
The hat cut in smoothly. That you’re not weak? That you’re capable of greatness? Oh, such ambition you carry. Such a need to prove yourself.
Hermione’s breath hitched. That’s not ambition, she argued. It’s drive. It’s justice. I’ll be great like Dumbledore, not… not like—
Ah, but greatness comes in many forms, the hat interrupted, its tone now edged with amusement. And with that sort of ambition… there is no place more fitting for you than…
Hermione held her breath.
“SLYTHERIN!”