THE SORTING
The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as Professor McGonagall unrolled a long parchment and cleared her throat.
“Avery, Cillian.”
A boy with sharp features strode forward. The Sorting Hat barely hesitated before calling out, “SLYTHERIN!”
The Slytherin table clapped politely as Avery joined them. More names followed, and soon, McGonagall reached the B’s.
“Black, Hermione Ara.”
Hermione walked forward, her steps measured and poised, though she could feel the weight of a hundred stares. As she sat on the stool, the Sorting Hat was placed on her head.
“Ah… now, this is interesting,” the hat murmured in her mind.
Hermione’s breath hitched.
“You are… more than you seem. Not just intelligent, but knowing. Not just clever, but aware… How peculiar.”
Hermione remained silent.
“You would do brilliantly in Ravenclaw. And Gryffindor… oh, you have the heart for it, no doubt. But there is something else—something deeper. A cunning, a pragmatism. You understand power. A natural Slytherin instinct.”
She hesitated, thinking of Sirius, of Gryffindor’s warmth. She thought of Narcissa and her father words.
She believed that other houses wouldn't offer the future she envisioned, that they wouldn't provide what she truly needed. If she weren’t a Black, maybe she could accept something less, but she wasn’t born to settle. She was destined for the world to adjust to her.
“Ah, but it is not duty that drives you—it is choice. And you have already made it. Very well then—SLYTHERIN!”
The hat was lifted from her head. She blinked, composed herself, and made her way toward the Slytherin table. Some clapped politely, others observed her with quiet curiosity. She caught Narcissa’s eye—a small nod of approval.
Across the hall, Sirius looked stunned. James Potter scowled.
“Black, Sirius.”
The moment the hat touched his head, it muttered,
“GRYFFINDOR!”
Sirius grinned, ripping the hat off with a flourish and striding toward the Gryffindor table. The room filled with loud cheers, the sounds of clapping and hollering echoing in every corner as he made his way to his new house. His mischievous smile was wide, his excitement evident, and he soaked in the attention like it was air. He was a rebel at heart, perfectly aware of the tension he had just caused, but thriving in it nonetheless. He had chosen this path, and nothing was going to make him regret it, not even if the consequences were painful.
Hermione's gaze shifted briefly to Narcissa. She saw the carefully concealed disappointment, the tightness in her lips. For a moment, their eyes met, and though Narcissa said nothing, the sorrow behind her gaze was unmistakable. Hermione felt a flicker of empathy, a pang that was almost painful. Narcissa had hoped for a different outcome, something that would keep the family’s unity intact, even if only in appearance. But Sirius had never been one to follow the rules set for him.
More names were called. After Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, it didn’t take long for James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin, and Lily Evans to join him at the table, each earning cheers from their new housemates.
Severus Snape, Azza Shafiq, and several other students joined Hermione at the Slytherin table. Unsurprisingly for her, Salim Shafiq was placed in Ravenclaw.
Dumbledore stood, smiling.
“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our feast, let us give a warm welcome to our new students—may your years here be filled with magic and discovery!”
As the food appeared on the tables, Hermione glanced at the Gryffindor table. Sirius was already laughing with James and Remus. She felt a pang of something—regret, perhaps—but forced it down.
She turned back to the Slytherin table, straightened her posture, and picked up her goblet.
Severus Snape, who had been sorted after her, offered a small nod, his dark eyes assessing her carefully but kept to himself. Azza Shafiq, now seated beside her, gave a reserved but polite smile, while Salim, sitting with the Ravenclaws, caught her gaze briefly before looking away.
Before she could say anything, a familiar voice interrupted.
“Hermione,” Narcissa’s voice was calm, but her sharp blue eyes were unreadable. “Welcome to Slytherin.”
Hermione turned and noticed her cousin seated nearby, flanked by a group of older students. At Narcissa’s side was Lucius Malfoy, his pale hair immaculate, and beside him, Antonin Dolohov, who had a knowing smirk on his face. A blonde girl with keen eyes, whom Hermione vaguely recognized as Rita Skeeter, was watching her closely, quill in hand as if already mentally writing about the newest Black in Slytherin. Bellatrix once told her that she had melted Skeeter's quill onto her hand.
“I suppose I should introduce you,” Narcissa continued, gesturing to the group. “Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, and the Carrows. There are others, of course, but these are the ones you should remember for the time being. Ah, and this is Skeeter.”
Lucius inclined his head slightly. “A Black in Slytherin, where she belongs,” he said smoothly, though there was something calculating in his gaze.
“You must be quite the clever one,” Rita added, her eyes gleaming. “The Sorting Hat takes special care with Blacks, doesn’t it?”
Hermione gave a polite nod, feeling the weight of their attention. She suddenly wished she was back in the compartment with Remus, discussing books and spells.
Narcissa seemed to sense her hesitation and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll do well here,” she said softly, though her gaze flickered briefly toward Sirius at the Gryffindor table. “Slytherin takes care of its own.”
Hermione straightened. “Of course,” she said, meeting Narcissa’s gaze firmly.
She wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, but for now, she would have to believe it.
“Did you expect to be in Slytherin?” Rita Skeeter’s voice cut through Hermione’s thoughts. She was leaning forward slightly, her quill already moving across a notepad she had pulled from her robes.
Hermione glanced at Narcissa, who merely raised a delicate eyebrow, waiting to hear her answer.
“I wasn’t sure,” Hermione said carefully. “I value ambition and cleverness, so it makes sense.”
Lucius smirked. “A diplomatic answer. You’ll fit in well here.”
Dolohov chuckled. “Or she’s just being careful. That’s smart, too.”
Hermione gave a polite smile but didn’t respond. She did not like him from the first moment.
Instead, she turned to Azza. Hermione offered a small, warm smile, feeling an unexpected connection. And though she wasn’t sure why, she trusted Azza in a way that made her feel comfortable. "We’ve met before, haven’t we? At the Bonding Ceremony. We didn’t really get to talk on the boat, did we?"
Azza smiled back, her eyes soft and curious. "Yes, we did. It feels like ages ago, but I remember it well."
Hermione nodded, a spark of recognition in her eyes. "I remember too," she said thoughtfully, her gaze distant for a moment as she recalled the ceremony and the bond it marked, something deep and meaningful that connected them both.
The conversation drifted as the meal continued, and by the time the desserts arrived, Hermione felt exhaustion creeping in. The train ride, the Sorting, and the weight of being in a house that didn’t include Sirius had all taken their toll.
Soon, the Prefects began leading the first-years to their dormitories. Narcissa, as a sixth-year, stayed behind with her friends, but she caught Hermione’s arm before she could leave.
“Keep your head up,” Narcissa said softly. “And remember—Slytherins watch everything. Make sure they see what you want them to.”
Hermione nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, before following the other Slytherins down to the dungeons.
The common room was grand, its greenish light casting eerie shadows along the stone walls. A large fireplace crackled at one end, and the windows showed the murky depths of the Black Lake beyond.
Lucius directed the first-years to their dorms, flashing them a charming yet scrutinizing smile. Hermione found herself rooming with Azza Shafiq, Marianne Wilkes, and Danika Blishwick, while the other three girls shared a separate dormitory. As she climbed into bed, Hermione let out a slow breath.
This was her house now. Her place at Hogwarts. And yet, as she closed her eyes, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just slightly off—as if she were meant to be somewhere else. It was a strange sensation, one that had lingered since the moment she stepped into the cold, welcoming embrace of the Slytherin common room. She had felt like it was where she belonged, as if the house had wrapped its arms around her, claiming her as its own. But deep down, there was a whispering doubt, a sense that there was another place, another path she was meant to walk.
Hermione Ara Black lay in her new bed, the green and silver canopy of the Slytherin dormitory draped around her, shielding her from the quiet breathing of her roommates. The stone walls carried a chill, but her mind was far too restless for the cold to bother her. As she drifted into sleep, a dream took shape—one that felt more like a memory than imagination.
A girl stood in the Great Hall, clutching her robes nervously, waiting to be sorted. Her hair was an uncontrollable nest of curls, wilder than Bellatrix’s before she brushed it, and yet, something about her features felt oddly familiar. The girl’s front teeth were slightly too large, giving her a youthful, eager expression. She was small, skinny, and brimming with nervous energy.
The Sorting Hat was placed on her head, and Hermione could hear its voice echoing—not in her ears, but in her very mind.
There was a long pause, an internal debate stretching for minutes, an indecision that seemed weighty and significant. And then—
“Better be GRYFFINDOR!”
The Great Hall erupted into cheers, and the girl ran to a long table, where red-and-gold banners swayed proudly. A pair of boys—one with messy black hair and glasses, the other with a long nose and red hair—grinned as she sat beside them.
The image flickered, and suddenly the same girl was running through a dark corridor, her hair bouncing with every frantic step. She was clutching something—a book? No, a wand. Her breath came in short gasps as if she were being chased.
“You are extraordinary… a mind like yours, wasted among them.”
The voice was smooth, persuasive, almost hypnotic. A young man, handsome with dark hair and piercing eyes, stood before the girl, his expression unreadable yet strangely compelling. Hermione felt an odd sense of familiarity, though she knew she had never seen him before. The girl’s face in the vision twisted with uncertainty, hesitation flickering in her gaze. Then, something in her hardened—conviction, defiance. And as she turned away from the young man, she saw everyone dead and the world around her shattered like glass.
Hermione woke with a sharp inhale, her heart racing. The dormitory was silent except for the soft breathing of her roommates. She pushed her tangled hair from her face, staring up at the canopy. Who was that girl? And that man?
The dream left a strange weight in her chest, as if she had lost something precious but couldn’t remember what. She knew magic could play tricks, but this felt… deeper. More real.
She turned over, closing her eyes again, but sleep did not come easily. The face of the girl—her wild hair, her fierce determination—lingered in her mind. And for the first time, Hermione Ara Black felt like she wasn’t entirely herself.