Chapter Text
Section 1: The Silver and Green Crest, Heavy as Iron
When the Sorting Hat yelled out "SLYTHERIN," a brief, eerie silence fell over the Great Hall.
Hermione Granger herself was stunned. Sitting on the three-legged stool, she felt the old hat being lifted from her head, heard Professor McGonagall's steady voice announce the name, while her mind was still processing the hat's words: "You will be great, child, but in there, you'll need to be stronger than anyone."
Then, applause came from the right-hand table – polite and restrained, so different from the erupting cheers at the Gryffindor table, the warm clapping from Hufflepuff, or the rational applause from Ravenclaw. The Slytherin table seemed perfectly choreographed: upper-year students gave slight nods, younger ones followed suit, but most faces held no smiles, only assessment.
Walking towards the silver and green table, she could feel hundreds of eyes boring into her back. Harry Potter's eyes were wide at the Gryffindor table; Ron Weasley's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. As she took an empty seat at the far end of the Slytherin table, the boy with the platinum blonde hair beside her – the arrogant Draco Malfoy from the train – raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting," he said, softly but loud enough for her to hear. "The hat's finally broken."
A few students nearby suppressed snickers.
Hermione straightened her back, her fingers clenching beneath her robes. "The Sorting Hat makes its decision based on qualities and potential," she heard herself say, her voice steadier than she expected. "Not blood."
Something like surprise flickered in Malfoy's grey eyes, quickly replaced by deeper mockery. "Then we'll wait and see, Granger," he drawled, stretching out her surname. "See how long 'potential' lasts in a nest of snakes."
Dinner continued in a tense atmosphere. Hermione noticed Professor Snape – Head of Slytherin – sitting at the staff table. He had merely raised an eyebrow when she was sorted, and was now murmuring with Professor Quirrell, not glancing her way at all.
Section 2: The Cold Common Room, a Silent War
The Slytherin common room was deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts castle, its entrance a bare stone wall. Gemma Farley, a seventh-year prefect with sleek black hair and eyes that assessed everything, announced the password to the new students: "Pure-blood."
The stone wall slid open, revealing a narrow, elongated entrance.
"Remember," Farley turned to the first-years, her gaze sweeping vaguely over Hermione. "Slytherin values tradition, ambition, and self-preservation. We don't do pointless heroics, but we protect our own."
The words "our own" hung in the damp air.
The common room was more luxurious than Hermione had imagined. Silver and green tapestries hung from the high ceiling, a fire burned with an eerie green flame in the hearth, and black leather sofas surrounded low tables of dark stone. Through the windows, they could see the depths of the Black Lake, with enormous shadows occasionally gliding past.
"First-year dormitories are down the left corridor," Farley continued. "Boys to the right, girls to the left. Your luggage is already there. Assemble here tomorrow morning at 7:30, and I'll take you to the Great Hall."
The crowd began to disperse. Hermione picked up her trunk – still bearing the tag "Hermione Granger, London" – and headed towards the girls' corridor. She could feel the stares, hear the muttered whispers.
"...Muggle-born..."
"...the hat must have made a mistake..."
"...let's see how long she lasts..."
The dormitory was a four-bed room. When she pushed open the door, three girls were already inside: Pansy Parkinson, a sharp-chinned girl with black hair and a scrutinizing gaze; Daphne Greengrass, blonde and seemingly quieter; and a round-faced girl named Millicent Bulstrode.
Pansy was sitting on the bed by the window – clearly the best spot – and upon seeing Hermione, she let out an exaggerated, deliberate sigh.
"Well, looks like we'll be sharing air with a Mudblood."
The word hit Hermione like a slap. She'd read it in books, knew it was the most vicious of insults. Blood rushed to her cheeks, but she forced herself to stay calm.
"My name is Hermione Granger," she said, dragging her trunk to the remaining bed – the one right by the door, slightly smaller than the others. "If you can't speak like a human being, at least learn to use people's names."
Daphne Greengrass looked up from a copy of Magical Theory, a slight eyebrow raise. Millicent shrank back a little.
Pansy sneered. "Oh, got a temper, have we? Just wait, Mudblood. Slytherin will spit you out, like a body rejecting a foreign object."
That night, lying in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the sound of water from the Black Lake depths and the even breathing of the other three girls, Hermione realized for the first time, acutely: There was no turning back.
Section 3: An Island in the Classroom
The first week of classes felt like a meticulously designed trial.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick was especially enthusiastic when he called on her. "Ah, Miss Granger! Let's see what you can do!" When she made her feather levitate – and was the first in the class to do so – Flitwick was so excited he nearly toppled off his stack of books.
But the Slytherin students didn't applaud. Malfoy, right beside her, flawlessly copied the spell, his feather floating even higher and steadier. He glanced at her, a look that clearly said: See? Not hard.
Transfiguration was worse. Professor McGonagall also had high hopes, but when Hermione successfully turned her match into a nearly perfect needle, Pansy Parkinson loudly whispered to the girl beside her behind her back, "Maybe she's used to needlework at home, you know, Muggle girls have to learn that."
More suppressed snickers.
Hermione's fingers tightened, the needle leaving a tiny red mark on her palm.
But the class that caused her the most anxiety was Potions.
Professor Snape swept into the dungeon classroom like a dark storm cloud. He took the register, pausing to make a sarcastic comment when he reached Harry Potter's name. Then, when he called "Hermione Granger," his dark eyes finally landed on her.
It was the first time she'd truly met his gaze. Those eyes were deep, piercing, seeming to see through all pretense to the core. There was no welcome, no recognition, only pure assessment – like judging whether a tool might be useful.
"Potions is a precise science," Snape began to pace, his black robes billowing behind him. "It does not require you to wave your wands wildly, nor does it require your meager imaginations. It requires strict adherence, precise measurements, and—"
He stopped at Hermione's desk, looking down at her.
"—respect for your ingredients. Those ingredients some of you might consider 'dirty' or 'inferior' are often the very core of a potion."
Hermione wasn't sure if he was speaking for her benefit, but his tone held no warmth. When she raised her hand to answer a question about the preparation of dried African snake skin – she'd pre-read the entire textbook – Snape simply nodded and said, "At least someone has read the book. Five points from Gryffindor for wasting my time, Potter."
Harry Potter glared in her direction, and Hermione felt a strange pang of guilt.
Section 4: Confrontation and Refusal in the Corridor
Friday afternoon, Hermione got lost on her way back from the library to the dungeons. The castle stairs moved unpredictably, and corridors all looked the same. Clutching her heavy Hogwarts: A History, she tried to find a familiar tapestry.
That's when she heard the familiar voice.
"...Absolutely absurd. Father would be furious if he knew we had a Mudblood in our house..."
It was Malfoy. He and his two cronies – Crabbe and Goyle – were coming around a corner. Pansy Parkinson was with them, her laugh shrill.
"Maybe we could help her 'adjust'," Pansy said. "Like, accidentally drop her books into the Black Lake?"
Hermione froze. She could turn back, but that would look like running. She could keep going, but that would mean walking right into them.
She chose a third option: pushing open the door to what looked like an empty classroom beside her.
The room was indeed empty, but before she could even sigh with relief, the door was pushed open.
"Well, well, look what we found," Malfoy stood in the doorway, grey eyes gleaming with malice. "A lost little Mudblood. Need some help? Maybe I can point you back to the Muggle world?"
Crabbe and Goyle blocked the door, like two mountains.
Hermione's heart hammered, but she lifted her chin. "I know how to get back. Also, if you're only capable of repeating that one word, I suggest you at least consult a dictionary to enrich your rather limited vocabulary."
Malfoy's expression shifted – from pure mockery to a kind of provoked irritation. "You've got some nerve," he said slowly, "for a Mudblood who's only been here a week and might have to 'drop out' any day now for not fitting in."
"MALFOY!"
A voice echoed from the corridor. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley came running, wands already half-drawn.
"Picking on a girl?" Harry stepped in front of Hermione, his green eyes fixed on Malfoy. "Real brave."
Ron stood on the other side. "Get lost, Malfoy. Or we'll make you."
In that instant, what Hermione felt wasn't gratitude, but a powerful, almost shameful embarrassment. She didn't need protecting, especially not by Gryffindors – that would only make the Slytherins ostracize her even more.
Malfoy looked them over and sneered. "Potter. Weasley. Always showing up where you're not wanted. Come on," he said to his group. "The air in here suddenly feels... cheap."
They swaggered off. Pansy shot Hermione a venomous glare before leaving.
"Are you alright?" Harry turned, concern in his voice.
Ron frowned. "Merlin, Hermione, it's only the first week. You really need to be careful. Those Slytherins—"
"I'm fine," Hermione cut him off, her voice colder than she intended. "I can handle it."
Ron blinked, taken aback. "We were just trying to help—"
"I don't need help," she clutched her books, her knuckles white from the pressure. "Especially not from you two charging in like that, making me look like... like some damsel in distress who needs saving."
Ron's face reddened. "What? We were helping you!"
"You made it worse!" Hermione burst out. "Now Malfoy has even more reason to target me, because the Gryffindor 'heroes' came to my rescue! In Slytherin, that just makes me look weak!"
A heavy silence.
Harry looked hurt, but tried to understand. "Hermione, we just didn't want to see you get bullied—"
"Then let me handle it myself," she took a deep breath. "Please. If you really want to help me... just... don't."
She turned and walked away, leaving Harry and Ron standing by the empty classroom door. She could hear Ron's muffled voice: "Merlin's beard, she's already one of them. It's only been a week!"
Those words stung like needles in her back, but she didn't look back.
Section 5: The First Letter Home
Friday evening, Hermione finally found a relatively quiet corner: a small table deep in the library, surrounded by towering bookshelves. She spread out a piece of parchment, picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and paused.
Dear Mum and Dad,
Everything is fine at Hogwarts. The castle is even more spectacular than the pictures – the moving staircases and talking portraits were dizzying at first, but I've already figured out their patterns. It's like solving a math problem, you just need to find the logic.
I was sorted into Slytherin house. Its emblem is a serpent, and its colours are silver and green. Our common room is under the Black Lake, and we can see giant squid swimming past the windows (yes, actual giant squid!). It fits my idea of magic perfectly: ancient, mysterious, full of challenges.
The classes are fascinating. In Charms, we've already learned to make feathers levitate. In Transfiguration, we're trying to turn matches into needles (I've already succeeded). Potions is the hardest – it requires precise measurements and patience – but I enjoy that kind of rigor.
My housemates... are all adjusting. Slytherin values tradition and achievement, so everyone studies hard. Our Head of House is Professor Snape, who teaches Potions. He's very strict, but I think strictness shows responsibility towards students – like Dad always says, there are no shortcuts in a professional field.
I'm really fine here. The castle is safe, the food is delicious (though the puddings are a bit too sweet). I hope the dental practice is going well. Tell Dad not to overwork himself and to remember to eat on time.
Missing you,
Hermione
She read the letter over. Her quill tip hovered over the line about housemates "adjusting." She remembered Pansy's sneer, Malfoy's taunts, the avoiding eyes in the common room, and the hurt look on Harry and Ron's faces from that afternoon.
A drop of ink fell from the quill, blooming into a tiny black blotch on the word "adjusting."
She carefully blotted the excess ink, but the mark remained. Finally, she folded the parchment, tied it with a green ribbon – Slytherin's colour – and headed for the Owlery.
Hogwarts castle was bright with lights in the night. From the tower window, the Forbidden Forest was a deep black under the moonlight, rolling hills in the distance. Hermione stood by the window, watching the school's common brown owl, carrying her letter, flap its wings southward towards London, towards the world she once knew.
The wind was cold. She pulled her silver-and-green scarf tighter.
The first week was over.
She was still in Slytherin.
And this was only the beginning.