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Hermione Granger had seen many an impressive thing in her eleven years alive, thank you very much.

By virtue of her parents’ successful dental practice in Chiswick, she was one of the best travelled members of her primary school, and that included many of the teachers. Road trips along the American West Coast, winding through San Francisco and Los Angeles in a shiny new open-top Camaro that blew her already untameable hair into twice its size; wide-eyed and clutching both parents’ hands as they kept up a rapid-fire stream of factoids in the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica; their long annual summers sunning in their modest holiday villa in Southern France as her mother entreated her to try langoustines and her father slipped her sips of his wine; even, at her father’s fervent insistence, spending the Christmas of 1965 in Brisbane to catch the first match of the Ashes. Hermione may have inherited her ever-chatting tongue from her father, but the cricket aficionado genes were definitely recessive. The game itself, culminating in a draw that left her father in a sulk for the ages, was of little note to Hermione, but vivid in her mind remained the image of the tiers and tiers of exuberant fans piled into the stadium, the palpable buzz of electricity and fever-pitch excitement in the air, the feeling of being buoyed by the passion and effervescence of the crowd.

Platform 9 ¾ made Hermione feel much the same way, and was far more impressive than the Gabba, Golden Gate Bridge, and Michelangelo’s frescoes combined. Her parents were holding each other up as they recovered from the sprint into the wall of Platform 9, but Hermione, so jubilant at the prospect of Hogwarts- magic school- drank in the sights all around her.

The platform was bursting with people- teary eleven year olds clutching their mothers; gleeful older students tearing through the crowd and hanging out of the train windows as they frantically gestured to their friends; parents pushing rickety trollies with haphazardly piled trunks and covered cages. It would have been an ordinary scene, nothing she hadn’t seen on Platform 9, but for the evidence of magic everywhere- mothers tapping with wands the crowns of unruly-haired heads that neatened immediately and caged owls hooting balefully and levitating luggage being loaded onto the train, and the train, a magnificent, crimson locomotive, puffing steam and creaking mournfully…

Hermione hadn’t realised the big beaming grin on her face until Helen Granger gently poked her creased cheek. “You could at least pretend to be a bit upset at going away for four months,” she joked, with glistening eyes and a trembling smile.

Hermione immediately flung herself into her embrace. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! But Mum isn’t it gorgeous, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before- I can’t believe I’m finally going to Hogwarts! It feels so surreal after spending the entire hols reading about it and by the evening I’ll be there, learning to be a witch and how to use my-”

Chuckling, David Granger enveloped his wife and daughter in his arms. “Breathe darling, we don’t want you passing out before you even get on the train,” he laughed, and Hermione took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar gardenia scent of her mother’s perfume and luxuriating in the warmth of her father’s embrace, tears springing unbidden to her eyes.

Helen clucked as she pulled away and held Hermione’s face in her palms. “None of that, sweetheart, don’t let our fussing upset you. This is a big, big day!”

Hermione forced a tremulous smile on her face as she scrubbed furiously at her eyes. All of a sudden, the reality of next seeing her parents during the Christmas holidays hit her hard, and she ducked her head so that they wouldn’t see the fresh onslaught of tears. David tutted as he placed a finger under her chin to tilt it up. “Where’s our brave and beautiful girl hiding, eh? I’m not having the last time I see my favourite daughter be when she’s sobbing and snotting.”

“I’m your only daughter,” pointed out Hermione, their familiar joking routine settling something inside her. “And I am not snotting- I just got a bit teary!”

Behind them, the Hogwarts Express let out a shrill screech as the whistle sounded, and Hermione gasped, her tears drying instantly, whirling around in the direction of the carriages. “Dad! Hurry up, it might be leaving!”

David heaved her trunk through the carriage doors, and Hermione bounded up after it. Her father caught her hand and pressed a fierce kiss to the back of it. “See you at Christmas, angel,” he said, winking and stepping back down onto the platform. “Now hurry and go inside a compartment, your mum and I aren’t leaving until that train of yours goes out of sight.”

Hermione pulled her trunk further inside the carriage, lifting it into the first compartment she came across, occupied by a single boy. Ignoring him, she dropped her luggage and raced to the window, waving frantically at her parents, who waved back equally manically. “Bye!” she hollered, as the train rumbled into motion, slowly pulling away from the platform, her parents and everyone’s parents receding into the distance as it picked up speed. 

And then they were gone, and it was just Hermione. Sighing, she stepped back, and dropped onto the empty bench. The boy opposite had his arms folded, legs stretched out and crossed neatly at the ankles, and head tipped back, his silvery gaze fixed firmly on her. 

Hermione smiled at him, tentatively. The boy didn’t return it, his unnerving gaze combing over her. He was dressed in his school robes already, ironed and pressed to within an inch of its life, and his shockingly bright platinum hair was combed neatly.

“Is that your real hair?” she blurted out, without meaning to. 

The boy raised a single eyebrow. “Is that yours?”

Hermione felt her face warm and her hand rise unbidden to her head. She’d rather thought she’d done a decent job of taming her usually bushy mane today. “Well, er… I mean…”

Rolling his eyes, the boy dropped his arms to push himself straighter in his seat. “I apologise. That wasn’t a polite thing to say.”

Hermione’s parents had instilled good manners in her too. “I’m sorry too, I’m really nervous- I didn’t mean to be rude by asking about yours. It’s just, you know, Hogwarts, it feels so surreal to finally be on my way there, and without my parents as well, this is completely new for them, I’ve never been away from them for so long before, but I’m still just so excited, I’ve been reading and reading Hogwarts: A History ever since I got it, I expect I’ll know even more about the castle than the professors-”

The slight smirk on the boy’s face made her stop her babble abruptly. She eyed him up carefully. There was something about him specifically that made her feel nervous, and she wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was the other-worldly hair colour, or the equally other-worldly pale eyes and skin that made him seem like an exotic fantasy creature straight out of a novel; perhaps it was the innate confidence and self-possession that he radiated, despite his slumped posture, one of a person who belonged in this world and grew up around magic. Who knew what to expect from a school dedicated to it. 

Despite all her reading, Hermione didn’t. Maybe this boy would be able to give her some insight. “I’m sorry, would you mind answering-”

The door to the compartment slid open, revealing a tall and burly dark-haired older boy, wearing artfully messy robes and a green tie. “Malfoy!” he boomed out, ignoring Hermione completely.

The boy, Malfoy, unfolded himself and stepped forwards. “Rabastam,” he stated, shaking his hand.

Rabastan scoffed and swept his arm over Malfoy’s shoulders. “Always so formal, our Malfoy. No need to stand on ceremony firstie, I’ve been looking for you. Father said to keep an eye on you and show you the ropes, so grab your trunk, let’s go sit with the others.”

Hermione sat silently as Malfoy pulled his trunk out from underneath his seat and moved towards the door. He hesitated, and turned back to her, but with a brief nod in her direction, followed Rabastan out of the compartment. The door slid closed behind the two boys.

Well really, seethed Hermione, feeling foolish, for some reason. It wasn’t like he owed her anything- they’d made jibes about the other’s hair before she assaulted him with her rambling, but the courteous thing to do would have been to invite her with them, it wasn’t like she was expecting him to turn down the offer from the older boy, clearly an old friend, but she had been left behind, alone…

Before she could feel too sorry for herself, the door slid open again. A boy and a girl stood in the doorway, peeking around the mostly empty carriage.

“You’re not saving these seats for anyone, are you?” the girl asked breathlessly. “Only there’s not loads and loads of empty carriages, and this one is right near the front, we’ll be the first one that the snacks trolley stops at.”

Mentally scoffing at the image of the seats around her filled with kind and gracious friends eager to help and comfort Hermione Granger, she shook her head and gestured them in. “All yours.”

“Thanks!” the girl said brightly, and they both pulled their luggage in, and set about stowing it. The girl was tall and well-built, with straight blonde hair pulled into two plaits and a thick fringe, red-cheeked and smiley. The boy was around her height too, slender and seemingly East Asian in origin, with fine features and high sculpted cheekbones.

Hermione was determined to get it right this time. “Hi! I’m Hermione Granger!” she offered brightly, sticking her hand as the girl flung herself in the seat directly opposite.

“Alice Macmillan,” she beamed back, leaning forward to shake it vigorously. “That’s a fun name,” she told her, tilting her head towards the boy. “You two are gonna get on well.”

The boy smiled and offered his own hand. “Cesare Zheng,” he said, and Hermione shook it, murmuring her greetings. 

“Picked a bad carriage,” Alice lamented. “First day of Hogwarts and my best friend has been stolen by someone with an equally cool name as him.”

Hermione and Cesare both blushed and smiled shyly at each other. “Alice is a great name!” Hermione rushed to assure her. “One of my favourite book characters! Don’t suppose that’s why your parents named you that?”

Alice frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Is that a well-known character?”

Hermione snorted, but reschooled her face when Alice, unmoved, raised a single eyebrow. “You’re… serious? Alice in Wonderland? Lewis Carroll? We’re all mad here? Curiouser and curiouser?”

“Speak for yourself about madness darling, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about,” declared Alice, with as much grandeur as one could have without reading one of the seminal pieces of work of Hermione’s childhood.

“Witches and wizards don’t read any Muggle stories then, I’m guessing?” asked Cesare, and Alice’s brow smoothened.

“Ohhh, it’s Muggle! Well why didn’t you say! I suppose the very posh, hoity-toity Pureblood types know their Shakespeare and probably old poetry, but my sort don’t really go for any kind of Muggle literature.”

Hermione was familiar with the concept of Muggles- when Professor McGonagall had turned the suede two-seater sofa in her parents’ front room from a deep chestnut colour to a glaringly bright canary yellow, then made the coffee table do an Irish jig on the spot, it had been a perfect segue into explaining to her astounded parents the division of the world into Muggles and those with magic. That was easy enough to understand- more baffling, however, was the complete lack of accessible research and understanding of how someone like Hermione, who had been levitating her wooden blocks at the age of two, could be born to people as ordinary as David and Helen Granger, who owned a timeshare in Tenby. To Hermione it seemed a perfect opportunity to explore the interplay of genetics with magic, perhaps to isolate and understand the core and pure source of magic and how it played lottery with people’s magic abilities. But the clerk in Flourish and Blotts had scoffed and turned back to her shelving when Hermione had confidently demanded to be directed to books about the inheritance of magical abilities, and nothing on her school reading list had turned up answers either. Hermione knew. She had read every textbook cover to cover at least twice.

Cesare’s eyes were fixed on Hermione. “You’re Muggleborn as well, aren’t you?”

Hermione’s head nodded, before his words caught up with her. “Wait… are you one too?”

Cesare fixed a weak smile on his face and did half-hearted jazz hands. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“This is just brilliant!” guffawed Alice, throwing her head back. “Imagine the odds, me meeting two Muggleborns before even setting foot in Hogwarts. I can hear Benny cackling from here!”

Hermione frowned. She wasn’t sure if she was being too sensitive but there was something in Alice’s tone- an amusement that bordered on mockery, although she wasn’t quite sure who that was directed at. Alice broke off her laughter as she caught the sight of Hermione and Cesare’s distinctly unimpressed faces opposite her. “Oh Merlin, I didn’t mean to sound rude,” she hastened to reassure them, leaning forwards and stretching her hands out to hover over their knees as if they were about to get up and flounce out in an outrage. “We’re really not that sort of family, we’re all exclusively Gryffindors and Ravenclaws- absolutely no prejudice against Muggleborns in the Macmillans, I promise!”

Hermione blinked- the thought of facing any kind of discrimination or exclusion because of her non-wizarding origin hadn’t even crossed her mind, but before she could enquire further, Cesare’s hand clamped down on Alice’s as he leaned forwards until they were almost nose-to-nose. “Your family’s full of Gryffindors?” he asked breathlessly, his eyes lit up with excitement.

Alice nodded sagely. “Scattering of Ravenclaws here and there, had a few brainboxes in the family, some of the most unbearable and boring swots you’ve ever met-” (Hermione, who had heard this derision-laced descriptor many times from her cousins, opened her mouth to object) “-but there’s far too much bravado and recklessness in the Macmillans for the family tree to not be chock-full of Gryffindors. My brother Benedict was one, so are both my parents- they’ll be too kind to say it but they’ll be gutted if I don’t get in. ‘Course I’m not academic in the slightest, Ravenclaw wouldn’t want me even if I wanted her, so if we’re going by family precedent, I’m a sure thing.” She was breathless by the time she had concluded her animated explanation.

Cesare’s eyes clouded over slightly. “Are you sorted based on what House your parents and brothers and sisters were in, then? I mean I do have two sisters, but they’re little kids- even if they turn out to be magical, their House would be based on me, but… who would I be based on?”

“No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that!” Alice rushed to reassure him. “I mean it usually is, yes, there’s always trends in families, but it’s not a hard and fast rule by any means. It can’t be, because you’re quite right, what would happen to the Muggleborns?”

Both Hermione and Cesare relaxed- she had, through her research, known that the Sorting Hat allocated Houses purely based on whatever magic it used to inventory each person’s behavioural traits and how they might best serve them in the future, but it was nice to get that verbal and anecdotal confirmation.

 “So Gryffindor and Ravenclaw are the good Houses to get, I suppose? I read a little bit about them all. I’m not smart enough for Ravenclaw, and anyway, I do prefer the sound of Gryffindor,” Cesare mulled out loud.

Hermione might not have had parents to pass down their wisdom about their Sorting, but she had lots and lots of notes from her reading. “Yeah, I definitely think so- the chapter about the Sorting Ceremony in Hogwarts: A History lists the main traits for each house, and bravery and wisdom are surely the most admirable. It must be more complex than that, there does seem to be a pretty detailed character portrait for each House and its founder, but when you distill it down into one word, I’d much rather be brave or smart than ambitious or loyal.”

Alice chuckled. “Well, it seems pretty clear-cut what House you’ll be in, I don’t think you need to worry too much about your Sorting.”

Hermione blushed, secretly pleased. “Cesare’s right, though, I’d be equally happy with Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.”

“Hey, even Hufflepuff isn’t a bad option,” Alice conceded. “They might have a bad rep, but there’s worst things to be than loyal and kind and just.”

“Bad rep?” asked Cesare.

“Not a bad one, per se, I suppose more of a… soft one?” Alice mused out loud, tapping her chin with her finger. “They get a bit of ridicule, maybe seen as the least serious House, but Hufflepuffs are a lot of fun, my sister-in-law’s one. Anyways if we’re talking about bad reps, Slytherins are the ones to watch out for.”

Hermione had read about the founding of Hogwarts and Salazar Slytherin’s distaste and outright rejection of Muggleborn witches and wizards- it had been enough for her to completely skip over any sections concerning Slytherin House. She exchanged glances with Cesare. “Not sure either of us will be welcome there,” he said wryly.

“Yeah, they’re not a very friendly bunch. Full of kids from the old Pureblood families, the ones that take blood purity very seriously and look down on anyone who doesn’t. And they all know each other as well, cos they grow up in the same very closed social circles. So they stick together and don’t really mingle with the other Houses- as far as they’re concerned, we’re all just degenerate blood traitors and mixed breeds. And that’s just what they think of half-bloods- Muggleborns are literal scum to them.”

Alice delivered this all very airily, cutting off suddenly upon noticing the dismayed expressions on the faces of her aforementioned scummy companions. She blanched and rushed to reassure them. “Sorry, sorry, I got a bit carried away, I wasn’t thinking… it’s not really that bad! Like I said, they keep to themselves, a pretty insular bunch… anyways the Professors don’t tolerate any kind of bullying and name-calling. You don’t have anything to worry about!”

Far from reassuring her, this was the first thing to make Hermione truly panic. She had some inkling, of course, that the circumstances of her birth might work against her- Wizarding society was probably no different to Muggle Britain when it came to creating social hierarchies and reasons to look down on and disparage each other, and magical heritage seemed to be a key way of doing this. She had come across mentions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and Pureblood culture, but hadn’t paid it too much mind, thinking it irrelevant to her. Alice’s assertion about the zero-tolerance policy against blood purity-based harassment did nothing to assure her- it wouldn’t have been mentioned if it was truly a non-issue.

Alice’s face fell as she saw how anxious Hermione and Cesare looked. “Listen… I have a dreadful habit of speaking without thinking, I was just repeating stuff that my parents and Benny have said,” she said hesitantly, worry writ large on her face, her hazel eyes full of apology. “I mean… it’s always been a bit harder for Muggleborns, because there’s so much that’s brand new to you guys, and I won’t lie and say that some witches and wizards won’t look down on you. But our generation is far less concerned with blood purity, you really won’t have any reason to worry whilst you’re at Hogwarts. Especially if the three of us all end up together in Gryffindor!” Her face brightened up at this last bit. “We’ll all look out for each other, and Hermione, even if you’re in Ravenclaw, I promise we’ll still be friends! Everything will be easier if we have each other!” She beamed, looking between her two friends, and Cesare smiled back, relieved.

A warm glow suffused through Hermione’s chest. She had been so consumed and excited by the idea of magic school that she hadn’t had time to consider or get worked up about the social aspect of it- she hadn’t had many friends in school, preferring to take solace in books, and it hadn’t endeared her to the other children in her class, for whom reading was a punishment inflicted and enforced by cruel teachers. Going away to a magical boarding school, where she would spend the majority of seven years, seemed to be something it would be difficult to get through without friends, but Hermione, unused to having any sort of social circle, had pushed away these thoughts whenever they cropped up. She’d fared just fine on her own for eleven years- if Hogwarts ended up being more of the same treatment she’d gotten in school, she would just throw herself into her studies and set up base in the library, she supposed. No one would have done as much reading as her, but there would still be some disadvantages to coming from a Muggle background. She was determined to prove she belonged, that she was as fine a witch as anyone else.

But Alice’s bold declaration of friendship was gratifying, like it was a given that she would remain close with two random Muggleborns she’d happened to sit with on the Hogwarts Express. And as Hermione looked between her two new friends, Alice leaping up as the carriage door slid open and a smiley witch with a trolley overflowing with brightly coloured confectionary appeared, and Cesare accepting the strangely shaped boxes and packets flung his way with wonder and excitement dancing in his eyes, Hermione was able to push down the disquiet that Alice’s worried protestations about Muggleborn discrimination had raised. Right now, everything was OK, and as Alice pressed a packet of interesting looking jellybeans in her hands, and Cesare shrieked as a brown shape flew out of the small box he opened and landed on his head, she relaxed and joined in the hooting laughter of her new friends.

***

As grateful as Lucius was to Rabastan for going out of his way to look for him, part of him wished that he was still ensconced in the quiet carriage he had first sat down in. The compartment he had been brought into was full of raucous older Slytherin boys, and whilst he was on good terms with them all, he rather wished he could relax and enjoy his last moments without the persona he would be forced to don at Hogwarts.

Malfoys had certain expectations placed on them, expectations Father had lectured him about at length. Sure, the other Pureblood families they associated with were of the highest calibre, unsullied by any half-blood or Muggle filth and with the finest magical pedigrees, but there was a hierarchy amongst even them, and the House of Malfoy was at the centre of their small galaxy, around which all the other families revolved. One of the wealthiest and oldest Wizarding estates in Europe; patriarchs with the ear of the sitting Minister, helping to shape and define policy as it suited them; an ancient and influential Wizengamot seat- it didn’t matter that Lucius was a first-year. There were eyes on him and a level of deference that he was afforded. First year at Hogwarts was where Malfoy men started building their network of influential acquaintances, and Lucius was conscious of this.

Opposite him, Marwan Shafiq sighed heavily and got to his feet. “Well, I only dropped in to say hello to you guys, better go show my face in the Prefects carriage,” he informed everyone glumly, and the assembled boys broke out into jeering taunts.

Marcus Goyle, one of his fellow fifth-years, lobbed a scrunched up empty packet of Fudge Flies at Shafiq’s head. “Bugger off then, nerd, go and find all your do-gooder friends,” he smirked.

Shafiq scowled. “Not my friends,” he muttered, batting the packet back. “Morgana will have me by the balls if I don’t put an appearance in, and then those bastard Gryffindors will pile on too and I don’t have the energy to deal with any of them. I’ll come back in a bit,” he told them, and loped off down the narrow hallway.

Lucius watched his receding back with interest. “The other Slytherin Prefect, is that Morgana… Gaunt?” he asked.

Cary Flint, a fourth-year like Rabastan, whose mother had grown up with Lucius’ in France, rolled his eyes. “Merlin knows what old Sluggy was thinking when he recommended her. That old lush has spent so long with Mudblood sympathisers like Dumbledore that he’s lost any sense or standards that he might have had. Gaunt might be passable at magic, but Mother said that her older brother has absolutely no discipline or control over his magic, and the younger sister isn’t actually being home-schooled because of a blood curse, apparently old Marvolo kept her home because she’s no better than a Squib.”

The other boys let out grunts of disgust at this gleefully whispered declaration, and whilst Lucius remained outwardly placid, he internally recoiled with revulsion. The Gaunts may be Sacred Twenty-Eight, an ancient and proud family directly descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, but their devotion to maintaining the sanctity of their bloodline had led to too many inter-cousin marriages, too closely related for magic to not manifest in unpredictable and unstable ways within the latter generations. By all accounts, the Gaunt estate was one only by name- no better than a derelict and crumbling ruin, the coffers drained by Marvolo Gaunt’s unhinged fascination with arcane objects and rituals Dark by even Pureblood standards. Morgana Gaunt was respectable only on paper.

Rabastan clapped Lucius on the shoulder. “Giving Malfoy here a pretty bad initial impression of Slytherin House, boys,” he drawled. “Standards haven’t slipped all that much, a Gaunt here or there makes no difference. Got lots of young and fresh blood this year- Rowle and Avery are on this train somewhere, and I think one of the Black girls is starting too. Fret not, young Lucius, Slytherin hasn’t yet succumbed to all this magical equality horseshit being pushed everywhere.”

“Father says old Nobby’s trying to put through some legislation to do with centaur land reparations,” interjected Oliver Carrow, a fifth year whose father was an influential Ministry donor like Lucius' own father. “Apparently he’s had some success getting those beasts to appoint some sort of go-between with the Ministry and there’s been talk about them getting back some of the more magically significant land they were driven out of.”

Flint wrinkled his nose. “Not that I’m in favour of those half-humans getting back anything, but that hardly seems problematic. Doesn’t affect us, and the Nobhead will be less focused on undermining Pureblood lobbyists and promoting Mudbloods to department heads. Surely he’ll have his hands full trying to reason with those savages.”

“Not problematic, Flint?” Lucius asked, raising his eyebrow. “Who do you suppose ancient land steeped in old magic belongs to now? The Greengrasses had the entire centaur population driven out of the land their Manor stands on, the Selwyn boating lake used to be full of merpeople, even the woodlands surrounding Malfoy Manor was purged from all kinds of beasts. Nobby’s been slowly discrediting any of the powerful Purebloods in the Ministry and replacing them with blood traitors loyal to him- there’s nothing close to a strong opposition in the Ministry anymore. He might not be able to cull the ancestral seats in the Wizengamot, but Dumbledore still has some months before his term as Chief Warlock ends, and everyone’s scrambling for some final crumbs of his approval. And don’t forget that the biggest organised centaur population in the country is in the Dark Forest- if Dumbledore’s already open to conceding Hogwarts land to those brutes, any legislation going through a Wizengamot he chairs will face as much resistance as a Niffler in a Gringotts vault.” He surveyed Flint disdainfully, who squirmed in his seat and suddenly became preoccupied with the Chocolate Frog card he was holding. “It might serve you to be a bit more aware of developments in the Ministry aiming to geld Purebloods.”

Silence followed this, everyone averting their eyes uncomfortably like mischievous schoolboys pulled up in front of a cane-wielding Professor. It was broken by Rabastan, who guffawed and swung his arm over Lucius’ shoulders. “A chip off the old block is Lucius,” he proudly declared. “I told you boys, no need to worry about the future of Slytherin House, no need at all.”

Lucius rolled his eyes and shrugged off Rabastan’s arm, but inside, he was pleased. He had done nothing so impressive- Rabastan was sharper than he let on, with a keen intelligence masked by his lazily charming persona, and definitely knew all about the Minister’s outlandish and misguided proposed policies, but it was imperative that he make an impression as soon as possible, and judging by Flint’s avoidance of his gaze as conversation turned to other Ministry gossip and Hogwarts goings-on, he had been successful.

The Hogwarts Express chugged on steadily, inky black darkness falling outside as the landscape slowly transitioned from manicured, green English farmland to the wild and verdant lushness of the Scottish highlands. Warm golden lights suffused the compartment as night approached, and Lucius, content to keep to himself, found himself being lulled to a half-asleep state by the slightly pendulating carriage and the low murmur of conversation of the boys. Rabastan had to nudge him awake as a magically amplified voice announced that they would be reaching Hogwarts within ten minutes, and he brushed down his Hogwarts robes and sat waiting, the faint beginnings of excitement stirring in his stomach as the train creaked and whined to a slow halt and hundreds of laughing and shrieking students poured off the Hogwarts Express and onto the platform.

It was a mercifully mild evening, only some slight dampness underfoot from rain earlier on in the day. Lucius frowned as he was jostled by boisterous students, and craned around to look for Rabastan’s towering bulk but he was nowhere to be found. He caught Shafiq’s eye, standing off to the side, who gestured him towards a hulking figure, shrouded in darkness and easily twice the height of any of the first years.

Ah, yes. Hogwarts first years suffered the indignity of being shepherded in rickety boats across the murky and fathomless lake by the brutish gamekeeper whose size could only be accounted for by some troll or ogre blood. Rubeus Hagrid had allegedly been a student at Hogwarts and by some miracle, must have completed his magical education, so he was, at best, a half-breed. Still, his employment under Albus Dumbledore in one of the world’s most prestigious magical institutions was yet another sign of the rot insidiously pervading Wizarding Britain.

Lucius looked around discreetly as the first years splintered off from the rest of the students, who were heading towards the infinitely more comfortable and distinguished carriages that would take them to the castle. He wasn’t keen to see Rowle or Dolohov, both foisted upon him as children due to their parents’ acquaintanceship but with very little to recommend them in the way of intelligence, humour, or class. There were many familiar faces- two rambunctious and garrulous red-headed Prewetts; a Yaxley girl arm-in-arm with a Zabini, their heads bent together in hushed conference; a lanky and lolloping Longbottom boy; but equally just as many faces he didn’t recognise or see any kind of family resemblance in. Half-bloods, probably, but who knew how many Mudbloods and ingrates with blood-traitor sympathies were hidden amongst them. He saw one of the latter, a Macmillan girl, flinging her head back to laugh with abandon, walking with a Chinese-looking boy he didn’t recognise, and sandwiched between them, he recognised with a jolt, the girl with the monstrously bushy hair from the Hogwarts Express earlier. He wasn’t sure why he was annoyed at the sight of the boy slinging his arm over her shoulders as she turned to joke with him; they didn’t owe each other anything and he couldn’t place her face at all, so she was at best a half-blood, and not anyone he needed to fall over himself making friends with. But it wasn’t unwise, in the current political climate, to cultivate acquaintanceships with people outside of Pureblood circles, just to have a finger on the pulse of Wizarding society, and the girl had seemed anxious and eager to talk to him. He hurried forwards as the giant lead them off the platform edge and to the jetty where moored rowboats bobbed in the lake, and the girl caught his eye. Recognition flashed across her face, and she beamed at him, any anxiety and nerves from earlier clearly long gone. Over her shoulder, the Macmillan girl turned and saw him; disgust laced her features and she sneered at him, tossing her head and pulling her two friends towards the Prewett twins.

Lucius sneered back as they all climbed into a boat together- she probably wasn’t worth getting familiar with if she was friendly with blood-traitors like the Prewetts and that branch of the Macmillans. Keen to not be lingering alone on the rapidly emptying dock, he got into the nearest boat, with a boy and a girl already seated.

With despair, he realised the girl was the middle Black sister, but she fortunately seemed to be equally as unenchanted with him. “Malfoy,” she said icily,  turning away to look over the lake.

“Black,” he muttered back in greeting, hitching up his robes to avoid soaking them in the silty water sloshing at the bottom of the boat. With a jolt, the boat began making its way across the lake- himself and Black had too much poise to be thrown around gracelessly by the sudden motion, but the boy next to him listed into him, and drew himself straight again with a curse.

“Apologies,” he gritted out, then did a double take as he saw Lucius properly. “Ah… Lucius Malfoy.” He held out his hand, and as he shook it, Lucius realised it was Avery.

“Emmett,” he responded placidly, inwardly relieved to come across someone worth talking to. Avery Senior, unlike the majority of men in Father’s circles, had no involvement in politics beyond his Wizengamot seat, being a successful hotelier, so their families were not very well acquainted, but he knew him through a mutual friend, and they were respectable Purebloods, so he was glad to know of at least one boy he would share a dorm with for seven years being a decent sort.

Avery seemed to share this sentiment. “Saw Dolohov back there, brutish lout,” he grimaced. “I’m glad I’ll be sharing a Common Room with you too, adds some class to the proceedings.”

Lucius let out a bark of laughter to hear his thoughts being mirrored. “Likewise,” he said, and the boys grinned at each other. Avery was a head taller than him, with curly chestnut hair that seemed the mirror opposite of Lucius’, and an ungainly, lanky build; the comportment lessons he must have surely been enrolled in did not seem to have made their mark, judging by his slouchy and relaxed posture.

“Quite a few other Purebloods seem to be in our cohort,” Avery continued. “But no one else from the boys I’d put good money on ending up in Slytherin. Camille’s probably a sure thing, from the girls, maybe Hera Yaxley too.” He hesitated, glancing towards Black sitting opposite them, who was firmly ignoring them and staring outwards as the boat drifted around the curved bank laden with towering and dense evergreens, as if she could see through them and towards Hogwarts through sheer willpower.

Lucius had no such reservations when it came to prodding the solitary and misanthropic Black sister. “Come now, Avery,” he tutted. “I’d say anyone belonging to The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black is guaranteed to end up a snake.”

Black’s shoulders stiffened, but she did not react otherwise, and just as Lucius was gearing up to make another dig, itching to get a reaction out of her, a chorus of gasps rose from around them as the fleet of boats rounded the curve and Hogwarts castle came into sight- a towering, gargantuan structure, wreathed in fog and hewn from rough stone that made it seem it had been sculpted into the side of the cliffs from which it protruded. Spires and towers jutted out from all over it, audaciously rising to dizzying heights as if the primordial and raw magic that permeated every rock of the structure was trying to pierce the heavens. It was difficult to maintain any sense of composure or superiority in front of the looming castle, its almost tangible presence and ancient, thrumming magic washing over Lucius as the boats drew nearer and nearer.

“Don’t think any of the stories do it justice,” whispered Avery, and Lucius could only nod his agreement, as the boats shuddered to halt on the rocky coastline, right at the vertical cliff face. As if a silencing spell had been removed, everyone around them burst into loud and noisy activity, rushing to clamber out of their boats and crowd around a bellowing Hagrid, who was waving them towards a cave, presumably leading up and into Hogwarts. Lucius and Avery moved to follow suit, jumping out of the boat, and then, years of etiquette lessons taking over, automatically moved to hold their hands out to help Black down.

The three of them froze, eyeing each other warily, before Black, with a haughty sniff in Lucius’ direction, took Avery’s hand to delicately step down on to the shoreline. She let go as if being stung, and stalked off ahead of them, immediately being swallowed up by the swarm of giddy first-years.

Lucius and Avery looked at each other, before letting out exhales of laughter, and followed her into the bowels of Hogwarts castle.

***

“First years, quiet please!”

Hermione’s ingrained teacher’s favourite instincts kicked in as she cut herself off mid-sentence and straightened to look up at Professor McGonagall standing before them in front of the large double doors leading into the Great Hall. Around her, there was the same palpable excitement she’d felt in Diagon Alley, the sense of being on the cusp of something huge; even Alice- who had spent much of the train ride loftily explaining minutiae of the magical world to a wide-eyed Cesare and a considerably better-read Hermione, who nonetheless was enjoying the experience of belonging and having friends too much to pop her slight air of superiority and worldliness- had been struck dumb by the sight of Hogwarts Castle.

“We are about to enter into the Great Hall, where you will be Sorted into your Hogwarts Houses- a ceremony that may well define the rest of your life. I must reassure you that it is nothing to be worried about- the Hat has never chosen wrong and everyone will end up exactly where they are meant to be. So please, relax, and follow me inside, quietly.”

The oaken doors creaked inwards slowly, and Hermione, standing near the front, was one of the first to catch a glimpse of the Great Hall. Cesare prodded her forwards and she stumbled into motion, willingly her jaw to hinge itself shut from where it had dropped.

Hogwarts: A History had moving illustrations and references to other textbooks that detailed just how the enchantments used for the Great Hall’s ceiling worked, but the dazzlingly starry expanse of incongruous sky arcing overhead, dotted with floating candles, still made the breath stop in Hermione’s chest. The hundreds of faces, seated at the eight long tables that ran the length of the Hall, all blurred into a single flesh-and-black swathe of colour as Hermione followed McGonagall’s poker-straight figure down the centre of the Hall, her vision blurring as her eyes raced to take everything in.

Ahead of them, a long table raised on a dais spanned the width of the hall, where all the Professors were seated. Hermione barely had time to register the twinkly eyed wizard clothed in bright purple robes and sporting a magnificently long, white-streaked auburn beard and seated dead centre, before her stomach lurched at the sight of the nondescript, pointed black Hat, perched carefully on a stool before her.

Suddenly, her sweat glands seemed determined to step up their production post-haste, and anxiety clouded Hermione’s ears as Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and unfurled her scroll. As if through a thick brick wall, she very faintly heard McGonagall call out “Avery, Emmett!”

A tall boy with dark curly hair drew out of the crowd, his face carefully blank as he sat down on the stool and let McGonagall set the Hat on his head. Only a few seconds had passed before the Hat roared out “Slytherin!” and Hermione spied a brief glimpse of relief on Emmett’s face before McGonagall tapped his black tie with her wand, transforming into an emerald green one, striped with silver.

As the applause, mostly emanating from the left-most tables, died down, Alice shifted over to whisper across Cesare. “Granger, right? You’ll be Sorted before me and Ces!”

“I’ll probably go dead last,” Cesare said glumly, but Hermione barely heard him, internally floundering and spluttering beneath the tidal wave of panic that swept over her. She missed the next few Sortings completely, as she dug her nails into her palms, trying to re-orient and centre herself. It would be fine. McGonagall had said there was nothing to worry about and she had revolutionised the field of transfiguration of mid-motion objects and could turn into a cat. She surely knew what she was talking about.

“Black, Andromeda!”

A slender girl, her head crowned with beautifully defined, voluminous spirals of jet-black hair, quite unlike Hermione’s frizzy and mousey brown mass, daintily stepped forwards. McGonagall placed the Hat on her head, and the Hall fell silent, for noticeably longer than Emmett had taken.

“The straighter the posture, the more inbred and disgustingly prejudiced family they come from,” muttered Alice, and Cesare and Hermione both snickered nervously as the Hat finally announced “Slytherin!” and Slytherin House exploded into applause once again. Alice must have been right- Andromeda stood perfectly straight, her spine like an arrow, and there was an air of haughtiness around her as her tie turned green and she stepped down, but Hermione noticed her pale face and the fists clenched tight like hers as she moved towards her new House.

“Carlise, Ophelia” was the first student to be Sorted into Gryffindor, and she leapt off the stool, grinning wildly, as the loudest applause of the night broke forth, Gryffindor House on its feet and roaring its approval for their newly minted first-year. Alice whistled and clapped too and shrugged as Hermione giggled at her. “My future house,” she whispered confidently, as “Clearwater, Charlotte” was called forwards.

Panic lanced through Hermione once more, in the face of Alice’s unyielding assertion at the result of her Sorting. As McGonagall rattled through the ‘D’s, Hermione mentally scrambled to recall the different pros and cons for each House, the lists she had painstakingly made, but the details were fuzzy and the only thing she could think of was Alice’s cautionary monologue from the train.

“Hey,” Cesare nudged her softly. She didn’t even know what letter McGonagall was on. He had been watching her spiral, she realised, as she looked up to see the concern and kindness on his face. “I know you’re worried, I am too. But it doesn’t matter where you end up- me, you, and Alice, will stay together, no matter what.” Alice nodded fiercely on his other side, and gratitude washed over Hermione.

McGonagall raised her scroll and cleared her throat. “Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione wiped her clammy hands on her robe, and with a tremulous final smile at Alice and Cesare, she made her way forward. Every step seemed to take an age, and her mind whirled and tumbled frenetically with every characteristic and trait she knew of the four Houses. Before boarding the Hogwarts Express, she had been relaxed, almost blasé, about the Sorting- she had evaluated the salient attributes of each House, consulted with her parents, and at the end of the lengthy process, had been quite confident about and content with being a Ravenclaw. But the conversation on the train had thrown her very much off kilter.

Hermione fancied that McGonagall smiled at her as she sat down facing the Hall. The last thing she saw before the hat descended on her head, obscuring her vision, was Alice’s confident smile and Cesare’s thumbs up.

Silence. Darkness. Curiously, no smell at all.

“Interesting,” a velvety voice cooed in her ear, and despite expecting it, Hermione started.

“Ahh, what a mind we have here.” The Hat drew out the last word, almost gleefully. “The logic, the rationality, the steadfast devotion to knowledge… you’d make a strong Ravenclaw, that’s for sure.”

Hermione’s mind, inexplicably and terrifyingly, went completely blank. She should have relaxed, felt reassured at the Hat confirming what she knew, but for some reason the only thing she thought of was Alice’s hesitant face. I mean… it’s always been a bit harder for Muggleborns.

“The M-word!” the Hat exclaimed. “Always interesting to see inside one of your kind, so much untapped potential, so much drive and ferocity… I’ve found that the right House is certainly instrumental in making sure whether those things come to any sort of… fruition.”

A wave of panic crested within Hermione, but it was tinged with something unfamiliar, and the Hat chuckled again. “There’s that fierceness… how delicious… Gryffindor himself would be proud to have you within his ranks… you’d certainly do well there.”

The tumult of Hermione’s brain quietened a bit, at this acknowledgement of the two Houses she was most drawn to. Her shoulders physically dropped.

“How tricky… what to do, what to do,” the Hat mused. “You would certainly be content and satisfied with either of those Houses, but you’re not the type to bask in contentment, are you? I could choose for you, right now, but let me ask you this… what do you seek, Hermione Granger?”

Sweat began to gather at Hermione’s hairline. Suddenly she was conscious of the quiet muttering of the Hall, of the hundreds of eyes on her. Give me contentment, she thought fiercely. Pick either, stop drawing this out.

“Oho!” The Hat was definitely enjoying itself now, and annoyance flared in Hermione, sharp and bright. “Temper, temper… this moment will define everything for you, child… you will look back and label this as the exact moment your destiny diverged forever. You could change the world, burn it down and build it anew, but your path will not be an easy one… you’ll rue this day, you’ll break yourself down and be reforged… but is that a price you’re willing to pay?”

Hermione’s stomach lurched. She knew she should have been focused on the breaking and reforging, but her mind had latched with tenacious fingers on the more seductive part of the Hat’s offer.

Burn it down.

Burn it down.

Images flashed through her mind, like a flipbook in the hands of a manic toddler still coming to grips with its own appendages. Alice’s face clearing as she chortled Oh, this is just brilliant! Cesare’s fingers twisting in his lap as he listened to Alice trying to convince him the wizarding world was a kind one. Diagon Alley, bustling and magical, laden and fizzing with magic in a way that made the blood in Hermione’s veins sing, and something deep inside her quieten as the feeling of rightness washed over her.

David Granger’s warm eyes shining down at her with pride. Our brave and beautiful girl.

I’ll pay it, she told the Hat.

A beat of silence. “Very well,” murmured the Hat, and it sounded almost admiring. “Remember what I told you.”

It was very warm, all of a sudden.

The Hat cleared its throat. Then it opened its mouth.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Chapter Text

There was a sound like the roaring of waves in Hermione’s ears. Dimly, she could hear applause coming from the Slytherin table- polite and muted, nowhere close to the enthusiasm that had greeted Andromeda or Emmett or anyone that had been Sorted so far, actually. She chalked this down to being a Muggleborn, who no one in her new House had grown up with or whose parents were acquainted with hers.

Oh God.

She, a Muggleborn, had been Sorted into Slytherin.

For a wild moment, she wanted to stay seated, rage at the Hat and demand to be resorted, to be placed in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, even Hufflepuff. But she had read about the Hat, she knew how iron-clad and concrete the Sorting was- never in history, in the thousand plus years that Hogwarts had been standing, had a student been resorted. And never in Hogwarts history had a Muggleborn ended up in Slytherin.

Hermione was only vaguely aware of McGonagall removing the Hat. She rose shakily to her feet and stumbled off the stool, almost shell-shocked as she turned slightly and glimpsed McGonagall’s white face, the scroll of names hanging loosely in one hand, the Hat in the other. As she moved through the crowd of first-years, she locked eyes with Alice, whose jaw was physically agape, and Cesare, who was blinking rapidly, like his brain was still processing what had happened.

She wasn’t sure how she got there, but she ended up at the Slytherin table, sitting opposite Andromeda, who surveyed her coolly, and besides Emmett, who nodded at her. Looking down, she realised she hadn’t even noticed McGonagall turn her tie green.

Hermione sat there in a daze, barely conscious of what was going on. Only the sound of “Macmillan, Alice!” roused her from her stupor and she turned to see a smiling Alice, swinging her legs as her future Head of House put the Hat on her, and sure enough-

“Gryffindor!”

-because of course that’s how it worked, people with witches and wizards for parents, whose explosions of childhood magic were celebrated and gushed over rather than being the subject of hushed and worried conferences, who never had any reason to doubt that they belonged, who were irritatingly confident about how Hogwarts would treat them, ended up exactly where they wanted to. Tears prickled at the corner of Hermione’s eyes, and she stared resolutely at one of the torches behind the teachers’ table, willing them away and conscious even from her peripheral vision of Alice’s head craned in her direction. She refused to look at her- it would probably set off her crying, and she felt a brief stab of vicious satisfaction at not clapping for her. Of course, no one else at the Slytherin table had clapped either.

“Malfoy, Lucius!”

Reluctantly interested, Hermione turned to see the blond boy she had first been sitting with on the train ascend the dais. The Hat had barely touched his gleamingly blond hair before it belted out “Slytherin!” and Hermione scowled at the smug smile on his face as Slytherin House exploded, the reception for Lucius Malfoy as he sauntered towards them by far the most enthusiastic they had given anyone.

Definitely a Pureblood, Hermione noted, watching his perfectly straight shoulders pass behind Andromeda Black, who, alone from all her House mates, had not leapt up and danced rapturously at this Sorting. Lucius shook hands with and clapped the shoulders of several of the older Slytherin boys, who were bizarrely keen to congratulate a much younger student, before he came back around the table and sat down on Hermione’s other side.

“Good to see you again,” he drawled, his eyes fixed on her green tie before they darted up to look at her, and Hermione smiled weakly, saved from the effort of figuring out how to respond as Emmett leaned over and whispered his congratulations too. Lucius grinned at him, his sparkling eyes and boyish joy a fierce contrast from the cool and polished Pureblood she had encountered on the train.

Gabriel Rowle soon joined them, a solid looking boy with a buzzcut and a mean glint in his eye who plonked down next to Andromeda, who twitched away from him disdainfully. Emmett and Lucius greeted him with curious lukewarmness too, a far cry from their own evident friendship; Hermione was summarily ignored.

Annoyance rose up within her. Despite the knowledge that she was sitting at a table where she was unwelcome and in fact explicitly reviled, despite wishing more than anything that she was nestled in the bosom of the Gryffindor table with Alice, despite dreading the prospect of seriously engaging in conversation that would inevitably turn to her family, she suddenly wanted her housemates to acknowledge her.

So when, some time later, Camille Zabini, an ethereally beautiful girl with smooth dark skin that almost glowed from within, sat down next to Lucius, Hermione leaned across him and held out her hand. “Congratulations!” she told her, proud of her voice for not wavering.

Camille smiled inscrutably at her as she enclosed her hand with her own cool one. “Thank you.” Her voice was like mellow honey. “Congratulations to you, also. Granger, wasn’t it?”

Hermione’s smile froze on her face; she could feel Lucius Malfoy’s calculating gaze boring into the side of her head. Hearing “Zheng, Cesare!” be called out made her sit back in her seat as her friend, the final student, as he had predicted, came forwards to be Sorted.

For a wild, dizzying moment, Hermione’s heart leaped as she imagined Cesare’s tie turning green, Cesare coming towards her table with his shy grin aimed at her, Cesare squeezing himself between her and Malfoy and gripping her hand, promising her that they were still friends.

“Gryffindor!”

She was furious at herself for even thinking another result was possible. The Hall exploded with noise once again, and though Hermione refused to turn around, she could hear echoing wolf-whistles from the rambunctious red-haired twins she had met on the train, and could see Alice grabbing Cesare in a hug as clearly as if she had actually battened down her pride and looked over.

Dumbledore must have said some words to conclude the ceremony but Hermione didn’t hear them, then all of a sudden the table in front of her was laden with food. It was hearty and hot fare, all the classic British roast components: rich, pink crinkles of roast beef; golden brown roast potatoes so crispy Hermione could hear the crunch just looking at them; silver jugs of gravy; platters of peas and roasted carrots glistening with butter; immaculately carved roast chicken; Yorkshire puddings piled in mountainous towers. Hermione’s stomach grumbled but loading up her plate with all her favourites did nothing to prevent each mouthful tasting like sawdust.

Hermione was left out of the conversation happening around her, her hunched shoulders and refusal of eye contact likely dissuading anyone from attempting to draw her in. She mused over how long she could go without speaking to a single other Slytherin, as she balanced a pea on the prongs of her fork; she fancied it would probably be a few days, as long as she was able to leave any sort of communal gathering first and arrive to them last.

“Where are you from then?” someone grunted. Hermione didn’t register that she was the one being addressed until someone beside her cleared his throat.

“Not sure I know of any Grangers,” he said, and the jolt from hearing her name made Hermione’s head swing up to see all her fellow first-years watching her.

Emmett, raised an eyebrow as she opened and closed her mouth at him like a fish on land. “I think there was a Dagworth-Granger with Father when he was studying here- don’t suppose you’re a relative of his?”

Part of Hermione was tempted to seize this lifeline, to claim filial association with this double-barrelled stranger that she’d hopefully never be in a room with and who would never interact or cross paths with any of her hundred House mates…

In the end, she decided on making a gurgling sound that barely passed as human speech and ducking her head down to conduct a close-up perusal of the herbs crusting the chicken breast on her plate.

She could almost see her fellow first-years exchanging bemused looks with each other and for a second was terrified that they’d continue their cross-examination; she hadn’t had nearly enough time to come up with a strategy to deal with the result of her Sorting, although she’d already made up her mind to appeal to whoever her Head of House was, or, better still, Professor McGonagall who was the Deputy Head and had personally come to deliver her letter and surely was aware of the complete lack of precedent of her being in Slytherin and that she might in fact be in danger, surrounded by people from families who zealously cultivated their blood purity and were ideological disciples of a man who didn’t even want people like her in the school never mind his House-

Breathe, Hermione, she told herself, as she felt the now-familiar stirrings of panic in her stomach, consciously counting her breaths to make sure she hadn’t stopped and wasn’t in danger of passing out. She needed time to think, to come up with a concrete plan of action to decide how was best to proceed- she was in fact slightly irritated with herself for almost devolving into hysterics any time she started thinking a bit too long about where she had ended up. Hermione was logical, intelligent, and rational- she had encountered bullies before, children who had held carrot sticks in their mouths to mimic her teeth and had called her a swot and jeered at her for preferring to sit in the reading corner of the classroom during playtime. Being ridiculed and looked down on for not having magical parents wasn’t all that different, if she really thought about it, and she had years of practice at ignoring bullies and developing a thick skin. She could get through this meal and the rest of the evening with minimal interactions with anyone else, and then when she was alone, she could plan.

Cheered up by this thought, Hermione perked up slightly as the food was vanished and the student body rose, in a cacophony of chatter and scraping benches, to go to their sleeping quarters. She was determined to avoid both Alice and Cesare until she had formulated her plan of action- fortunately, the highly efficient Slytherin prefects responsible for showing the first-years the way to their dormitories had descended upon them immediately to whisk them away, before most of the other Houses had even reached the doors of the Great Hall. The male prefect, a brown-skinned boy with a perfect, gleaming smile that would have made her parents sigh with delight called Marwan Shafiq, was in a gaggle with the boys and Camille, who all seemed to know each other well and were excitedly swapping their impressions of the Sorting and who had gone into which House. Andromeda Black was walking ahead of them, separate to their huddle, although whether she was being excluded or didn’t want to be included was anyone’s guess. She seemed to be perfectly confident and capable of leading everyone to the Slytherin quarters, despite presumably never having visited them before. Marwan was more focused on joking with the first-years than fulfilling his responsibilities over them, and as for the other Slytherin prefect-

“They can be quite intimidating, if you don’t know them.”

Hermione jumped- she had been trailing their little group of Slytherins, alone and at the back, and had been lost in her observations, completely missing the female prefect who had dropped back to walk with her. She had long, dark brown hair, perfectly straight with a severe centre-part and pinned back behind ears festooned with countless silver hoops and studs and bars; her eyes were a similar brown and lined somewhat messily in black; and her uniform was perfectly pressed, her tie crisp and her green prefects badge shining proudly on her robes. She was not classically pretty- her pale skin was smooth but her eyes were small and slightly far apart, and she had thin and pale lips and barely-there eyebrows. Her regal and straight bearing though, was all Slytherin.

The prefect seemed to take her staring for confusion, and nodded to the boisterous group ahead of them, smiling gently. “The old families all know each other, and this group specifically have mostly all grown up together. It’s a bit daunting looking in from the outside, but you’re a Slytherin now and Slytherins look out for their own.”

Hermione snorted softly. Slytherins exhibiting a fierce and unconditional loyalty to their own House mates was not different to any of the other Houses; if it felt different or stronger it was likely because they were an insular House with a collective sense of superiority over their perceived pristine lineages, and their determination to maintain that by only having marrying those of a similar heritage. Their loyalty would not extend to the first ever Muggleborn sorted into their House in the school’s entire history, and Hermione had turned this dubious privilege over and over in her mind enough times for it to no longer inspire the same dread it had only half an hour previously.

“I promise it’s true,” laughed the prefect. “It’s not a good look for Slytherins to be publicly squabbling or having cliques or animosity between members- we’ll always present a united front in public. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from living up to all of the worse traits associated with Slytherin House in private- even Purebloods have a hierarchy and their own allegiances and exclusive circles, that they’ve been growing and cultivating since even before starting at Hogwarts.” There was a bitter note in the girl’s voice, but when Hermione turned to look at her, all she saw was a resigned set around her mouth. The girl turned to meet her eyes and smiled grimly.

“I definitely don’t know the ins-and-outs of the entire Pureblood population of the country, but people like Malfoy and Black do, and they’re not associating with you so I know you’re not a Pureblood. There are more half-bloods in Slytherin than is publicised, and they usually do a decent enough job of integrating into the house, and the old Purebloods don’t cut them out entirely. They won’t be sending proposals any time soon, but I told you, house ties and public perception are important to Slytherins. So don’t worry about being a half-blood and not knowing anyone else here- plenty of people have been in your shoes and they’ve all done well enough.”

The prefect’s well-meaning reassurances ricocheted off the hard knot in the centre of Hermione’s chest that had formed ever since her tie went from black to emerald, bouncing off of her carefully bound and restrained emotions and sending everything reeling and tumbling in a cacophonous clatter. She drew up short; the other girl took a few further steps before turning to look at Hermione with a raised eyebrow. They had descended deep into the lower floors of the castle- the sconces with flickering torches were few and far in between, and all four sides of the corridor were paved in rough, mishappen slabs of rock. The rest of the first-years had long vanished ahead of them.

“I’m not a Pureblood, you’re quite right.” Hermione didn’t know where she was getting this calm and level voice from. “Although thank you for detailing just how much that matters and is ingrained in Slytherin- it’s rather difficult to buy your assurances that not being one doesn’t affect your time at Hogwarts that much when it’s prefaced with all the ways they know each other and have grown up in each other’s country estates and even hate each other based on parameters I can’t even begin to imagine. It’s very helpful, telling all that to a Muggleborn who, I have been reliably informed, are considered to be scum and would be better served not having magic at all.”

Hermione’s jagged and panting breaths echoed in the pervasive silence. The prefect’s eyes widened, noticeable even in the low and limited light, but she betrayed no reaction beyond that.

“You’re a Muggleborn,” she said quietly, at last.

“I am,” replied Hermione. It hadn’t been a question.

The girl appraised her for a few silent seconds. Hermione held her eye contact and lifted her chin mutinously, before the prefect suddenly stepped closer.

“My surname won’t mean anything to you but the Gaunt family is as Pureblood as it gets,” she informed Hermione, drawing herself up ram-rod straight. Morgana Gaunt, Hermione recalled suddenly- she had been wired too tight with tension when the prefects had introduced themselves, but it appeared some small part of her frenetically tumbling brain had been paying attention.

“Gaunts are Sacred Twenty-Eight, which is a nonsense distinction for hundreds of reasons, but our families would have to go back centuries to find even a trace of non-magical blood. It’s not like some of the newer Pureblood families who’ve only been able to claim that within perhaps the last five generations. And the other Purebloods would have hated to admit it, even before what happened to the Gaunts, but they don’t come close to my family. The House of Gaunt is directly descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, and this isn’t a baseless claim that sceptics can deny or underplay. My family tree is well-established and verified.” The sympathetic prefect who had lagged behind to comfort an anxious first-year had vanished; Morgana Gaunt, with flickering torch-light casting her features in and out of relief, her cold and flat voice, and straight stature looming over Hermione, was every inch the Pureblood witch she had been disparaging only moments earlier. Hermione felt a shiver of unease make its way down her spine.

“But my family was so ensconced in its superiority and arrogance, so unwilling to let any blood tarnish our sacred and holy heritage, that it has led to the decay and corruption of that very same line.” Morgana’s lip curled in a sneer. “My great-grandfather frittered away all the Gaunt gold on ancient and Dark relics, so foul that they’ve corrupted our land and our family and our magic. My grandfather carried on that same task admirably, my father is an unstable man with unstable magic who almost definitely killed my mother, my older brother talks to snakes whilst he tortures them, my sister is practically a Squib, and none of this is secret. My brother hasn’t left Gaunt House in years and years but his behaviour at Hogwarts is quite infamous; Gaunt House itself is a ruin that anyone can see; and we were quite the scandalous topic of conversation when Merope Gaunt was pulled out of Hogwarts only a few days into her first-year.”

Morgana’s eyes were bright and unfocused, her words coming faster and harder, the sentences being spat with palpable venom. She sighed deeply, and refocused her gaze on an entranced Hermione. “There’s no prestige attached to being a Gaunt, Hermione,” she said, matter of factly. “The state of my family today quite overshadows the merits of being the scions of Slytherin himself. My reception in Slytherin when I was Sorted made that quite clear. So when I tell you it’ll work out in the end, it’s something I’m telling you from experience. It’s a lonely thing to be, hated and isolated in Slytherin, but you wouldn’t have been Sorted here if you weren’t equipped to deal with it. And after all, Slytherins are so consumed by their rivalry with the Gryffindors that they won’t risk losing house points by degrading a Prefect’s family.” Morgana let out a humourless bark of laughter, and resumed walking.

Hermione followed her, her mind whirring with questions. “Your father killed your mother?” she blurted out, and reddened in embarrassment, but Morgana only sighed.

“Not officially, no,” she said, waving her hand. “But he certainly tried his best before pneumonia knocked her over in the end.”

Hermione was saved from working out how to reply to this when Morgana looked at her sideways. “How did the Hat even consider putting a Muggleborn in Slytherin? It was literally enchanted and created by the Founders, it knows Salazar’s opinions quite well.”

“It said the same thing you did- it warned me that I’d be isolated and hate the day I was Sorted into Slytherin,” confessed Hermione. But she hesitated about saying anything further- she liked Morgana, was quite in awe of her actually, and warmed by the fact that Morgana had bared her entire sordid family history to her in the course of reassuring her. She wasn’t willing to repeat what the Hat had said about burning the world down and rebuilding it- it was the kind of meaninglessly brash declaration that didn’t seem nearly as grand when spoken out loud, rather foolish and silly instead. “But it said I’d flourish here, so I took it,” she finished lamely.

Morgana chuckled, a rough sound, like she was unused to doing it. “Well, that ambition is about as Slytherin as it gets,” she told Hermione, as they stopped in front of a stone statue of a wizened old man, clad in robes and bearing a tall staff, a snake curved over his shoulders and baring its fangs in a frozen hiss, stationed in the middle of an otherwise empty corridor.

“Merlin,” said Morgana, indicating the statue with her head. “He was a Slytherin, although that’s something the history books shy away from mentioning.” She reached out and pressed her finger into one of the stone snake’s exposed fangs from below, until a bead of blood welled on her fingertip.

Hermione blinked as the snake suddenly hissed, rearing up its head to survey Morgana, before relaxing into its original position. Suddenly, large set of iron-wrought doors appeared in the wall behind the statue, studded with bolts and bearing large and polished rings in place of handles.

“You have to let the snake taste your blood to be let into the Slytherin quarters,” Morgana told her over her shoulder, as she took one of the large rings and pushed open the door, which opened inwards, surprisingly smoothly. “It doesn’t do it based on your blood purity,” she reassured Hermione, noticing the evident way she blanched as she followed her in. “It’s enchanted to recognise a member of Slytherin House, which you are.”

The Slytherin Common Room was empty and surprisingly warm, for being situated in the dungeons- Hermione hadn’t necessarily been expecting dripping ceilings and spartan rock-hewn furniture and dank puddles everywhere, but she was surprised by the fireplaces with their banked flames and the mahogany and dark oak study tables scattered around. The high ceiling was strung with emerald and silver pennants and House banners, and the upholstery on all the velvet covered sofas and armchairs was a similar shade of green. The dedication to the House colours even extended to the ghostly green lighting, which, Hermione realised with a gasp of awe, came from the enormous circular window set into one wall, outside of which was the Black Lake, a smoothly rippling wall of green, occasionally flashing with shadows as small creatures darted by.

“Sometimes see the Great Squid, if you’re lucky,” Morgana smiled, and Hermione turned to interrogate her about this, before embarrassingly breaking out into a massive yawn.

“Bed,” ordered Morgana, pointing her over to one of the doors. “Down the stairs, keep going till you hit the bottom. Classes start bright and early tomorrow so don’t spend the whole night fretting and worrying, just try to keep your head down and focus on learning. And remember what I said- you’re a Slytherin now, and despite everything, Slytherins look out for their own.”

Hermione paused at the top of the stairs, turning back to look at Morgana, silhouetted behind her. “Thanks, Morgana,” she told her quietly and with as much depth of feeling she could muster. “Your help… it means a lot.”

Morgana gave a jerky nod. “Sleep well, Hermione.”

The emotional weight that Morgana’s revelation had lifted from her shoulders had done a lot for Hermione’s nerves- it had been exhausting, being so uncertain and waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now that she had been reassured so summarily, she was suddenly tired. She barely had time to take in the dorm- three four-poster beds on raised daises in a row, the same dark wood furniture and green hangings as in the Common Room, and her bed, closest to the door, the only one without the curtains pulled and her familiar trunk at the foot of it. And, drawing nearer, she realised there was an envelope resting on her pillow, with a red seal and her name in neat and precise handwriting on the back.

Surprised, Hermione sat on her bed to read the short, enclosed note.

Dear Miss Granger,

Congratulations on your acceptance to Hogwarts and on your Sorting into Slytherin House. The faculty is pleased to welcome you, and Professor Slughorn, your Head of House, is sure to find you an excellent addition to his charges. I hope you will be able to join me in my office for breakfast tomorrow morning at 8, before your classes start, so you can be welcomed in person and any concerns you might have can be addressed. You will find my office to be the first one in the corridor opposite the Great Hall.

Kind regards,

Professor McGonagall MEnch, WTr

Deputy Headmistress

Hermione puzzled over this as she changed into her pyjamas and carried out her usual intensive three-minute brushing of her teeth. This was not standard procedure- she might accept it if it had been her Head of House inviting her for a meeting, but there was no reason for the Head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmistress to do so.

Maybe she wants to move me into Gryffindor, Hermione thought, her heart leaping, as she climbed into bed and drew the hangings. McGonagall was well aware of her Muggleborn status, having delivered her acceptance letter in person, and had seemed taken aback at her Sorting, not that she had been in a position to take particular note at the time. The more rational part of her brain reminded her that there was no precedent for a Hogwarts student being re-Sorted, but, Hermione smugly argued back, there was no precedent for being a Muggleborn Sorted into Slytherin either.

As she settled under her duvet and drifted into a surprisingly easy sleep, she realised that the bite of panic that usually accompanied that thought had completely dissipated.

***

Hermione was a habitual earlier riser and had no problem waking up early the next day. She had slept surprisingly well, for the first time sleeping in an unfamiliar bed and away from her parents, and buoyed by the prospect of her meeting with McGonagall, almost skipped to the bathroom to change into her robes and wash her face.

The other beds were still occupied and had their curtains pulled when Hermione had woken, but as she exited the toilet, she almost ran into Andromeda, her hair pulled into two ropes of plaits and a thick cloud of sleep still hanging over her.

“Morning!” chirped Hermione, as she ran to get her bag. She had packed it into her trunk with all her quills, ink bottles and parchment already neatly organised in it, as well as the textbooks for the subjects her timetable had informed her she’d have on her first day.

“Good morning,” replied Andromeda, raising an eyebrow with an elegance Hermione could never hope to achieve. “Excited for your first day?”

“Can’t wait to start learning!” trilled Hermione, as she rushed out of the door and up the stairs, into a still mostly empty Common Room.

It was easy enough to make her way towards the Great Hall- the route the previous night to the dungeons had taken her through darker and darker corridors, and on a downwards incline, so doing the opposite was simple. She reached the doors of the Great Hall and was looking around for the corridor McGonagall had described, when she heard her name being called.

“Hermione! Hermione, wait!”

Alice and Cesare were rushing towards her, out-of-breath and wrangling with the robes flapping behind them. Alice flung herself into Hermione’s arms.

“Oh, Hermione! We’re so glad we caught you, we decided last night that we’d come as early as possible to breakfast so that we could grab you before any Slytherins turned up, except I was ready and waiting in the Common Room for a solid ten minutes before Cesare here deigned to bless me with his presence, I don’t even know which dorm is his so I couldn’t go and get him…”

“The Prewetts snore so loudly!” protested Cesare, holding up his hands. “They’re definitely putting it on, there’s no way that volume is natural, it took me ages to get to sleep and that’s why I overslept!”

Hermione snorted at the idea of the Prewett twins launching a coordinated snoring attack on their new dorm-mates and Alice drew out of her arms to give her a watery smile.

“I’m so glad you’re not mad,” she told her, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you refused to talk to us.”

Hermione felt a stab of shame over her bitter and uncharitable thoughts at the Sorting towards her friends- her friends, who had embraced her and made an effort to include and engage her on the train and promised that they would stay close no matter what. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, avoiding Alice’s concerned gaze and Cesare’s worried eyes “I don’t know what happened yesterday, I wasn’t expecting it in a million years and I guess I just shut down-”

“No one was expecting it!” burst out Alice, seizing both her hands. “It’s never happened before, and OK, we might have been hoping that you’d be a Gryffindor but at the very least you should have gotten Ravenclaw- you’re so smart and you love reading! Slytherin makes no sense at all- I asked the Head Boy, he’s a Gryffindor but a proper Pureblood, one of the Shacklebolts, and he was concerned too, was sure there must be a mistake and was worried, in fact, about-”

“Hermione, what are you going to do?” broke in Cesare, and Hermione was glad for his pragmatic calmness, a fierce contrast from Alice’s feverish fear-mongering that had started to stir the nausea from last night again in her stomach. “Has anyone asked you about your family yet? I don’t expect you can hide it forever.”

Hermione chewed on her lip. “I would have, if I thought I could get away with it- I’ve tried to keep to myself but even then any conversation I’ve had has immediately turned to surnames and families. I think I’ll see what McGonagall advises- she asked me to meet her for breakfast.”

Alice’s face cleared with relief. “You’re meeting with McGonagall? That’s perfect, I’m sure she’ll have a solution! She’ll probably be able to move you into Gryffindor- you did say you’re suited to it.”

“It might not be that, though,” Cesare cautioned, and spread his hands helplessly when Alice swung around to glare at him. “I’m sure your Sorting is the reason for the meeting! It can’t be something for all Muggleborns, I haven’t gotten anything from her, and she’s not your Head of House so it can’t be a general Slytherin thing either. But all I’m saying is to not get your hopes up about moving Houses- from what Shacklebolt told us last night, they don’t allow that.”

Hermione had gone through this same thought process last night. Everything she recalled from her reading suggested that a Sorting was permanent, a binding magic that would last for her whole seven years at Hogwarts. But she was still, perhaps naively, optimistic that McGonagall would find a way to bypass this ruling- precedent had to be first set somewhere, surely?

“I’ll let you know what happens,” Hermione said on a sigh, moving towards the corridor she had spotted. “I’ll come and find you afterwards, if breakfast is still going, and if not, I suppose I’ll see you in Charms.”

Hermione found the office easily enough, exactly where McGonagall had said it would be, with a shiny plaque bearing her name on the door. She had barely lifted her hand from her first knock before a voice called for her to enter.

Professor McGonagall’s office was surprisingly ordinary looking- a spacious room, the walls lined with packed bookshelves, no sign of magic at all until she noticed the tea pouring itself, where McGonagall was sat at her desk, a plentiful breakfast spread before her.

“Miss Granger.” The greeting was warm, despite McGonagall’s stern-looking face. “Thank you for meeting me this early, I hope the hour wasn’t too troublesome for you.”

Hermione demurred politely, as she took a seat on the other side of the desk, and at McGonagall’s encouragement, took her own cup of tea and some toast to nervously nibble on.

McGonagall sipped from her teacup, watching Hermione pensively over the rim through her wire-framed spectacles. “I’m sure you must be wondering why I’ve invited you here, Miss Granger.”

“Is it to do with my Sorting?” Hermione asked tentatively, rushing to speak as McGonagall remained silent. “I know the Hat’s word is final and it never re-Sorts but Professor, I can’t be a Slytherin! Everything I’ve read says there’s never been a Muggleborn in Slytherin before, and that Salazar Slytherin himself hated Muggleborns! And by now, lots of people have warned me about how much Slytherins themselves are prejudiced towards anyone that isn’t a Pureblood, they’re not going to be happy about me being in their House either.” Her entreaties tumbled out of her in a panicked gush, and McGonagall sighed and put her cup down.

“Miss Granger, I will have to be blunt- there is no possibility of you being re-Sorted. The Hat’s magic is ancient and unknown, but it is binding, and there is no way to circumvent it. I’m sure it’s not what you were hoping to hear, but you will unfortunately not be permitted to leave Slytherin House.”

A ball of lead seemed to form in Hermione’s stomach, making her sag as if McGonagall’s words had a physical weight. The professor was looking at her kindly, with perhaps some pity in her eyes as she registered Hermione’s defeated posture.

“Why did you call me here then?” Hermione managed to choke out. “You had to know about how- how- how insane it is for me to be put into a House where by all accounts, I’m going to be reviled and despised for something that’s completely out of my control. I barely know anyone in Slytherin, and my friends are in a different House- I can’t be left on my own there.” To her horror, Hermione’s voice broke and she looked downwards at her lap as she tried to gather herself.

With her head bowed, Hermione didn’t realise Professor McGonagall had gotten up until she rounded the desk and settled in the chair next to her with a deep sigh. She looked up in surprise, trying to school her face into something less despairing and frustrated.

Professor McGonagall was not a young woman, but she suddenly looked very old. “Miss Granger, I am very aware of the difficulties you will face in Slytherin House. Professor Slughorn is a capable Head of House but I will admit that he can be blind to noticing anything that doesn’t quite meet his perception of how he thinks things should be. Slytherin House does not have an undeserved reputation- it gathers and accumulates all the children of the oldest Pureblood families, those who place a premium on pristine magical heritage, and thus can be unwelcoming to anyone deemed an outsider. But, Miss Granger,” and here, her voice firmed, and she fixed Hermione with a strong stare, “the Hat placed you in Slytherin for a reason. I will not ask you what it said to you, but you should take solace in the fact that an object, in part enchanted by Salzar Slytherin himself, carrying some of his magic and his… stringent requirements for being a member of his House, felt that Slytherin was the most suitable place for you. And not just suitable- Houses are chosen to help a student live up to their full potential and become the best witch or wizard they can be. Ambition and cunning are not bad traits to have, Miss Granger, and if the Hat believes they will help you flourish, then I have yet to have come across a reason, in all my years at Hogwarts, to believe it has erred.”

McGonagall leaned across the desk to retrieve her tea and then sat back in her chair, her tone losing some of its fierce urgency. “Hogwarts’ Muggleborn students have always been a credit to this school, Miss Granger. They do not perhaps have the resources and connections they deserve, but they are always hard-workers and determined to not let their heritage hold them back in any way. You, the first Slytherin Muggleborn in the entire history of Hogwarts, would not be placed in your House if you were any different- in fact, I would venture to say that you may change the future of Slytherin and revitalise its reputation.” Jarred by how close this veered to what the Hat had told her, Hermione looked up at her sharply, but all McGonagall did was give her the faintest, enigmatic smile.

“I would advise that you reveal your Muggleborn status on your own terms, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said, her tone suddenly brisk and businesslike. “You can control your own narrative, rather than have it be warped and taken advantage of by anyone aiming to exclude you. You are of course perfectly within your rights to proceed however you wish, but please bear in mind that there is a zero-tolerance policy for any kind of discrimination or bigotry at Hogwarts. You should always be able to approach your prefects, the student Heads, professors, and Head of House if you are being targeted in any way. Rest assured, all the staff have your welfare in mind, and Professor Dumbledore in particular has asked me to always make myself available to you.”

Hermione blinked at this revelation. “Professor Dumbledore… asked you to look out for me?”

 “You are not alone, Miss Granger.” McGonagall fixed her with a steely gaze, and suddenly Hermione could see the Gryffindor fierceness break past the polished and composed veneer of the eminent academic. “I am aware that Slytherins are a tight-knit unit and prefer to handle all their matters internally, but there are many avenues of support available should you require them. I see no reason why your time at Hogwarts in Slytherin should be anything other than fruitful and a rich learning experience for you.”

Hermione mulled over McGonagall’s words as she was dismissed and made her way back to the Great Hall, napkin-wrapped toast in hand. She had not paused to consider that she herself was suited for or had any latent inclination towards Slytherin; rather she had been berating herself, for that small part of herself that basked in the adulation of her teachers for having an affinity for Keats and Austen in place of Roald Dahl and Dr Seuss; that had delighted in being cooed over by her parents’ friends whenever she was trotted out to regale them with reams of obscure trivia and facts at dinner parties; that self-satisfied section of her brain that lit up with lights and purred whenever she was told how smart she was, how special, how different, how better. It was hubris and arrogance, that had led her to seize the Sorting Hat’s seductive promises of greatness and rebirth with both hands; it was no one’s fault but her own if she had failed to spot the fine print or chosen to ignore the warnings that she would hate the Hat and herself.

And she had hated herself, but McGonagall’s words had appealed to that small and insidious voice in her head that had convinced her of her potential and superiority and ability to remake the Wizarding world. The Hat would not have broken with centuries of tradition and blood purity doctrine to place an ordinary Muggleborn in Slytherin- she was there because she deserved to be, because it was where she belonged. Morgana had made it clear that magical ancestry was not everything to Slytherins- she had the most impressive pedigree of them all but was ostracised and a target of mockery for her family’s reputation, so why could Hermione Granger, the daughter of two ordinary dentists, not overcome her blood status to become a powerful and formidable witch that all those stuck-up Purebloods would be falling over themselves to associate with?

Hermione was momentarily perturbed as she registered what a Slytherin turn her thoughts had taken.

***

It was natural, Lucius was reluctantly forced to conclude, that after eleven years of waiting and anticipation and watching his parents’ casual and everyday use of magic and hearing Rabastan spin elaborate and fanciful yarn about the grandeur of the Slytherin Common Room and the staircases that rearranged themselves and the Giant Squid in the Lake, that the reality of Hogwarts would turn out to be rather pedestrian.

It was likely mostly due to the intensity of the first-year timetable for the first week of term- although the classes were nothing more than introductory ones, mostly spent outlining the curriculum and reviewing the textbooks and materials, and in the case of Potions, having Slughorn drone on about cauldron safety and the importance of wearing dragon-hide gloves in between rhapsodic exclamations over the children of prolific past students in the new cohort; but this was compensated for by the crammed schedule for the week.

The gaggle of first-years huffed and puffed their way from one end of the castle to the other, rushed from the Astronomy Tower down to the dungeons of the Potions labs, took wrong turns and got trapped in trick steps and were deposited by the moving staircases on the completely wrong floor. It was demeaning and humiliating, fumed Lucius, as he almost slipped and fell through the gap that opened as the stairs going to the wing of the castle where the Charms class would be, swung away before he could join Avery and the other Slytherins, leaving him stranded with a hysterical group of Hufflepuff girls.

History of Magic, being as content heavy and mostly reliant on rote memorisation as it was, was not a subject Lucius anticipated needing anything other than his textbook for- Binns, their ghostly professor, ploughed through his lectures notes with a soporific, droning voice and barely any breaks for a breath (which, in fairness, he didn’t need), never mind a student asking a question; the lack of any interactive element, the sole advantage to attending classes in person, had Lucius mentally book in two hours in the library to research and see if there was a way to circumvent the enchantments Hogwarts used to register attendance.

Lucius had heard his father rail against Defence Against the Dark Arts many a time, and even if he didn’t share his views on the overly punitive attitudes of the faculty and establishment who sketched the arbitrary and vague boundaries around Dark Magic, the first-year content of mostly textbook readings around Dark Creatures and some basic diagnostic and protective spells, would not do much to incline him towards the subject.

Potions was easy for anyone who was even slightly competent at following clear and explicit instructions as laid out in the textbook, which Lucius was blessedly able to do; Slughorn’s overly indulgent attitude towards him due to his long-standing invitation to the Malfoy Manor New Years Eve Ball would surely cover any remaining deficiencies. Lucius would have resented Astronomy for dragging him yawning out of his warm four-poster to huddle with his fellow Slytherins on the exposed balconies of the Astronomy Tower even if they hadn’t been covering content as basic as galaxy classifications and different stellar categories.

Herbology was undoubtedly useful, although Lucius did not enjoy the indignity of sweating enough to thoroughly dampen the collar of his restrictive robes from the humidity of the greenhouses; and they had not yet learnt in Charms anything that he could use to quickly refresh himself so that he wouldn’t have to sit in the immediately following class with a tacky layer of sweat all over his body. The very sequential style of the Charms syllabus in general, with its dedication to first mastering basic spells such as Lumos and Wingardium Leviosa, felt very constricting to Lucius, who wanted to race ahead to more complex and layered enchanting, which was not even introduced to students until third-year.

Transfiguration was the one class Lucius might tentatively, at this premature juncture, call his favourite. The introductory session had been rife with plenty of cautionary tales about the dangers of half-cocked and ambitious Transfigurations by unjustly confident wizards who fell prey to their intellectual hubris, and in one case illustrated by a graphic illustration in A Beginner’s Guide To Transfiguration, their two-seater settee with all the ferocity and aggressiveness of a Bengal tiger and none of the squishy bits vital to incapacitating it. McGonagall was a brisk but fair teacher, with a crisp delivery and a very concise, no-frills, information-dense style of teaching that Lucius greatly appreciated. It was in stark contrast to Slughorn’s rapturous tangents about his iconic brews and celebrity ex-pupils- Lucius would never have thought he’d envy Gryffindors for anything, but their Head of House might be it.

The Gryffindors themselves, as Lucius had expected, were a brutish and offensive bunch, full of Mudbloods and Muggle-sympathisers. The chief offenders were the garishly red-haired Prewett twins: boisterous, rowdy, disruptive, and with a complete lack of respect for authority or teaching or decorum in the classroom; seemingly self-appointed resident pranksters, setting off Dungbombs and portable swamps everywhere; always ready with cheeky retorts to the professors, which frustratingly were responded to with good nature. There were definitely at least two Mudbloods, Zheng and Carlise, explicit confirmation of their parentage having made its way around the year group; and perhaps even worse, a blood-traitor Macmillan girl who chivvied and mothered all the Gryffindors, hovering over the Mudbloods in particular, and always sneering and shooting dirty looks at the Slytherins.

Peculiarly, she seemed to have made an exception for Granger, the sole Slytherin who was treated with any level of warmth or friendliness by her and indeed, any of the other Gryffindors. Lucius did not want to admit to himself how much time he’d spent ruminating over this unlikely friendship- specifically, who in Salazar’s stinking hell Granger was.

She was never seen associating with the other Slytherin girls, although Black, in fairness, held herself aloof and remote, not associating with anyone, and Camille mostly sought out Hera Yaxley in Ravenclaw. Lucius acknowledged that Slytherins were a guarded bunch- Pureblood society was intimate and tight-knit but undercut with a streak of competitiveness and rivalry; they would never be a House that all held hands and laughed and skipped with each other. Most Slytherins were only true, close friends with one or two other people, but Granger barely even interacted with anyone else in their House, never mind tried to ingratiate herself or strike up a friendship.

There was not even the most minute chance of her being Pureblood, which was a pity, because she was a bright and capable witch, always ready with the answers in every single class, and, infuriatingly, being quicker to grasp Wingardium Leviosa than himself, demonstrating a natural aptitude for wandwork. Half-bloods were a more and more necessary evil by the day, but Granger did not seem to even be a respectable one of those- he had never come across a Granger personally, nor had his brief search of the directories and newspapers in the library archives revealed any Grangers graduating from Hogwarts in the recent past, which could mean only one thing. She must be a half-blood in the basest sense- a Muggle father and a witch mother.

Lucius’ natural inclination was to balk at any kind of Muggle association of a Slytherin- it was truly baffling as to how the Hat would allow someone with such debased parentage into Salazar’s own house. It was made more galling by Granger’s complete apathy towards their house- the lessons they were unfortunate enough to share with the Gryffindors, she would sandwich herself between the Mudblood boy and the Macmillan girl, or share a desk cluster with the Prewett twins, and when they were with the other Houses, she would simply slot herself into the empty seat of a row of Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs. She would slip away like magic between lessons, despite Lucius’ best attempts to catch up with her, never lingered in the Slytherin Common Room, and sat surrounded by older Slytherins at mealtimes, where she would scarf her food and then disappear.

Lucius had begun to consider himself the de facto leader of the Slytherin first-years; by dint of his surname he was respected by even the older students, and whilst he held no great affection for Dolohov or Rowle or Jugson, they sought him out for homework help and let him have first use of the showers when they were nice and dry in the morning and always arranged themselves around him in their class seating, recognising their position in the natural order of things.

So he felt it was his responsibility to bring Granger into the fold- she may have a Muggle father who had tainted her wizarding identity with his filthy, plebian surname, but she was still a Slytherin, and it would not do for her to act like she wasn’t.

This was much easier said than done- Granger at least embodied one characteristic of their House and its emblem by being slipperier than a greased Bowtruckle to pin down. His and Avery’s sole successful attempt to ambush her in the classroom happened to be during a Herbology lesson where Professor Beery had bought in a trough of Bouncing Bulbs to repot- magenta orbs, pulsating with repressed energy and very liable to jump with wild abandon if not handled with the utmost delicacy, and thus conditions not at all suited for an interrogation.

Lucius resolved to put the mystery of Hermione Granger out of his mind for the afternoon- it was finally time for their first Flying lesson, which he had been eagerly anticipating since his arrival. The fact that they would be undergoing the session in their usual uniform robes gave an indication of how intense and strenuous the class wouldn’t be- it was frustrating enough that first-years were not eligible for the House teams, and even more irritating that the only opportunities he would have to engage in any kind of risky or thrilling flying would have to be at the whim of the generosity of Rabastan or one of the older boys, who were allowed to bring their own brooms.

It was an unseasonable mild day, for a Scottish September, when the first-year Slytherins and Ravenclaws followed Madam Hooch, a young witch with spiky black hair and sharp eyes, out onto one of the larger lawns behind the East Wing of the castle. An array of battered brooms were laid out in two rows, and Lucius and Avery stepped behind two of them. Lucius’ lip curled at the dented handle and the desiccated twigs spiking out jarringly from the brush, but he couldn’t help that quiver of anticipation at the thought of being free and whipping through the air, the wind rushing through his robes to give him that delicious and characteristic full-body chill that only came from flying. He caught Avery’s eye next to him and they grinned boyishly at each other, mirroring each other’s excitement.

Granger, in the opposite row and a few spaces down, he noticed, didn’t share his anticipation. She was pale-faced and chewing nervously on her lip as she listened to Hooch’s explanation of how to call a broom into one’s hand, and, hovering a few feet off the ground, demonstrated the fundamentals of balance and steering. Her unworthy Muggle father had almost definitely been unable to give the flying education she deserved, Lucius deduced, pityingly, but then Madam Hooch’s whistle sounded and with a whoop, he called his broom and leapt on it to take-off.

They weren’t allowed to go very high or beyond the invisible walls mapped out by the perimeter of the lawn, but simply the adrenaline of being in the air, the familiar thrum of the broom as Lucius bent his body along the line of the handle and pulled up, rocketing into an incline and then flattening out into a lap, made him let out a whoop, that was echoed by Rowle and Mulciber on his tail.

Avery held out his hand to slap his as he whizzed past in the opposite direction, and laughing, Lucius lapped the field, slowly inching his broom upwards on each subsequent one, hoping that Hooch wouldn’t notice his incremental incline. Only a few of the boys were flying as high as him, most of the class was contained to a respectable middle altitude, shrieking and laughing as they flew in wobbly clumps and wonky trajectories. Hooch, in her magenta robes, was nowhere to be seen, until he saw her bright coloured clothing standing next to a figure, firmly situated on the ground.

“What’s that about then?” Avery pulled up next to him, nodding towards the two figures. “Is that Granger with Hooch?”

Even over a hundred metres off the ground, Lucius didn’t know how he’d missed that distinctive cloud of brown hair. “You’re right, it must be. Why isn’t she flying?”

Avery had already started his descent, and Lucius pushed down on his broom handle to follow. They alighted on the ground nearby, to see Hooch clasping Granger’s forearm as she held it over the broom.

“Flying is a very intuitive magic, Miss Granger,” they heard her say as they drew close. “It’s not something that can be learned from a textbook- no matter how well you know the theory and the enchantment and the craftsmanship, if you don’t believe the broom can support you, or yourself capable of riding it, it won’t respond to you.”

Granger gritted her teeth, her cheeks flushing even further. “Up,” she said firmly, but the broom at her feet only limply rolled over.

“What the-” breathed Avery.

“More forcefully, Granger!” barked Hooch. “You’re in charge of the broom, you’re in control here- put that in your voice! It won’t heed you if- you there! Come back this instant!” This last bit was shouted upwards to where, by the looks of it, a nervous Ravenclaw flyer had started to drift sideways, squealing and wriggling fruitlessly as the broom lazily moved towards the copse of prickly firs that edged the lawn. With a blast of her whistle, Hooch kicked off and shot towards the student, leaving Avery and Lucius with Granger.

“Up! UP!” Granger demanded, but the broom juddered once and then remained obstinately still.

“Having trouble with that broom, Granger?” called Avery, and she looked up, her eyes bright with annoyance and frustration plain on her face.

“It doesn’t listen!” she spat out, dropping her hand and balling her fists. “I’ve no interest in flying anyway but I don’t understand why it won’t respond properly!”

“That no interest bit is key,” remarked Lucius mildly. “Brooms don’t respond well to obvious reluctance. Have you never flown before?” he asked genuinely. Brooms were a not uncommon method of transportation, particularly for families with young children who were sensitive to the sensation of Apparition or the Floo.

Granger blinked at him, and then drew herself upwards. “Can I try with your broom?” she asked tightly. “Mine is probably defective.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow but came to drop his broom in front of Granger, exchanging a glance with Avery as he did. The brooms were of an appalling standard, but despite Granger’s lack of success, he had at least seen it move slightly in response to her command, so it was definitely functional. Swapping would have little effect if Granger was incapable of summoning up the willpower and intent required to make a broom respond.

“I don’t know how you’re managing this,” snorted Avery, as they witnessed several more fruitless attempts. A shadow passed overhead and Lucius looked up to see Andromeda Black circling above them, watching their little trio. “Flying’s not for everyone, but anyone can summon a broom and get in the air, so I don’t know why you’re struggling with it. You don’t fly much I suppose?”

A strange look passed over Granger’s face. “No,” she said reluctantly. “I know how broomsticks work, though,” she rushed on, defensively. “The timber for the shaft comes from specifically cultivated trees grown at magical nexuses, such as Chiron’s Point in Gloucester, so that the wood can be imbued with natural magic, which, along with specific care regiments such as watering with fire-crab powder laced freshwater under full moons, results in broomstick-grade timber that is highly susceptible to mobility and safety enchantments like-”

Lucius couldn’t take much more of this rote recitation, delivered in a rushed jumble, the words tripping over each other. “Merlin, Granger,” he broke in. “Knowing any of that is useless in getting a broom to respond to you. How can you know so much about them and yet you can’t even get it to hover for you?”

“I’ve never ridden one before!” she cried, red blotches forming high on her cheeks. “I was nervous because I couldn’t find anything about how to fly in any of our assigned texts or anything else in the library, so I just started reading about their history and manuf-”

“What do you mean you’ve never ridden a broom before?” Avery asked, incredulously. “You mean… you’ve never sat on one either?”

“No.”

“As in you’ve never sat with your dad or brother or anyone when they were flying?”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Today was my first time ever coming anywhere close to a broomstick.”

Lucius was baffled. “How can you not come across a broomstick before? Do your family Apparate and Floo everywhere?” There was very obviously a key piece missing to this puzzle, but he was too bewildered by the increasingly flustered witch before him to make sense of it. Hooch’s whistle sounded in the distance, and the sounds of the students calling out to their friends grew slowly louder as they spiralled downwards to land.

 “I don’t know what a Floo is but we take the car anytime we need to go somewhere, both my parents drive.”

“A car?” exclaimed a revolted Avery. “Those Muggle metal boxes that roll on the road? Why on Earth does your family own one of those things?”

Granger straightened and lifted her chin imperiously. “My parents are Muggles,” she declared, her voice steady. “And Muggles drive, they don’t fly on broomsticks.”

Lucius blinked at her moronically. Next to him, Avery was equally dumbfounded, his mouth slightly agape. “Your parents,” he repeated disbelievingly. “You have two parents who are both Muggles?”

“Yes, I have two Muggle parents!” Granger’s voice was shrill and irritated, as if she had any right to be offended.

Revulsion rose in Lucius’ throat, acrid and foul-tasting. It had been bad enough when he thought she was a half-blood with a Muggle father, but to have an actual Mudblood in Slytherin House? He couldn’t fathom how something like that could happen- if he hadn’t been present at her Sorting and heard the Hat shout “Slytherin!” with his own ears he would have thought someone was having him on.

There had never been a Mudblood in Slytherin before, in the House’s entire history. The idea was insulting and abhorent in equal measure.

“You’re a Mudblood!” The furious words burst out before he could stop himself.

“I’m a what?” Granger frowned, clearly unfamiliar with the slur.

“Careful there, Malfoy.” Andromeda Black landed nearby, elegantly dismounting, her clothing unruffled and her gaze cool. “This isn’t Daddy’s study, full of Daddy’s friends. You can’t use whatever words you feel like.”

Lucius was already regretting his outburst- not because of the sentiment, never, but Black was unfortunately right. Even his Father would have clipped him around the head to hear him use the word in public. It doesn’t matter that everyone thinks it, that we all know they don’t deserve to be here, that they have magic through some freak accident. In front of people, we cannot show such obvious disdain. Put on a front of tolerance, boy, and never let anyone think you are the one without class or dignity.

But that was simply about Mudbloods existing in wizarding society- Lucius was sure Abraxas Malfoy would have reacted far more strongly than him at the idea of a Mudblood sorted into the house of Salazar Slytherin himself, a man who would rather be cast out of Hogwarts and exiled by the other Founders than compromise on his principles, than accept the children of Muggles and whatever bastardised magic they had stolen and practiced, than let them learn and study alongside the children of noble families who had cultivated their magic.

Granger was blinking fiercely- Black had obviously provided whatever small bit of context was necessary to parse the derogatory nature of the slur hurled at her. For some reason, the sight of her looking so pathetic, unable to even summon a broom, dishevelled from her expended emotional energy, drove Lucius’ disgust even further.

“How did a… Muggleborn like you end up a Slytherin?” The venom in Lucius’ tone made it quite clear what word he would rather be using.

The uncertainty threaded through Granger’s frame vanished- she straightened up, her eyes spitting fire. “Maybe you should consider how powerful my magic is that despite being Muggleborn the Hat put me in Slytherin,” she said fiercely.

Avery scoffed, and Lucius couldn’t believe his ears. “Powerful magic? You can’t even summon your broom! You’re a freak of chance and nature, you stole your magic, from witches and wizards better than you, purer than you, whose ancestors were hunted and persecuted by your Muggle ancestors!”

“Eh? Who’s got Muggle ancestors?” The rest of the class were slowly landing, and a sweaty and breathless Gabriel Rowle was disembarking behind him.

“Granger,” Lucius said savagely, beckoning Rowle over, “is Slytherin’s first ever Muggleborn.”

“First ever?” hooted Rowle, vicious glee lighting up his features. For the first time, Lucius was glad of Rowle and Dolohov’s more thuggish style of intimidation. “How d’you swing that one, Mudblood?”

Granger was pale, two spots of scarlet high on her cheeks. She opened her mouth, but Lucius would never know what she would have replied, because Hooch landed amongst them that same instance, barking out instructions and shouting for the stragglers to come in.

He could hear Rowle muttering to Dolohov behind him, caught one of the Ravenclaws whisper “Muggleborn?” before they were frantically shushed by their companion. Granger was staring straight ahead, but her discomposure was evident in her clenched fists and unfocused gaze.

Good, Lucius thought savagely. He’d be damned if he was going to let a Mudblood settle into Slytherin like she belonged.

Chapter Text

“Hermione, stop writing!” wailed Alice. “McGonagall only asked for ten inches- you’re showing the rest of us up!”

“You’ve barely done that,” snorted Cesare. “You don’t think McGonagall will notice your handwriting getting progressively bigger and bigger?”

“She should have specified her font size if she cared,” declared Alice, tossing her hair.

Hermione let their bickering wash over her as she read over her last paragraph and with a sigh of relief, laid down her quill. She was relieved to see that her writing, a month into the term, had far improved from the disjointed and irregular scratchings she had put to paper when she was first acclimatising to the archaic writing implements witches and wizards insisted on using. She thought wistfully of the pot of ballpoints on her desk at home.

“I think it’s only an inch or two over,” she informed Alice, tapping the parchment with her wand to dry the ink before rolling it up.

“The best one or two inches McGonagall will ever have seen,” Alice said glumly.

“Hermione’s an honorary Gryffindor- of course McGonagall will favour her,” Cesare smiled, knocking Hermione’s shoe with his.

“Absolutely nothing to do with Hermione being the best student in our year,” Alice snorted.

Cesare let out a yelp and scrambled to his feet- someone had knocked into Hermione’s chair, making her elbow skid forward and knock over her ink bottle, only loosely capped. A black spill of liquid flowed over the table, seeping into the textbook that Cesare hurriedly lifted, and Hermione’s freshly complete essay.

There was sniggering behind them; two third-year Slytherin girls, not even playing at subtlety or innocence as they swept away into the aisles of the library. Muttering his disgust, Cesare shook the loose ink off the textbook, and with trepidation, Hermione unrolled her essay. To her relief, only the title was marred by the ink spill, but she would either have to redo the essay or find a way to undo the damage.

“Arseholes,” growled Cesare, twisting in his seat to glare in the direction the girls had gone. He shot Hermione an apologetic look. “Might need your help cleaning this textbook up if we don’t want Madame Vent to ban us.”

Hermione studiously focused on the Siphoning Charm she was using to remove the ink from her homework. She caught Alice’s eye as she turned to take the book from Cesare. “Hasn’t gotten any better, I’m assuming?” Alice asked grimly.

Hermione sighed. “No. But I’m getting a bit more used to it, I suppose.”

The fateful Flying lesson, all the way back in their first week of Hogwarts, had set off an avalanche of whispers that followed Hermione everywhere she went from members of other Houses, and outright bullying and blatant ostracization from her own. Not for the first time, Hermione was furious at herself for not taking McGonagall’s advice about revealing her parentage on her own terms- instead, she’d been put in a corner by Lucius fucking Malfoy.

Christ above, even thinking his name made Hermione’s blood boil. That pointy-faced, stupidly blond, inbred leader of the Slytherin first-years that everyone else kowtowed to and took their cues from; so sneering, so arrogantly confident in his magic and his belonging, so eminently punchable. From the moment her Muggleborn status had been unceremoniously announced, it had spread like wildfire throughout the school- staring and whispers and aghast laughter followed Slytherin’s first Muggleborn everywhere she went in the castle.

It wasn’t all that bad- enough of the Hogwarts population didn’t ascribe to blood supremacy and were sympathetic to the challenges Muggleborns entering the wizarding world faced. Obviously Cesare was a blessing to have and know- someone to share a look of confusion with when Alice blithely used words like ‘Remembrall’ or ‘DMLE’ or ‘Knockturn’ in casual conversation; someone with whom she could puzzle out the casual intricacies of spell-casting like wand grip and the exact flourishes that were assumed knowledge for anyone who had grown up seeing magic; even someone with whom to talk longingly with about the Beatles and Jammie Dodgers and Goldie Hawn. Hermione was very fond of Alice- boisterous, eternally cheerful and optimistic, possessor of undented passion for everything- but Cesare’s quiet calm and solid presence was reassuring and grounding and felt like home.

Hermione was friendly with some of the other Muggleborns in their year- a Hufflepuff called Ted Tonks from Devon, sandy-haired and cheerful and, he confessed to Hermione when they were waiting outside Charms one time, the owner of a large collection of Brit-rock vinyls that he was trying to spell the magical gramophone in the Hufflepuff Common Room into playing; and Amaya Mistry, a petite Indian girl in Gryffindor who was Alice’s dormmate.

Surprisingly, she was also on good terms with a few of the other Gryffindors. She wouldn’t have thought they’d be able to look past her green-lined robes and emerald striped tie- Hogwarts: A History had made quite clear that the eventual fall-out between Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin had manifested in animosity and severe antagonism between their two Houses, and of all the class permutations the Slytherins had, their lessons with the Gryffindors were the most rigidly segregated. Fabian Prewett had reassured her that she wasn’t seen in the same vein as the other snakes, however.

“Well, there’s the Muggleborn thing which makes a fair few of the Gryffindors like you anyways,” he told her one time when he had dropped back to talk to her on a trek with the twins, Alice, Cesare and Frank Longbottom to the Owlery. “But then there’s also the hair.”

“The… hair?”

Fabian had tugged a lock of said hair. “I mean it’s not the same colours as ours although I definitely spy some brassy undertones, but me and Gid have decided that it shares the same spirit.”

“It’s true, we did.” Gideon had fallen back too, so that Hermione had been in a Prewett sandwich. “It’s untameable and wild and we have yet to witness it be successfully contained, so we wholeheartedly approve and have inducted you as an honorary Prewett.”

“Merlin knows we need the numbers,” Fabian had sighed. “You can take Molly’s place, not that it’ll do much- she only graduated two years ago and she’s pregnant…”

It was a relief like breaking through the water’s surface after not knowing which way was up, that Hermione had been enfolded into the bosom of the Gryffindor first-years. She had not yet been invited up to Gryffindor Tower, nor summoned up the courage to sit with them at mealtimes, instead favouring scarfing down her food as quickly as possible to minimise the time spent with her own hostile housemates, but more often than not, joined Alice, Cesare, the Prewetts, and Frank in the library, free periods spent in the courtyards and grounds, and sat with them whenever they shared classes.

Alice and Cesare in particular made an effort to spend as much time with Hermione as possible- she didn’t think she’d ever be able to verbalise to them just how grateful she was for them spending evenings in the library or the Great Hall with her when they would likely have both preferred to spend their free time in Gryffindor Tower. Those long stretches of time, where Alice would fill them in excitedly about castle gossip and Cesare would do pitch-perfect impressions of Slughorn’s rambling tangents that had led to them being kicked out by a furiously indignant Vent as the girls almost fell off their chairs laughing, were almost backlit with golden light in Hermione’s fond reminiscences.

Because of course there was no golden light to be found when Hermione would eventually trudge her way down to the Slytherin dungeons, intermittently placed torches offering only brief spates of relief from the shadowy passages, and the Common Room itself, suffused with a gloomy and murky green light, where mutters of “Mudblood” and hissed jabs about her hair and teeth followed her wherever she went. More often than not, she would go straight up to her dorm and draw the curtains around her bed- unlike Alice’s tales of female camaraderie and Cesare’s reports of late night games of Gobstones and chess, the Slytherin girls were not a tight-knit bunch. Camille seemed to spend just as much time away from the Slytherin quarters as she did, and Andromeda was a silent and aloof presence, only interacting with her when it came to necessary comments about the shared bathroom or their timetable.

It was still preferable to the low-level childish bullying she faced from the rest of the House- Dolohov knocking into her from behind, Rowle  causing her to spill her pumpkin juice at breakfast, Jugson standing on the back of her robes and causing her to stagger in the corridors, and all of it presided over by a stupidly smirking and sneering Lucius Malfoy.

Alice and Cesare could not fathom Hermione’s resignation to this treatment.

“I agree Sluggy will be useless, but you can surely go to McGonagall about this!” hissed Alice, as Hermione flattened out her now clean homework with a sigh of relief.

“I can’t,” Hermione said flatly. “That’s not how it works in Slytherin.” Even if Hermione’s tried and tested tactic for dealing with bullies hadn’t been to simply wait them out and ignore them, she was sure that running to the Head of Gryffindor House to tattle would win her no favours amongst the House she was destined to spend seven years with.

“Barmy, you lot,” said Cesare, shaking his head and tapping at the still drenched textbook ineffectually with his wand. “Gryffindors are straight-shooters, there’s none of this sneakiness and hypocrisy about House unity. If Gryffindors have a problem with each other, they sort it out face to face then get over it.”

“Not sure they’re ‘my lot’,” said Hermione drily, packing away her work in her bag. “Everyone said that Slytherins stick together and present a united front regardless of whatever internal squabbles are happening but they don’t mind picking on me openly, do they? Anyways,” she hurried on, as both Alice and Cesare opened their mouths to undoubtedly launch into more tirades about Slytherin back-handedness, “aren’t we late for practice?”

Predictably, Cesare’s face lit up and he leapt to his feet, hurriedly sweeping his things inside his bag. Alice and Hermione exchanged wry looks and followed their leaping and excited friend out of the castle and down to the Quidditch pitch.

Hermione was not even slightly sports-minded, and had vowed ardently to never set her bottom on a broomstick again if she could help it. She could pretend that her aversion to flying was rooted in her Muggleborn sensibilities which balked at the idea of long-distance transportation by any means that didn’t involve being cocooned in structurally sound metal in all six directions, but this excuse did not stack in front of one Cesare Zheng.

The Prewetts and Frank had been almost gibbering with excitement as they queued outside of the Potions classroom following their flying lesson, a bashfully grinning, red-cheeked Cesare the focus of their exuberant attention.

“-that hairpin turn was insane, Kyle Felim’s got fourteen Platinum Snidget Awards and probably couldn’t have pulled that off on his first flight-”

“-could have sworn I saw Hooch get all teary, she probably thinks she can coach you all the way to the national team-”

“-Moll said McGonagall is a closet Quidditch fiend and Dimcevski’s the most hardcore captain we’ve had in years, we could definitely try and get you on the team this year, Ces-”

“Cesare was amazing in our flying lesson just now,” whispered Alice, in response to Hermione’s quizzical look. “I can’t pretend to know the first thing about Quidditch myself but even I can tell he’s a complete natural on the broom, you’d never believe he’s a Muggleborn riding one for the first time.”

First years were not eligible for the House teams, but, buoyed by the fervent praise of his housemates and Madam Hooch herself, Cesare was determined to make the cut in his second year. Unfortunately, the way he had chosen to strengthen his case for the team was by dragging Hermione and Alice with him to watch all the Gryffindor team’s practices.

“Ugh, do my warming charm for me, Hermione,” complained Alice, her teeth chattering as they huddled in one of the stands of the stadium, the wind whipping icy daggers through the exposed flaps of their robes’ sleeves and collar, streaks of scarlet soaring overhead. “Mine’s not strong enough, I can feel it already wearing off.”

Hermione refreshed both hers and Alice’s warming charms, then did Cesare’s as well, although he was so fixated on the manoeuvres the team were executing that he likely didn’t feel even a jot of chill. She had brought her Defence textbook, hoping to use the forty minute training session to read ahead and maybe try out some of the jinxes they’d cover later in the year, but the shrill whistle that would sound every few minutes and Alice’s restless presence beside her was not conducive to an effective learning environment.

“He wouldn’t even notice if we snuck off, eh?” mumbled Alice.

“Don’t bet on it,” retorted Cesare, his gaze still trained on the flyers, and Alice and Hermione both sighed.

“What position do you wanna go for, Ces?” asked Alice.

Cesare shrugged. “Haven’t fully decided yet, but I used to play goalie in school, so that’s probably a transferrable skill. Keeper,” he clarified, to Alice’s wrinkled brow.

“Ooh, you’d walk right into the team!” exclaimed Alice. “Buchanan’s a seventh year, so next year they’ll be looking for a Keeper! Better chance of getting it if you don’t have to compete against an established player at the tryouts. Buchanan’s the Gryffindor Keeper,” she explained to Hermione, as if she hadn’t been able to pick that up. “He’s good, apparently, but maybe not enough to go pro, though it doesn’t matter when his dad’s old Nobby’s Senior Undersecretary and has a cushy job lined up for Buchanan in the Ministry right after he graduates.”

Hermione nodded- she had surmised through her hours in the library that whilst the Ministry of Magic did not map exactly to the British Muggle Parliament, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic was an integral part of the Minister’s equivalent to the Cabinet.

“He’s a good one, Buchanan,” continued Alice. “Pureblood, not Sacred Twenty Eight though, and his family went to America in the thirties and made big money, I think they opened an apothecary chain or something. Nobby’s biggest donors, as far as I remember, and it didn’t matter how much the Purebloods pushed back against them, that kind of money manages to make things happen.”

The problem with current affairs and contemporary wizarding politics was that despite all the books and political memoirs Hermione had pored over from the library in a bid to try and understand the magical governing system and the exact delineation of the strata of wizarding society, all the information she had found was more suited for academic purposes, or written by biased, agenda-driven Purebloods. Nobby Leach, Hermione knew, was the first ever Muggleborn Minister for Magic, but being only a year into his ministerial term, there was no mention of him in any book she had found. The library hosted an archive of the Daily Prophet, and Hermione had taken to digging through them to try and piece together a portrait of the zeitgeist of wizarding Britain that had led to Leach’s election.

Hermione had first-hand experience of the general disdain and bigotry towards Muggleborns- it was therefore difficult to fathom how, in a society where Professors and Prefects had to explicitly monitor her welfare simply for wearing a green tie, and sneers, slurs, and minor yet relentless physical harm followed her all over the castle, the son of a World War II veteran and the principal of a polytechnic, had risen to the highest post in a society where magical heritage was the only social currency of import.

“How did it make that happen?” Hermione enquired. Her foremost instinct when faced with a topic she didn’t understand would always be to do a deep -dive in the library, but Alice’s encyclopaedic knowledge of wizarding culture and gossip would probably fill in the blanks better than any reading Hermione could do. “As far as I know, most of the blood-purist Purebloods are rolling in gold too, so being backed by big donors hardly seems enough to get a Muggleborn elected. You’d have thought that having one running the country might even filter down into society’s attitudes towards Muggleborns but I can first-hand confirm that’s not the case.”

Alice hummed her agreement. “It’s difficult to believe, even though we’re living through it. A key factor was definitely Dumbledore’s backing- it’s no secret he’s partial and biased towards Gryffindors, but Nobby had to have had a good academic record anyways to get Head Boy, and that’s an accolade that always leads to opportunities if you leverage it right. Dumbledore was the one who’d have introduced him to department heads in the Ministry, progressive Purebloods who’d mentor a capable and charismatic Muggleborn. He built a pretty extensive network, not just sympathetic Wizengamot lords but also wealthy business magnates like Fleamont Potter, who founded Sleakeazy’s, and Myron Hamel, the owner of the Falmouth Falcons. So when, after about ten years spent working his way up through Magical Law Enforcement, he announced his ministerial bid, he had all that money and influence and connections ready to propel his campaign.”

“But I don’t understand how the Purebloods let that happen,” said Hermione. “I know the Wizengamot don’t have a say in the actual election process, but the majority of its seats are held by old Pureblood patriarchs who hate Muggles and Muggleborns and these men have just as much influence and sway as rich wizarding tycoons- more, in fact, considering they’re fiercely united in their mission to exclude from power anyone that doesn’t suit their agenda. Surely the Malfoys and Selwyns and Blacks had their own candidate to push, to keep control over the Ministry and wizarding politics?”

“They did- the only other candidate worth anyone’s time was Isaac Fawley, deputy head of the Auror Office, but there was some scandal that made its way to the tabloids to do with his German in-laws’ shady business dealings with black market sellers. Those old Purebloods have newspaper editors in their pockets, or at least inside access to them, so the fact that the story broke at all means Nobby’s backers definitely had a hand in it. That should have warned them that Nobby was someone to take seriously, but it happened so close to election day that they didn’t even have time to reconfigure. Largest victory margin in fifty years, all the headlines said. I mean, I’m sure he ran a strong campaign and had great policies- I was nine, I don’t remember any details- but without Fawley to oppose him, his way was basically clear. Once it happened, no one was too surprised.”

“But after it happened?” questioned Hermione. “I read Matthew Penwright’s From Druid Councils to the Wizengamot and it seems quite clear that there’s always been powerful Pureblood lobbyists to quietly pull strings or harass and intimidate to pass and block legislation as it suits them. It’s hard to believe they’d have just let Leach be.”

“Merlin, Hermione, you could have asked me earlier, I’d have told you anything you wanted to know, I’ve never been able to get through even a chapter of Penwright without my eyes crossing,” laughed Alice. “You’re right- he wasn’t left in peace. It probably took those old Purebloods a while to realise that Nobby wasn’t going to be a puppet for them, a tokenistic Muggleborn to fake progressiveness whilst they continued to shore up power and influence. By the time they understood he wasn’t someone they could manipulate with ease, he’d already started replacing the old guard with new blood loyal to him, and had enough donors that backed him that the threat of them withholding their money couldn’t accomplish anything either.”

Hermione frowned, as her mind raced ahead, layering over the sepia-washed underpainted canvas of context Alice provided with fine details from her own reading. “But any laws Nobby wanted to pass or new proposed legislation would have to go through the Wizengamot, most of its seats being held by conservative Purebloods that can block anything they don’t like the sound of, even with Dumbledore still as Chief Warlock. So at the end of the day, having a Muggleborn Minister doesn’t actually improve anything for Muggleborns or shift the attitudes of the general population, because he can’t pass anything that would make an actual difference. Which means Nobby ended up becoming a decorative figurehead after all.”

Alice frowned, twisting in her seat away from the Quidditch action to fully face Hermione, perhaps hearing her hollow tone. “Well it’s not quite as dire as that. Sure, he hasn’t freed up Wizengamot seats to allow Muggleborns in, or been able to impose Azkaban sentences for Muggle-baiting-”- Hermione’s stomach swooped at the mention of this activity she could quite easily surmise the premise of- “but his general public approval ratings are pretty high- he’s introduced measures that actually benefit wizarding society, so that goodwill ends up trickling down. Benny- my brother, he manages our family business- said that the new income tax waivers for British businesses that lower their local prices is very popular with smaller family-run businesses that were getting priced out by cheaper imported stuff from mainland Europe. All the old Pureblood families have branches in France or the Nordic countries, and throw their influence around to make sure they can infiltrate British markets and line their own pockets. Nobby put a stop to that, pretty conclusively. The Malfoys breed Abraxans, but they’re not allowed to bring in studs from their ranches in Iceland anymore- Nobby wants to push for British-reared Granians and Thestrals to replace them in all Ministerial pageantry. My sister-in-law Cecilia works in International Magic Cooperation- she said Abraxas Malfoy was stomping around the Ministry in a foul mood for weeks,” Alice said with relish.

Hermione pondered over this, as Alice turned back to the Gryffindor practice, exchanging comments with an enraptured Cesare. Alice had provided her with useful context that only she, someone who had grown up in a magical family, could do. It was no surprise that she could be picked on and isolated by an entire quarter of the student population quite openly, that her parents, despite their entreaties to McGonagall, were not allowed to see the boarding school their only daughter would be attending on the opposite side of the country for seven years, that it had taken three days of consecutive appointments with churlish goblins at Gringotts to complete the paperwork necessary to open an account. A Muggleborn may occupy the highest seat of political power in the country, but his opposition was comprised of ancient families ensconced in carefully cultivated family magic, the architects of modern magical society, who cared only about protecting their own interests and saw no value in creating an equitable society.

And the reminder of the Malfoys was sobering, because it wasn’t just far-off politicians and scions making deals and passing laws that wouldn’t affect her for years to come. It was their children and grandchildren, who made Slytherin House their personal fiefdom, who only cared about a united front and looking out for their own when it was their own, their own playmates and childhood friends and distantly related cousins through marriage and sons and daughters of Daddy’s business partners. It was Lucius Malfoy, the sneering and smirking puppeteer of all the bullying she faced, who had made her have to quietly corroborate with a stricken Morgana Gaunt the meaning of the slur that had slipped from his mouth as casually as a greeting, who would no doubt take pleasure in any missteps or social gaffes or lost marks on assignments, proof that she didn’t belong in the magical world.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, Hermione thought viciously. She would work harder than she had ever done before to make sure that ten years of living as a Muggle would not make her fall behind in her magical education, she would stomp down her pride and ask Alice, well-intentioned and kind Alice who didn’t have an arrogant bone in her body, to make sure she didn’t make any wizarding cultural faux-pas, she would be better and smarter and more powerful than the arrogant Slytherin sons, complacent in their inherited magic and familiar connections.

This new blazing ball of determination, baptised in the unprotected and icily cold uppermost tiers of Hogwarts’ Quidditch Stadium, burned in in Hermione’s chest as the Gryffindor training slowly wound down and the specks of scarlet spiralled slowly towards the ground. Alice caught Cesare’s shifty and yearning glances towards Kyle Buchanan and bodily dragged him down the stands and towards the castle, before he could loiter around the team as if to soak up their flying prowess.

Hermione was eventually drawn out of her reverie as Alice shrieked and wrestled with a flailing Cesare, playing up his desire to hang back with the Gryffindor team. It would have been easy for the clear shorthand between Alice and Cesare, the way they had settled into their roles of the nagging and worldly older sister and the exuberant, over-excited novice with an ease born of spending most waking hours together, to make Hermione feel excluded. But Alice and Cesare both dragged her into their conversations and painstakingly explained all their Gryffindor references and were so sincere and earnest in their friendship that it was very easy to settle into their dynamic and the space they had carved out, just for her.

Soon, Hermione was able to put her musings behind her, as the three friends linked their arms and made their way back up to the castle, Cesare enthusiastically expounding on the prowess and superiority of the Gryffindor team complete with vigorous hand gestures, as Hermione indulgently listened, trying her best to follow along as they stepped through the majestically carved doors of Hogwarts and into the hustle and bustle of the main entrance.

“Wait- no, I can’t,” Hermione protested, detangling their linked arms as Alice made to drag her into the Great Hall, dotted with small clusters of students half-heartedly perusing their textbooks and editing essays as they waited for the elves to send up lunch. The two Gryffindors turned to her with matching quizzical expressions, and she gave them an apologetic smile. “I have Charms with Hufflepuff right now.”

“You’re on late lunch?” Alice’s face was crestfallen.

“Yeah… I don’t… I’ll see you guys this evening, hopefully.” Hermione gave Alice and Cesare a feeble smile, as she pivoted on her heel and started picking her way through the crowd, heading up the north staircase towards the Charms classrooms on the third floor. Her ears were burning, and she was frustrated with herself for still, a solid three months into the term, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed anytime she was singled out or separated from her friends because of her House. She had a roughly equal split of classes with the three other Houses- she really should be much more used to having to separate from Alice and Cesare and obeying her own, different timetable.

It just felt so much harder, when they’d all been having a good time together, to watch the pair go off, laughing and bantering, as she trudged towards the sneers and jibes and cold-shoulders of the other Slytherins.

“Is that very wise, Mudblood?” There was a mocking, cool voice at her shoulder, and Hermione didn’t even have to turn her glare in that direction to recognise the speaker.

“You wouldn’t recognise wisdom if it was waiting in your bed,” she said coolly, lengthening her stride without trying to make it look like she was fleeing.

Lucius Malfoy was about half a head taller than her, and unfortunately had no problem matching her pace. She refused to give him even a crumb of recognition or her attention, adamantly staring straight ahead as she skirted a gaggle of lingering Hufflepuffs in the middle of the stairs, deftly hopping over a trick step as she reached the landing.

“How predictably crass of you,” came Malfoy’s sneer from behind her, and Hermione internally growled at her failure to shake him off. “You can lord your measly extra odd mark over me all you want, Mudblood- you’ll still end up waiting tables at the Leaky Cauldron, if you’re lucky.”

“If you spent as much time on your own homework as much as you do thinking about my career prospects, then McGonagall might have given you eighty-seven percent on the Gamp’s Laws essay,” Hermione said sweetly. If there was one thing, one single thing, that made life in Slytherin House tolerable, it was the dark looks and incredulous muttering as Hermione consistently and comprehensively scored the highest numbers in their year on every piece of homework they turned in.

“And if you spent less time scurrying after that bumbling pack of Gryffindor buffoons, you’d realise that they only let you follow them around because they pity you for how no one in your own House can stand to even put up with you,” Malfoy spat. “Macmillan and her two pet Mudbloods, chasing at her feet. If you want a Pureblood to pay you attention, there’s more than enough of them in Slytherin.”

Hermione felt a hot prickle in her nose, the well-known prelude to her angry tears and incoherent and formless rage, as with a final contemptuous look, Malfoy pushed past her and made his way into the Charms classroom. 

***

Dear Lucius,

I am glad to hear that your start at Hogwarts has been fruitful- these initial few months, even as a first-year, are imperative to establishing yourself amongst your peers and beginning to make important acquaintances and connections that may be an asset to House Malfoy in future. I had hoped that Horace would bear our long years of acquaintanceship in mind and perhaps allow you to attend one of his soirees or supper club- I have been made aware that Jared Finkle will be present at his Christmas do, and academic publishing is something it is never too early to think about- but whilst he has been known to extend an invitation to impressive third or fourth-years, it appears ten is a bit young to make the cut.

Your name will not be enough to open certain doors, and you must get into the habit of working harder and being better than everyone else. Lionel Flint, from the Board, mentioned something about a Mudblood being Sorted into Slytherin, and when the Board tried to appeal to the Headmaster's latent dignity and respect towards the sanctity of Pureblood traditions, the old coot was quite happy to share the Mudblood's academic transcript and show how she consistently tops her classes. Whilst we are both aware that her kind have a predilection towards cheating and dishonesty and are inherently inferior at magic, this means there is even less reason for you to come second to her in class.

I hope that your end of term assessment results are less disappointing.

Yours,

Father

Lucius could feel his ears burning, hot and red, as he lowered the parchment and tried to keep his face composed. 

"Everything alright?" asked Avery opposite him, his eyebrows raised.

"Fine," said Lucius brusquely, turning back to his porridge.

Looked like his inscrutable mask was another once-reliable tool in his arsenal that the Mudblood had ruined.

Lucius had known that it was only a matter of time before word of his academic performance got back to his father- Abraxas Malfoy may have stepped down from the Board of Governors a few years back, but he had plenty of people still eager to keep him updated on any on-goings, be they within the bowels of the Ministry or the lofty towers of Dumbledore's office.

But it was still galling, demeaning, for his father to throw the Mudblood's marks in his face like that. Questioning his hard work, his commitment to the family name and the Malfoy honour and their reputation for being the best and excelling and making it look effortless. Accusing him, in so many words, of being complacent and lazy and letting a Mudblood cheat her way into their professors' good graces.

Lucius knew he was better than everyone else his age- not just because of his name and the purity of his lineage and the undisputed standing of the Malfoy family in the entire Wizarding World, but because he had worked hard to make sure he was worthy of his surname. His parents had spared no expense on his tuition as a child, hiring specialist tutors for Latin and French and comportment and flying and dancing and the piano and wizarding history and his family history.

And yes, he had perhaps been a bit complacent when starting Hogwarts, knowing that none of the other Purebloods had had a pre-Hogwarts education as rigorous as his, none of their families had such a vaunted and iron-clad history of excellence as his did, but Lucius' half-hearted effort still netted better results than say, Dolohov, giving it his everything.

Upstart Mudbloods who hadn't even known the existence of magic until a few months ago had not factored into Lucius' plans.

Everyone knew Mudbloods were desperate scroungers and thieves, magical aberrations who had to rely on trickery and dishonesty to even keep up with their peers, cowards who reaped the benefits of the finest education the global magical community had to offer and then slunk back to their filthy Muggle lives and the world where their true allegiances lay.

It was the only explanation for how the Mudblood consistently managed to outperform him. Lucius would be the first to admit he didn't put quite as much effort in as he should have in the homework they were set in their first week… but the topics were simplistic and the effort was beneath him. That wasn't to say he was turning in sub-par assignments- anything with the Malfoy name on it could not ever be considered to be of inferior quality.

But when Flitwick had delivered back his essay on industrial uses of the Levitation Charm without even looking up at him from the floating pile of scrolls, before rapturously exclaiming "A fine, fine piece of writing, Miss Granger!" as he handed the Mudblood her essay, sitting there smugly and arrogantly flushed with victory, Lucius had been taken aback. This had been only their second week at Hogwarts, and Granger's Mudblood background had yet to be exposed, but Lucius was still suspicious as to how a complete nobody, who was definitely not a Pureblood, could have bested him.

And then it all made sense after that fateful flying lesson.

Lucius had seen the Mudblood scurrying along in the wake of a pair of Gryffindors, hovering on the outskirts of their cackling horde of buffoons, sitting straight-backed and alone in the empty front row of all their classes. It made sense, that someone as isolated and universally-disparaged and completely lacking in friends as her would have no qualms in using illicit means to gain advantages and scraps of status in at least some small facet of her life. He didn't know how she was doing it- the professors were surely not susceptible to talismans or Befuddlement Potions slipped in their pumpkin juice.

It was likely she was playing up the pitiful and beleaguered Mudblood angle- with her diminutive height and uncontrolled masses of hair and overgrown incisors, bleeding-hearts like Flitwick and McGonagall and even that fool Slughorn probably assumed her to be some savage or urchin, elevated from the filthy Muggle streets to the sparkling and fantastical word of magic, blinking piteously and dazedly around her at a world where she had no business being.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried, Lucius thought to himself, with gritted teeth, as he and Avery and the other Slytherin boys made their way from the breakfast table and headed out of the main doors, down to the humid and magical lichen-festooned greenhouses for Herbology. He was a Malfoy, his family the richest in England and certainly amongst one of the most affluent globally too. Nobody pitied a Malfoy, and he didn't want them to. He'd show them exactly who he was, and why he deserved their respect and adulation.

And he had to keep repeating that to himself, as the Mudblood, who had been completely absent in the Great Hall during the morning meal but was now sandwiched between her two Gryffindor dimwits, giggling and fixing each other's apron straps and gasping delightedly as the Flutterby bushes they were trying to take cuttings of sent cascades of delicate green leaves in their faces, kept jumping with her hand in the air at each question Beery asked, grinning conceitedly with every handful of points the doddery Professor awarded Slytherin.

Lucius watched her, and seethed.

***

"Now, I am aware that the idea of duelling might seem intimidating or dangerous, particularly if you've only ever seen pictures in the papers of combat duels where the intention is to incapacitate and damage. But duelling does not have to be lethal or injurious at all- it can also be done as an exercise to test and expand ones casting repertoire, hone reflexes, teach you to be creative with what spells you use and how you use them…"

Hermione tried to discreetly wipe her clammy palms on her robes, as Professor Elayne Jamford enthusiastically introduced that afternoon's Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson to a crowd of nervously eager first-year Slytherins and Ravenclaws. It didn't matter how much Jamford tried to allay any possible concerns about the danger and risk of bodily harm from the exercise, and it didn't matter that Hermione logically knew that a classroom of first years nearing the end of their first term of magical education would hardly be capable of much damage… she was still tense.

She glared at the backs of the heads of the jittery and excited first-years- rationally, she knew their palpable anticipation was because of the chance to finally try something physical and active in DADA after weeks of book-work and theory, to engage in an exercise as adrenaline-inducing, showy, and reputationally impressive as duelling; not because she was surrounded by seasoned and accomplished ten-year old duellists.

Hermione was just never as good at any kind of physical activity as she was at bookwork. She was good in Potions labs, her weakest class, but she still had to work hard and thoroughly prepare all the theory the night before. She had been just as successful at flying as she had been at the balance beam in primary school, which was to say… not very.

And it didn't help that Slytherin didn't have DADA with Gryffindor, where she would at least be able to be with her friends, but with the House who's members, for whatever reason, most closely shared Slytherin's values and attitudes.

"Your partners don't matter, we'll be rotating at random every five or ten minutes!" called Jamford, as the class broke out into excited chatter, dispersing from the knot they had formed and separating into pairs as the instructions wound down. "And remember, the only spells we'll be using today are the Shield Charm and the Disarming Spell! And they are…?"

There was a grumbling and dissonant chorus of "Protego" and "Expelliarmus" as each pair of duellists began to space out- Hermione looked around wildly, letting out an internal sigh of relief as she caught Martin Hedges' eye- the plump, curly-haired Ravenclaw didn't look very happy to be paired up with her, his gaze darting around for rescue, but he was still stepping towards her, his wand dangling loosely from his hand, and all Hermione needed was a first partner- Professor Jamford would probably assign the rest.

"So, let's start with you casting a Shield Charm and me trying to get through, before swapping, and then we can try and test our reflexes and see if we can throw up a Shield at the last minute to defend against a Disarming, a bit more like proper duelling." If there was one thing that being isolated and given the cold-shoulder by the entirety of her House and large fractions of the others had done, it was slowly help her develop an outwardly cool and self-possessed façade, and Hermione was glad her voice was impassive and level as she instructed Martin.

Martin gave a grudging nod, and took a few steps backwards, before summoning his Shield.

"Protego!"

Perhaps because the exercise itself was fairly rudimentary, not really requiring much physical exertion or thinking on one's feet or razor-sharp reflexes; or because all of Hermione's hours in the library and the rabbit-holes she'd easily and often disappear down, following a reference from one textbook to the next periodical to the next journal, ravenous for knowledge of the base fundamentals of magic, but Hermione was near giddy with pleasure at how well the duelling practice was going.

Luck was on her side too, in fairness. Hermione's Shield was strong and solid, and Martin's Disarming wasn't; when they turned to practicing their reflexes, his flourishing and expansive wand movement meant Hermione was able to throw up her Shield well before his spell came anywhere close to her.

Jamford whisked Hermione away, depositing her in front of a faintly disgusted looking Hera Yaxley- Hermione had little to no interaction with the Ravenclaw that Camille preferred to spend most of her time with instead of her own House mates, beyond the glacial stares and sneers she would throw her way. It was satisfying, then, to break through Camille's flimsy Shield, and send her wand clattering out of her hand as Camille let out a gasp and fumbled for it.

Even more satisfying was her bout against Dolohov.

"I think this will be an interesting match-up," said Jamford cheerily, steering Dolohov towards Hermione, and Hermione hoped her face didn't visibly blanch at the sight of the stringy Slytherin strutting towards her, glee dancing in his eyes. Hermione liked Professor Jamford- she was young, only in her early thirties, and whilst she dressed in severely-cut and plain but expensive looking monochrome robes, she had an unusually upbeat and patient disposition for a DADA professor.

But she was either rubbish at reading the room and the dynamic between two people, or deliberately and cheerfully ignoring it.

Dolohov's gaze tracked Jamford as she glided away to correct Charlotte Clearwater’s casting posture, and shot back to Hermione as soon as the professor was out of earshot. "You should be glad this isn't a proper duel, Mudblood," he jeered, not making any particular effort to keep his voice down. Hermione could feel the darting gazes of the duelling pairs around them. "There's some jinxes I've learnt from my cousin that I've been in the market for a test subject for."

Hermione ignored him, marking a few steps backward and watching Dolohov coolly. The Slytherin boy was tossing his wand from hand-to-hand, and Hermione felt a stab of nervousness at the thought he might actually try one of those jinxes. Logically, she knew he wouldn't dare- Jamford was no push-over and would definitely hit him with at least a points deduction, and Dolohov didn't quite have the same Pureblood clout as Malfoy or Black or Avery, wouldn't scoot away blame-free for rule-breaking.

Still…

"Protego!" There was a silver flash, and one or two of their neighbours let out gasps at the sight of Hermione's Shield- thrumming with magic, a visibly hazy barrier separating her from Dolohov, his sneer distorted by the translucent charm hanging between them into something even uglier.

"Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus!"

The pale yellow streaks of light Dolohov shot towards Hermione fizzled dejectedly against her Shield, his increasingly frustrated casting having no effect on the strength or effectiveness of his Disarming. Hermione couldn't help smiling the smallest of smug grins- her magic was fizzing through her, she felt alive, and to show up a brute like Dolohov, and his stupid Pureblood supremacy doctrine-

"I hope you're pleased with your charm, Mudblood," snarled Dolohov, his eyes glittering with malice. " 'Cause you'll need it to protect yourself, you uppity, filthy-"

"Twenty points from Slytherin, Mr Dolohov," came Jamford's frosty voice from behind him, and the boy whirled around as the professor waved her wand to disperse Hermione's Shield. "Whilst I am certain you weren't actually going to say what I think you were, that tone is in no way appropriate to use with one of your peers."

Jamford's gaze landed on Hermione, warming considerably. "Excellent Charm, Miss Granger," she said approvingly. "One of the strongest Shields we've had in this class- with some more building of your stamina, I'll be interested to see how long you can manage to hold it." 

Hermione flushed with pleasure, but her blood ran cold as Jamford ushered a scowling Dolohov away, Lucius Malfoy stepping up to take the place opposite her.

"What do you say, Granger?" Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard Malfoy not call her Mudblood before, and it took her a long second to realise he was addressing her. His gleaming blond hair was neatly parted and slicked down, and he twirled his wand between his fingers as he watched her with cool grey eyes. Hermione discreetly adjusted her own tie at the sight of his perfectly knotted green one, his robes still immaculately pressed and uncreased. "Let's see how your magic fares against mine."

Hermione wiped her clammy hand on her robes, adjusting her grip on her wand. The back of her neck was hot, whether because of her thick hair or because of the interested looks from her classmates that she could feel the weight of. Malfoy straightened, and with an elegant sweep of his wand and a murmured "Protego", he cast his charm.

Not as strong as hers, Hermione noted with satisfaction. Malfoy's smirk was much clearer than Dolohov's sallow face had been, and Hermione drew some confidence from the fact.

Her first Disarming spell was a rich golden colour, arcing away from her wand and colliding with Malfoy's Shield before dissipating gently. Hermione took a deep breath, tried to calm her nerves- she had read about repetitive casting, pored over duelling championship match reports, knew how much of magic was belief and trust in one's own power.

"Expelliarmus!"

The second try was an even brighter flash of colour, and Hermione didn't know if it was the magic or the sight of Malfoy's disappearing smirk that sent confidence rushing through her as his Shield shuddered ever so slightly.

"Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus! Expelliarmus!"

There was a ringing in Hermione's ears- she lowered her trembling wand arm, knitted her fingers together to flex them. The spells she had thrown at Malfoy, thick and fast, had been strong; vibrant streaks of gold, her magic rushing through her like an inescapable tsunami, but Malfoy's Shield was holding strong, despite her best efforts.

His arm was trembling with effort too, a slight dampness along his hairline as he lowered his wand, the Shield falling away. "Well it was a good try, for a Mud-"

"Expelliarmus!”

Malfoy let out a shout of surprise as Hermione's Disarming spell caught him, his wand spinning out of his hand, clinking gently to the floor between them.

There was a stunned silence- whether it was the whole classroom, or because the adrenaline roaring through Hermione was drowning everything out, or because Lucius Malfoy's outraged and furious gaze as it darted from the wand on the floor between them up to Hermione's face was so delicious-

"You-"

"Oh well done, Miss Granger!" Jamford popped up between them, grinning manically. "Some very proficient casting there- it's nice to see your offensive spells are no less strong than your Shield charms!" She ducked to gather Malfoy's wand and held it out to him. Malfoy reached for it slowly, his hot gaze still fixed on Hermione, who stared defiantly back, exhilarated relief pounding wildly through her limbs and making her feel slightly light-headed. "You want to be a bit more careful, Mr Malfoy! A proper duel isn't over until either you or your opponent is disarmed, and whilst that wasn't quite the aim of today's exercise, Miss Granger has grasped a principle of duelling that's important for everyone to remember!"

The bell drowned out whatever else Jamford was about to say, and there was a flurry of movement as the students began to coalesce and stream out of the room, Malfoy a firmly rooted rock in their midst, his searing hot gaze boring into Hermione even as she turned away to collect her bag and stow her wand away. There was a turbulent cocktail of emotions churning within her- elation and pride at besting him, even if she did have to be a bit… Slytherin about it; a faint sense of disquiet at having embarrassed the architect of Hermione's bullying in the Slytherin quarters and the possible repurcussions of their classroom duel; but layered above it all, dampening every other feeling, was a nervy sense of defiance.

Hermione would not throw practice duels or only write the minimum length for an essay, just to appease her bigoted house mates who wanted to box her into the narrow and repressive categories their sneering ancestors had drawn up generations ago. She was an excellent witch, her magic was powerful, she deserved her place at Hogwarts just as much as they did.

So she held Lucius Malfoy's furious gaze as she stalked past him, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she left the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Chapter Text

"… I really like Cece, don't get me wrong. She's just at that bit of pregnancy where her due date is around the corner and all she can talk about is how much she wishes she was done with it. And that's the cue for all my aunties to start sharing their gnarly birth stories, in full graphic detail- I feel like I lived Aunt Emilia's pre-eclampsia with her.”

"Done!" Hermione announced triumphantly, carefully laying down her quill. She enjoyed History of Magic, no matter how hard Professor Binns tried to suck all the animation or intrigue out of it, and the research for their essay about medieval centaur wars, one of the last ones before the Christmas holidays, had been interesting.

"Oh, finally!" Alice threw her arms in the air dramatically, swinging back down from where her chair was precariously balanced on its back two legs. "We're gonna get enough homework over Christmas, Hermione- don't exhaust yourself for Binns, of all the professors. Anyway, they care far more about the holiday homework than the work they set just before term finishes."

"Wouldn't be our Hermione if she didn't treat every homework like it was vital for her NEWT grade," said Cesare affectionately, and Hermione stuck out her tongue at him as she rolled up her essay.

"And I love her for it, I really do- I'd just quite like to not spend our last week before the holidays cooped up in the library," lamented Alice, and she did have a point, so Hermione hurriedly packed everything in her bag as neatly as she could with her friend prodding her along and thrusting her reference books at her haphazardly.

The idea of going home, to her firmly Muggle parents and her exceedingly ordinary and suburban house where the staircases were stationary and door handles didn't grumble at you and the lighting came from shiny and dependable electric fixtures and not flickering torches that melancholy ghosts were wont to cluster around whilst theatrically mourning their lack of sensation, was slightly surreal to Hermione. Her first term at Hogwarts had passed slowly initially, time stretched obstinately thin across days filled with nervy silences in her dorm room and the lonely, isolating feeling of having to scurry and avoid her housemates and the unfamiliarity and ever-present, quietly humming anxiety of being other; before trickling past faster and faster, the sneers of her Pureblooded peers making her roll her eyes instead of shy away, the feeling of blossoming under the praise of her professors, the glow that warmed her better than any hot drink borne from the constantly strengthening feeling of rightness of her magic, her comfort with Alice and Cesare and the other Gryffindors .

She would miss it, she realised, as she followed her friends out of the library, tinsel-bedecked suits of armour lining the walls and jubilant portraits calling out season greetings as they reached the more central corridors of the castle. Hermione turned the thought cautiously over in her mind, the feeling of the idea unfamiliar on her tongue. She hadn't thought, when dread was gnawing on her stomach as she silently sat at the Slytherin table for the Welcoming Feast, that she'd ever feel such fondness for Hogwarts, that there would be even faint reluctance to go back home to her ordinary, suburban, magic-free life.

Not because she had succumbed to the derision aimed her and her parents' way, but in spite of it. She had risen above the taunts and snide remarks and casually whispered slurs the other Slytherins pelted her with; shrugged off the condescending pity from even the more well-meaning of her peers; looked Lucius Malfoy in the eye and bested him, comprehensively and unquestionably. It no longer hurt or made her flounder that her housemates purposefully shunned and isolated and reviled her; she didn't need them to make her feel like she belonged. Her being a witch, her having magic, her place at Hogwarts- none of it was contingent on their approval.

She knew she belonged in the magical world, and there was no one that could take it away from her.

“You look a bit too cheerful for someone who won’t be seeing me or Alice for an entire month,” Cesare pouted, and Hermione realized a small smile had crept on to her face. She let it grow, flinging an arm each around her friends, feeling suddenly giddy and euphoric.

“It’s almost Christmas!” she exclaimed, squeezing Alice and Cesare towards her, Alice staggering inwards with a laugh. “We should all be cheerful!”

“Yeah, if anyone’s not going to be cheerful, it’s me,” said Alice. “You two can talk on your Muggle tellies whenever you want, I’ll be left out the entire holidays.”

Cesare tutted. “It’s a telephone, first off- a telly is completely different and far too complicated to explain to you. And you’re acting like it’ll be complete radio silence from you all of Christmas- send an owl!”

“Owls take so long!” Alice exclaimed dramatically. “It’ll take days for Murphy to get from Devon to Leeds!” She nudged Hermione affectionately. “Luckily, South London isn’t quite as far- might save myself the effort of talking to you, Ces, focus only on Hermione.”

“I think I deserve that,” said Hermione lightly, as Cesare spluttered. “You two are joint at the hip most of the time, having fun whilst I’m made to suffer the Slytherins.”

Her tone had been completely joking; Hermione had become secure enough in her friendship with Alice and Cesare that no part of her wanted to make a dig at the Gryffindor duo, but they both sobered instantly.

“It’s not still that bad, is it?” Cesare asked tentatively.

“We really don’t ever mean to exclude you!” burst out Alice, seizing Hermione’s hand. “We miss you all the time- I’m always storing little anecdotes in my head to tell you when I next see you, and me and Ces, even Fab, Gideon, Frank, the other Gryffindors- we make references to you all the time… you know, “Hermione did warn us that Sluggy was going to set the essay on nocturnally gathered ingredients, why didn’t I make notes?” … I mean, it’s not just academic swot stuff like that…”

“Stop, stop,” interjected Hermione. “I was joking- Alice, I know you don’t exclude me, I never feel like I’ve missed out on loads of things when I see you all after a while- it’s like I’m in Gryffindor with you. And it isn’t that bad, Ces- it hasn’t gotten much better, that’s true, but I’m much better at dealing with it. There’s only so many times you can be called a Mudblood before it stops meaning anything, you know?”

“You shouldn’t have had to get used to it,” frowned Alice. “I know Prefects and professors can be a bit useless, but you can go to Sluggy… okay, maybe not him, but you said McGonagall herself told you to come to her with any issues.”

“Yes, ratting on my rabidly exclusionary housemates to the Head of Gryffindor will definitely endear me to them,” said Hermione dryly. Alice opened her mouth to protest, but Hermione held up her hand, pre-empting her argument. “I really do appreciate the advice, and how much you guys care, but it really doesn’t work that way in Slytherin- you guys won’t understand. The best thing I can do is ignore them- they’ll have to get used to me eventually, and I’m sure it’ll all wind down with time.”

“I mean, it could have already started,” offered Cesare, purposefully injecting levity into his voice. “Malfoy, Dolohov, the rest- you mentioned they’ve more or less let you be and left you alone after that DADA class where you duelled Malfoy. That sounds like you’ve intimidated them- maybe they’ve realized you’re not to be messed with.”

Hermione knew Lucius Malfoy well enough to confidently say he was not intimidated by her, and by the faint expression on Alice’s face, she also agreed.

“Could be,” she said instead, breezily. “I’m glad people are realizing they don’t want to get on the wrong side of my wand. Anyway, I have no interest in continuing to wonder what Lucius Malfoy thinks of me- Ces, when does your family open their Christmas presents? I’ll have to borrow an owl to send yours- my parents didn’t want to get me one upfront because they just didn’t believe me when I tried to explain that they’re the main mode of communication for wizards, so I need to leave enough time for a probably much slower owl to get all the way to Leeds.”

They had reached the Great Hall by this point- dainty flurries of snow spiralling down from the enchanted ceiling, clusters of glittering baubles in House colours levitating in mid-air, enormous firs draped with garlands of pearlescent, silver bubbles and crowned with actual fairies. Hermione couldn’t help but feel a frisson of delight- she loved Christmas as it was, but her first magical Christmas made her feel like a child again, struck dumb in wonder at the sight of all the colours and sparkles and lights of the festive period, believing in magic before she’d ever known it was real.

Alice towed her over to the Gryffindor tables, wending her way down the aisle that separated them.

“Alice! Hermione, Ces!” Frank Longbottom waved at them frantically, beaming a toothy grin as he gestured for the Prewett twins to shuffle across the bench and into Jenna Lamb. Hermione swung herself onto the seat next to Fabian, who immediately began inundating her with questions about Muggle Christmas traditions.

“So the Muggle queen isn’t in your house, but you can see and hear her like she is?” he kept asking.

Hermione ate more than she ever usually did- at breakfast she would either come as early as she could in order to take advantage of the mostly deserted Slytherin tables, and dinners were too difficult to reliably and regularly sync with her Gryffindor friends' timetables, resulting in her nervously picking at her food, hyper-aware of her surroundings.

But it was the last week of school before the holidays- ostensibly, the last day, with a pared back schedule for the Friday, consisting mostly of homework submissions. Hermione was in the bosom of the Gryffindor tables, surrounded by her friends, by people who didn't give a fig who her parents were or how much she had known about Hogwarts before getting her letter.

So she laughed at Fabian's bemusement and tipped the most charred of her broccoli onto Frank's plate and argued over Bridge Over Troubled Water with Cesare and made coy remarks about what Alice should expect for her Christmas present and laughed until she almost snorted pumpkin juice at Gideon's impersonation of a boozed-up Slughorn.

"You coming back with us, after?" called Fabian across the table, drawing Hermione away from her discussion with Frank about the next term's Herbology curriculum.

"After?" asked Hermione, and Frank slapped his hand down on the table.

"Yes! Come with us, back to the Gryffindor Tower!"

"Back to… are you guys mad? I can't go in the Gryffindor Tower!" spluttered Hermione.

"Of course you can!" cried Alice. "No one's stopping you, you're always the one who's made it weird whenever we've invited you."

"I mean as a general rule Slytherins are very much banned from our Common Room," said Gideon, throwing up his hands in protest when Alice turned a furious glare on him. "I was just speaking generally! Hermione doesn't count, she's more one of us than she is one of them. I was just saying… ugh never mind, just come, Hermione!"

"We have an Exploding Snap leaderboard in the Common Room, amongst us first-years," Cesare told her. He stretched his arms out in front of him, cracking his knuckles and shooting Hermione a wink. "I wouldn't mind a bit of healthy competition- it's too easy trouncing all of this lot."

"We won't keep you all night," Alice reassured her quietly, as Frank and the twins started up loud and indignant protests. "Plenty of time for you to get back before curfew, although you're always welcome to stay the night in my dorm- the girls like you, it wouldn't be an issue at all."

 "No it's fine… I'll make sure I leave with plenty of time," Hermione hastily said.

Cesare elbowed her, waggling his eyebrows. "So you are coming then?"

Every eye around Hermione was fixed expectantly on her, and Hermione felt her already fragile resolve crumble. "It's the end of term," she laughed eventually. "Why not?"

Alice grabbed her in a tight hug whilst all the boys whooped and pounded the table. "Why does this feel so monumental?" she cried, and Hermione joined her in hysterically giggling, clutching her back. "Hermione Granger in Gryffindor Tower, at long last!"

It didn't feel that monumental, Hermione realised, as she followed the gaggle of Gryffindors out of the Hall and up the unfamiliar, steep and winding corridors that led to Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps a small part of the Slytherin identity had wormed its way inside her and sank its fangs in- Hermione had always balked at the idea of going into the Gryffindor heartland, despite the guarantee that it would definitely not be as unwelcoming as her own Common Room. Perhaps it was the faint unease at how this step, of being welcomed and invited into the territory of her own House's fiercest rivals, would be perceived by the other Slytherins; perhaps it was the disquiet at how she would be perceived by the other Gryffindors who only saw her green tie and placed her just as easily in a box as her own housemates; perhaps she didn't want to be confronted with a sense of aching loss, seeing what she could have had, in the House she should have been sorted into, with friends she could have called housemates, her pariah status in her own House thrown into even sharper relief.

But she had found her equilibrium, found some sense of surety, no longer felt as inadequate as she had at the start of the year. She wasn’t scared of anyone- not Lucius Malfoy, not the other Slytherins, and not some nameless Gryffindors who might sneer at her for the badge on her robes.

“I know it’s a bit of a workout, but you get used to it,” chuckled Fabian, as Hermione patted the sweat off of her hairline and grimaced at him as she tried to catch her breath. The route to Gryffindor Tower went twice as high as that to the Slytherin dungeons went low; riddled with teetering staircases that wound and wound and wound, upwards and into infinity.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” announced Frank grandly, and Hermione blinked as the faded and faintly cracked oil painting of a lady in a bower wearing a flouncy pink dress swung open to reveal the Gryffindor Common Room.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Cesare declared theatrically, pulling her in behind him, everybody else piling in after them, pulling off robes and loosening ties and flinging themselves into armchairs.

The Gryffindor Common Room was cozy and gently illuminated by warm, ambient lighting, courtesy of the crackling fireplace; the floor piled with an eclectic mix of rugs and crowded with creaking armchairs and buoyant pouffes; red and gold banners draped all over the ceiling, lion motifs carved on every wooden surface. Hermione couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of wrongness, despite the comforting and homely aesthetic; it was just so diametrically opposite, in mood and colour palette and literally every possible sense, to the Slytherin Common Room.

“Come on, Hermione, we need to deal you in!” Gideon called, patting the over-sized russet floor cushion next to him, and Hermione made her way over, dropping down next to Cesare.

“I won’t go easy on you,” he told her seriously, cutting the deck fluidly before deftly dealing the cards. “Doesn’t matter that you’re new or you can’t be on our leaderboard.”

“Ah, come on Ces, we can put Herms on it,” called Frank, and Hermione shuddered with revulsion.

“You are absolutely not to call me that,” she told him, and he shot her a wink.

“Beat me and I won’t,” he teased.

Hermione seized her cards and smirked her most Slytherin smirk back.

The night was carnage- the twins got into an actual tussle over a disputed Snap, Cesare’s violently aggressive slapping hand combined with the pile detonating at the exact right time almost broke Hermione’s pinky, and Alice’s strategy to crouch close to the action so as to not be hindered by the flickering light quite literally blew up in her face and singed her fringe.

“I told you to cast a Lumos!” she shrieked at Frank, soot dusted across her face like a domino mask, her hair radiating stiffly outwards from her head, as everyone doubled over in laughter. “This is your fault!”

Hermione almost couldn’t breathe from laughing- it didn’t matter that Cesare outplayed her by a country mile, or that her fingertips were red and raw from rarely seizing her hand back in time; they were all of them swept away on a tidal wave of that dizzy exhilaration that comes from being silly with friends into the wee hours, even Alice, who couldn’t help but break out into reluctant giggles.

“You definitely won’t stay the night?” she asked eventually, propping herself up on her elbows from the beanbag she had collapsed into.

Hermione heaved a huge sigh and pushed herself to her feet, stretching. “No, I should head back,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Curfew’s in half an hour.”

“Rematch soon, Herms?” called Cesare cheekily, as Alice hopped to a standing position and pulled Hermione into a hug.

She stuck her tongue out at him over Alice’s shoulder, as the other boys called their goodbyes.

“See you tomorrow in Charms, Hermione,” said Alice, pulling back the portrait frame for her, and Hermione murmured a tired agreement as she gracelessly climbed down, and carefully made her way down the endless flights of stairs.

It luckily wasn’t too difficult to navigate from the unknown and labyrinthian nest of twisting staircases and corridors that led to Gryffindor Tower- Hermione just kept going down and down the flights of stairs, until she finally alighted onto a familiar landing central to the castle. Despite it being comfortably before the eleven pm curfew, Hermione only passed a harried looking Hufflepuff, a teetering pile of books floating before him and presumably on his way back from the library; she couldn't help quickening her step, eager to be safely back in her dorm.

It took her a while to register what was different- she actually kept walking down the gloomy corridor until she hit a dead end, her way blocked by steel bars set in the floor and stretching up into the low ceiling. She shook her head and retraced her steps- it had been a while since she had last gotten lost in the Hogwarts dungeons, but perhaps the late hour was responsible.

But as Hermione rounded the corner to where she knew the Common Room entrance would be, she realised that she hadn't gotten lost.

The Merlin statue was gone.

Not gone, she noticed, with dawning horror.

Broken. Smashed into pieces on the ground, distinctive green-edged scorch marks on the ground making it evident it was a purposeful act of magical vandalism. Chunks of jagged grey stone littered the ground around the empty plinth, a fine layer of ashy powder dusting the flagstones and gleaming dully in the low light.

"No, no, no," Hermione muttered, falling to her knees just before the rubble, her wand clutched so tightly in her hand that the decorative handle bit into her palm. A jolt of relief shot through her as she spied the smoothly polished and tapered stone wand and Merlin's shattered thumb, lunging for the broken piece and piercing the tip of her index finger as she usually did.

But it was no good- the wall in front of her remained unresponsive, and there wasn't even the faint shock that usually came with the magic recognising her as a Slytherin.

Hermione realised she had jabbed the deceptively sharp stone wand tip so deeply into her finger that pain was lancing through the entire digit- shakily, she pulled it out, wrapped the edge of her black robes around the bleeding.

Stay calm, she told herself firmly, tamping down any panic. It would do no good to wonder who had done this, nor how this could happen, how there weren't some sort of wards or magical safeguards to prevent damage to the sole entrance of the living space of a quarter of the school's population.

She quickly ruled out going back up to Gryffindor Tower- she didn't know the exact way, and the caretaker, Argus Filch, was infamous for relishing handing out the strictest of punishments for the most minor of infringements, so she didn't want to risk violating curfew. She doubted he would be understanding of her predicament- reporting the vandalism would absolutely not be worth a detention spent manually polishing the silver in the Trophy Room.

Anyway, it wasn't unlikely that someone would come out- it was only quarter to eleven, and the older Slytherins particularly took curfew as more of a suggestion than an iron-clad rule. She might not have friends that would report her absence, but it seemed unlikely that the destruction of the statue would prevent anyone from leaving the Common Room. Someone was sure to stumble across her before long.

Hermione found a clean patch of floor, and sat down facing the wall where the entrance would open, arranging her robes underneath to provide as much cushioning as possible from the unforgiving cold of the dungeon.

And she settled into wait.

***

"Hermione? Hermione, wake up!"

The half-daze Hermione had shallowly been paddling in receded abruptly- she jolted awake, suddenly acutely aware of the painful crick in her neck, the stiffness in her back, the cold that had seeped through her meagre robes and settled deep into her bones.

"Hermione? Oh Merlin, your hands are like ice."

There was a brief flash of welcome warmth, chasing away the chill of the dungeons, sinking through her whole body. Hermione was finally able to gather the scattered strands of her focus, to see the panicked eyes of Morgana Gaunt, kneeling before her.

"Morgana?" Her voice was dry and croaky and rusty- she coughed shallowly to clear her throat.

The older Slytherin girl carefully helped her to her feet, holding tightly onto Hermione as she listed, all the joints in her body protesting. "Have you been out here all night?"

"I…" Hermione couldn't even remember falling asleep- it hadn't been a restful night at all, awkwardly propped up against the wall, fitfully emerging from her doze at irregular intervals to try and pull her robes even tighter around her, shifting around as if the ground might be slightly more comfortable a smidge to the right. "What time is it?"

"It's seven in the morning, I wanted to go the library to double-check my references for my Arithmancy essay-" Morgana cut herself off, her worried eyes inspecting Hermione's face. "Why are you out here? What time did you get here?"

Hermione could make out the remains of the wreckage of the Merlin statue behind Morgana. "I got here before curfew," she answered dazedly, oddly transfixed by the intricate detailing of the folds of Merlin's robes on a large, jagged slab. "But the Merlin statue was broken, and I couldn't get in. I was waiting out here for someone to let me in. I must have fallen asleep, stayed out here all night."

Morgana was still for a moment. "You didn't know how to get in?" she asked carefully.

"No."

"This is my fault." Hermione's head swung around at Morgana's furious tone, dripping with self-loathing. "I should have known- I knew- that no one else would have told you- I should have remembered-"

"Remembered what?" Hermione cut in.

Morgana hesitated. "It might just be easier to show you," she said softly.

Nausea was gathering, leaden and draining, in Hermione's stomach, with every step she took beside Morgana, as the Slytherin prefect guided her past the destroyed statue, down the corridor, further and further away, through a rapid succession of branching paths, until they stopped in front of an elaborately wrought, circular metal door, set deep in the wall and gleaming dully.

Morgana cast her a look, as she stepped forward, bracing her hand against the door. She made a strange, sibilant, hissing sound.

Smoothly, quietly, in a way that quite belied its aged appearance, the door swung open, to reveal the Slytherin Common Room.

"There's another entrance," Hermione could distantly hear Morgana speaking, softly, apologetically. The cavernous room was empty, a dampened fire flickering in the grate, the watery green flickering light through the Black Lake window even lower and fainter than usual. "The Merlin statue is the main entrance, it's keyed specifically to Slytherins- but this is the second entrance, a legacy entrance of sorts… the knowledge of its existence and the password is passed on from the older students to the new ones. I don't think a non-Slytherin has known of it for many generations, probably not even Professor Dumbledore."

"But I'm a Slytherin." The warmth that washed over Hermione as she stepped over the threshold was surprising, at odds with the gathering numbness spreading slowly within her.

"Hermione." Morgana appeared in her eyeline, her hands clutching Hermione's shoulders tightly, her face stricken. "You are. You are a Slytherin. It doesn't matter what any of these stuck-up bigots think- the Hat put you in Slytherin. It saw that this is the House you belong to, the House that will help you become the best possible version of yourself, and I know it will take time, but everyone will see that too one day."

"Was that Parseltongue?" Hermione asked abruptly. "The password?"

Morgana's head jerked sharply; her hands fell from Hermione's shoulders and she let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah. Shiseya- it's Parseltongue for 'open'. Slytherins love the exclusivity of it, never mind that none of them can actually speak it- they just hiss at the door, hoping they make the right combination of sounds."

"It can't be taught, can it?" Hermione remembered reading about the hereditary language when she first researched about blood purity and the Sacred Twenty Eight and pureblood culture, back when she had been certain that if she could learn everything there was to know about that upper echelon of magical society, she might be able to gain access to it. "The Gaunts- they're one of the last families remaining descended from Salazar Slytherin. You're an actual Parseltongue."

Morgana's face went eerily blank. "Not that anyone in this forsaken House understands what that means," she said, bitterness spiking off of every word like jagged icicles. Her eyes refocused suddenly, fixing intently on Hermione's face. "Hermione, these people are all shallow. They have no concrete, coherent ideology and their values are contradictory, but they don't care. They don't care because they've convinced themselves that they're pure and superior and worthy and they have no interest in examining this framework they've constructed because then they'd realise how flimsy and lacking in foundations it is, and everything comes crumbling down.

"They say they're inherently worthy of adulation and respect because their magic is stronger, but it can't be that strong if a Muggleborn surpasses them, because how else could she have done that except by stealing magic from her betters? They safeguard and make sacred their quaint little Pureblood customs because they claim to want to preserve magical heritage and Salazar Slytherin's values, but they shun and ostracise his last living descendants, whose blood is purer than any of theirs. You can't play the game by their rules, Hermione- they move the goalposts as it suits them, they'll rewrite the rulebook and leave you holding on to the old one."

"Thank you, Morgana," Hermione broke in. The older girl's eyes were blazing with fervour and conviction, her speech getting faster and sharper, and if Hermione didn't get away soon, she thought she'd throw up. "You're right- you're right about all of it, and I know that. I think I'm just… a bit out of it. Didn't get nearly enough sleep last night."

The wan smile Hermione tried to fix on her face clearly did not do much to convince Morgana. "I should have told you about the second entrance," she murmured, her gaze dropping. "It really didn't occur to me you wouldn't know about it, never mind that you wouldn't have access to the dungeons at all. I'm really sorry, Hermione."

Hermione gave her a tight nod and turned in the direction of her dorm, trying her best not to stumble, despite the deep-seated ache in her joints. The Common Room was mostly deserted, except for a couple of older girls writing letters, but none of them looked up as she passed, making her way to the stairs.

"Wild party?" The dorm had been shadowy and silent as Hermione entered, and she jumped and let out an exclamation at Camille Zabini's cool drawl behind her. Through the darkness, she could make out her raised eyebrow, glossy and perfectly centre-parted hair, immaculately pressed uniform robes.

"What do you mean?" Hermione tried her best to keep her voice steady.

"You look a bit worse for the wear, and you didn't come back last night."

"The Merlin entrance was destroyed," Hermione answered curtly. Camille was not her friend, and she had little interest in prolonging their conversation. "I had some trouble getting in."

"Some trouble?" Faintly, Hermione could make out the barest of smirks on Camille's lips.

In lieu of a reply, Hermione marched towards the toilet, just as Andromeda Black exited in a cloud of musky perfume and sweet steam, as impeccably attired as her fellow Pureblood dormmate. Hermione brushed past her without a word, ignoring Andromeda's pointed look, and slammed the door shut.

The bathroom was steamy from the girls' morning showers; Hermione used her wand to clear the mirror and examine her reflection. The circles under her eyes were dark and prominent, her skin looked sallow and oily and felt grimy; her hair was snarled and frizzy from a night spent rubbing against the stone-hewn walls as she shifted around trying to get comfortable, and her robes were askew and wrinkled and musty-smelling. Andromeda and Camille's picture-perfect attires flashed through Hermione's mind, and she promptly burst into tears.

It's exhaustion, she tried to tell herself, when a minute had passed and her big hiccupping sobs showed no signs of abating. You didn't get any sleep, you were freezing all night without realising it, and you were up till late as it was. And your housemates don't see you as being entitled to any of your House's secrets, but you knew that, so it's quite silly to get upset over it.

Somehow, her gasping breaths and searing hot tears slowed into shuddering breathing before slowing altogether. Hermione stared into her reflection's red-rimmed and swollen eyes, her chapped and gnawed lips, her tangled and barely-confined hair.

This wasn't who she was. She had been focused on carefully holding back the maelstrom of fury and self-pity and yes, hurt, churning relentlessly within her when Morgana had been talking to her in the Common Room, not wanting the Prefect to see how shaken and disoriented her night slept sleeping on the floor had left her, but everything Morgana had said resonated with her. She knew all of those things- knew that the Pureblood ideology was baseless, knew her worth wasn't defined by their narrow parameters, knew she was deserving of her place in Hogwarts and in Slytherin. She wasn't the Hermione Granger of the first of September any longer, unsure and timid and trying to be unseen by her housemates.

Burn it all down.

Hermione turned the water to its coldest setting, splashed it over her face and used it to slick back her hair before winding it back into a perfectly tight knot at her nape, cast charms to flatten the wrinkles in her robes and dispel any lingering odours. She didn't want to risk having a shower or getting a change of clothes, anything that might bring her into contact with Andromeda or Camille, and the timetable for the day was short so it would do. She had very little interest in crossing paths with any Slytherin, for that matter, so it was for the best that she didn't usually get hungry in the mornings and could easily skip the Great Hall. She could certainly spend about an hour in the library before their Transfiguration class with Ravenclaw in the morning reviewing their final essay- McGonagall had made an offhand reference to a medieval text exploring some of the exemptions to cross-matter transfiguration, and it would certainly boost her mark if she found a way to work it in. And then the only other class that day was Charms immediately after, and in light of the festive spirit and their final class before the holidays, they would probably carry on with the golden bubbles Flitwick had jovially been teaching them.

Nothing stressful, nothing taxing, nothing to worry about.

And then by that same evening, she'd be home and snuggled up between her parents on the sagging and squishy sofa David Granger stubbornly refused to replace, balancing on her lap a mug of velvety hot chocolate the size of her head that nothing even the Hogwarts kitchens produced could beat.

Hermione kept this image fixed in her mind, as she hurried from the library to the corridor with the Tranfiguration classroom, slowing down as the milling mass of Slytherins and Ravenclaws came into view.

"Didn't see you at breakfast this morning, Mudblood," called a faux-jocular voice, and Hermione firmly ignored Lucius Malfoy, as she came to a halt some distance away from the rest of the students.

"Last meal before the holidays, you'd think she'd load up- Merlin knows what kind of slop Muggles eat," came Rowle's nasal tone, and Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. It was hard to be offended by their bigotry when they sounded so stupid.

"Didn't see you yesterday evening either, for that matter," continued Malfoy blithely, and this time it took more effort for Hermione to remain impassive. "Not, and I must impress this, Mudblood, that I particularly care- I just heard that there had been some issues with the Merlin entrance." Hermione couldn't stop herself from jerking around to glare at him, her heart thudding- Malfoy placed a hand on his chest in a pantomime of apology. "Apologies for misspeaking- 'some issues with the entrance', I meant to say. Bit redundant to specify Merlin, wouldn't you agree?" There was a smug gleam in his eye, and Hermione swung away to refocus on the door, trying to block out Dolohov and Jugson and Rowle's guffawing, Avery’s silent but watchful presence.

Something had gotten into Lucius Malfoy. McGonagall wasn't a professor on whom his brand of silky and meticulously prepared flattery worked, and she generally had a very low tolerance for class disruption or any kind of tomfoolery, regardless of the student's House. Slytherins tended to be more haughtily stand-offish in her classes anyway, an immature, one-sided rivalry, and regardless, Malfoy was usually well-behaved in class.

But for the entirety of their morning Transfiguration lesson, cloaked under the general mayhem of the lesson as they tried to change the plumage colours of a flock of singing canaries, Malfoy kept up a stream of snide and gloating remarks to the back of Hermione's head.

What was he playing at? This was completely unlike his usual plan of attack- doubtless, he considered her far beneath his notice and unworthy of his sustained attention, which was why he usually only shot sneering taunts at her when they passed in the corridor or if they were forced into singular proximity to each other. This relentless barage was uncharacteristic of him, and Dolohov and Rowle egging him on, chortling at every barely-disguised insult, made something leaden form in Hermione's belly.

They were up to something.

Hermione had fled the classroom as soon as McGonagall had collected her essay and the bell rang, but it was not to be- Malfoy and his cronies deposited themselves on the empty chairs around her in Flitwick's classroom.

Malfoy sneered at her as she stared at him in faint horror, trying to process why they would willingly abandon their prime seats at the back of the classroom to sit right beneath the teacher’s nose. "Are you trying to catch flies, Mudblood?"

"What are you doing?" Hermione demanded. "Why can't you leave me alone? Go hide out in the back of the classroom like you usually do."

"Saving these seats for all your friends?" Malfoy asked mockingly.

Hermione's temper flared. "If you're struggling with the bubble charm Malfoy, just say," she said, as sweetly as she could manage. "You don't need to make excuses if you want my help- the wrist movement mind be a bit difficult for some people to get, I understand. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

Fury flashed across Malfoy's face. "I'd be embarrassed about looking like a street urchin, if I were you," he whispered viciously. "Was it the dungeon floor you spend the night on, or the sewers? Or is this just what Mudbloods think passes for looking presentable?”

Hermione's blood turned to ice. There wasn't any mistaking what Malfoy just said- he, or someone that reported to him, had seen her curled up, shivering and restless, sleeping outside the Slytherin Common Room all night like a stray, unloved cat.

Professor Flitwick began to call the class to order to start the lesson and Malfoy mercifully fell silent, but Hermione's mind was raucous with frantic thoughts.

He, or probably one of his cronies, had definitely seen her the night before- she hardly expected him to be the sort of person who would wake her up and bring her inside; seeing her barred from the Slytherin quarters was probably an early Christmas for him. But it was slightly more difficult to work out how they could have seen her- her sleep had been fitful, after all, and she was certain she would have been roused by any person passing nearby, so if they had exited the Common Room via the Merlin entrance, the chances of her not noticing, never mind the quiet but vibrating rumble of the door appearing, were slim.

Up till now, Hermione hadn't considered the matter of the broken statue too deeply. It did seem a bit odd that the means through which a quarter of the school's population accessed their living quarters could be destroyed by what seemed like any spirited prankster or destructive delinquent, but the existence of the legacy entrance meant that there was a widely known alternative route. She wasn't expecting to find much in any book, considering its highly secret status, but the Parseltongue password suggested it wasn't unlikely that the back door had been the main entrance, as designed by Salazar Slytherin- in which case, if the statue was added later, presumably to allow access to non-Parseltongues or anyone who couldn't wrap their tongue around the smooth and slippery syllables of the almost defunct language, it may not have been rigorously protected with wards and enchantments and other protective measures. Meaning it was susceptible to wanton acts of vandalism, for whatever reason anyone might have.

Could Lucius Malfoy have purposefully destroyed the statue, as revenge on Hermione?

Hermione's heartbeat thudded as she tentatively considered this scenario. It wasn't undue paranoia- she hadn't been arrogant enough for the idea to have crossed her mind before, but Malfoy's furious taunt made her consider the possibility. And Malfoy had motive upon motive to do so- her comfortable position at the top of their year's academic rankings; that duel the previous week in their DADA class where she had shown him up; his broader hatred of her as a person and who her parents were and what she represented, sullying the pristine pedigree and exclusivity of Slytherin House.

The rest of the class passed in a daze- the Slytherin boys around her were raucous and cackling together as they sent tiny and pale yellow bubbles alternatively spluttering out of their wands or ricocheting like jets, Lucius Malfoy an assessing and smirking figure amongst them, now firmly ignoring her. Hermione was only yanked back to reality when the bell pealed out- she rose shakily to her feet, her thoughts foggy and feeling off-kilter, completely clueless as to what her next move should be.

Flitwick popped up in front of her just as she was pushing her chair back behind her desk, enthusing about a fresh article in Charms Today about intention in casting, and "your question a few weeks back about the effect of negative emotion on an intrinsically beneficial or, at worst, neutral spell, was playing on my mind these last few days Miss Granger, I'm sure you'd be interested in some of the arguments that McCauliffe posed in his submission-". Whilst she would have been fascinated by Lester McCauliffe's thoughts on the matter on any other day, all she could think of as Flitwick nattered on was Lucius Malfoy's glacial, disdainful, silver stare, the putrid and viscous hatred in his voice as he spat Mudblood at her.

She didn't recall a single thing Professor Flitwick said to her; she had no idea how she got all the way down to the dungeons. Somehow, her feet had carried her to the unassuming, ordinary metal door of the legacy entrance, the doorway Salazar Slytherin himself had charmed. It took her a few goes to mimic the low hiss she had heard Morgana make, but eventually, the door ponderously peeled open.

It was jarring, stepping inside the Slytherin Common Room from this angle- intimately familiar and also alien, like coming home to see her mother had dyed her hair randomly. There weren't many people around, a smattering of older students draped over sofas here and there, others darting in and out of various doorways as they hunted down missing possessions, in preparation to catch the train back that night.

"Now who told you that was there, Mudblood?"

Malfoy, Avery, Rowle, Dolohov, Jugson- the gaggle of first-year Slytherin boys were arrayed on a collection of low couches and armchairs just to the right of the door. Hermione hadn't seen them as she entered, but they were all watching her beadily, a tense air of excitement and the sweet certainty of confrontation heavy in the air between them.

Dolohov had been the one to speak. "Certainly wasn't any of us," he continued, tapping his chin in faux thought. "It's a legacy entrance, after all, and Mudbloods are definitely not Slytherin's legacy."

Hermione could have ignored them, could have walked away, could have gone down to her dorm and made sure her trunk was packed and counted down the hours till she was ensconced in a train carriage with Alice and Cesare and Frank and the Prewetts and Hogwarts and Slytherin House were left far, far behind her. She could have continued as she had been all this time, coolly parrying back their insults, unyielding and blasé in the face of their bigotry.

"If you hate me so much," she said instead, her voice trembling, "you should just go complain to Slughorn or the Headmaster and get me moved to another House. I didn't choose to be here, the Hat put me here. And I'd be quite happy to have nothing to do with any of you- it's you who are obsessed with me and can't just let me be in peace."

"Peace?" snorted Rowle. "Ruined all of ours, and yet you want it for yourself?"

"Do you even hear yourself?" cried Hermione, frustration and fury making her hot all over. "How have I ruined your peace? What did I do? I don't talk to any of you, I don't sit with you or partner up with you or even eat with you, never mind sharing a dorm- all I do is try and study and spend as much time with my friends as possible. If me merely existing is ruining your peace, then that seems like something for you to deal with, not me."

Malfoy's voice was quiet but carrying, every cut-glass, clearly enunciated vowel wielded with expert precision. "Your presence in this House is an affront to Salazar Slytherin and the entirety of Pureblood society," he said calmly, and Hermione could hear hushed tittering and the heavy weight of the other occupants of the room's gazes as more and more people's attentions were drawn to them. "Your corrupted, bastardised magic, your schemes and lies to get a place in this school-"

"Bastardised?" Hermione let out a high-pitched, mirthless laugh. "If that's what helps you sleep at night, Malfoy- you could save yourself the mental gymnastics and just put a bit more effort into studying if you're so furious with yourself for always coming second to me-"

"Your lineage is muddied and mundane and unmagical," snapped Malfoy, the tips of his ears flaring violently red. "You have no training, no appreciation, no understanding of what it means to be a witch or to have your ancestors cultivate and protect and strengthen their family magic. Your ancestors drove mine into hiding, they ostracised us and chased us out of society and burnt us at the stake and now because of some corrupt accident of magic, some disgustingly unlucky fluke, this precious resource has cropped up in you and others of your ilk, and now you've come to infest us and this school and our culture-"

"For someone who looks down on Muggles as much as you do you certainly have the same talking points and bigoted mindset as many of them." The words were tripping over each other as they came out of Hermione; blood was rushing violently through her ears and she perambulated wildly between utter disbelief and slight hysteria at the ridiculous and unfounded accusations Malfoy was confidently flinging around, and a stifled, deep-seated fury slowly bubbled through the crevices and cracks from where she had boarded it all up deep within her. "At least Muggles have the scientific method- they acknowledge when their theories are wrong and they throw them out and they improve on them and they come up with new ones that are rigorously tested and backed with evidence and fit their observations better. Wizards decided centuries ago that you could only have magic if your parents also did, and despite the countless evidence to the contrary, dug their heels in and refused to acknowledge any other explanation or theory. You'd rather accuse me of lying and cheating and stealing- though you also think I'm completely ignorant of magical society so I don't know how you think I'm accomplishing that- than allowing for the possibility that my magic is just as good as yours."

"My family has remained pure and untainted for centuries, Mudblood," spat Malfoy, rising to his feet. "You dare- you have the audacity- to compare your mongrel bloodline and stolen magic to mine? Perhaps another night sleeping on the floor outside will remind you of your place in Slytherin House." Hermione's vision was blurring; distantly, she recognised that her eyes were swimming with furious tears, as Malfoy took a step closer. Somehow, despite their being more or less the same height, he was looming. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper. "You think you’d be better off in Gryffindor? You think that they're all noble and virtuous and that many of them don't think exactly the same way as us? You think that brutish band of blood traitors you call friends wouldn't turn on you, wouldn't resent you and your background for dragging them down by association, wouldn't be embarrassed by you if an older Gryffindor pointed out your deficient magic?" Hermione felt a fat tear brim over, a boiling hot track run down her cheek, as Malfoy leaned towards her, all sharp angles and implacable, unyielding edges. "You don't belong anywhere."

Hermione couldn't help the heaving sobs that racked her body; couldn't wipe the tears that blurred her vision and made Malfoy an indistinct black column that turned away and finally left, finally; couldn’t bring herself to care about the hushed tittering of the onlookers watching her collapse, couldn't stifle the keening gasps that seeped out from her mouth, no matter how tightly she pressed her lips together. It all came crashing down on her, the weight of her loneliness crushing and like a physical ache. She would always be that girl who watched in silence as the other girls in the playground traded secrets she wasn't privy to, running past holding hands and ignoring her; who turned to books to escape the isolation of her classmates and the jeering chants of swot and nerd that the popular boys in her class pelted her with; who had to eat her egg and cress sandwiches in the classroom with Miss Beaumont who had given up trying to get the other boys and girls to play with her. She had been lonely then, and she was lonely now. It had been a fallacy, to think she could be welcomed in a place like Hogwarts, in a house that reviled people like her; a delusion, to think that she could brush off the treatment of her peers and that it didn't matter and that her magic was enough and that she knew she belonged.

Grief, for that bewildered little girl who had never learnt how to make friends and who had been excited to learn about Hogwarts not just because of the magic but because it was an opportunity to start afresh and meet people like her, welled up inside, until Hermione fell to her knees under the impact of it, curving over herself.

A cool hand touched the back of hers, where it was clutching the fabric of her robes so tightly that the twisted masses of it were likely imprinted on her palms. Hermione's tears had stemmed enough that she could make out, improbably, Andromeda Black, kneeling before her.

The girl's face was solemn as it surveyed hers; her eyes, which Hermione had never seen filled with anything but icy implacability and aloof disdain, were pitying- no, not pitying- compassionate, sympathetic, slightly tentative.

Andromeda leaned forward, enveloping Hermione in a hug.

Hermione registered the smooth slide of Andromeda's curls against her cheek, the faint scent of her crisp, clean perfume, the sharp jut of her knees poking into hers before she almost reflexively grabbed the front of Andromeda's robes, her body nestling into the other girl's, weeping quietly into her shoulder.

"It's OK," she distantly heard Andromeda whisper to her. "I've got you, Hermione."

Chapter Text

My dearest darling Hermione,

I think that if Purebloods knew what a tellyphone was and how they eclipse literally the Floo AND owls AND Apparition they wouldn't be such pricks about Muggles… although maybe they'd insist that Muggles had used stolen magic to get them working. Even I have trouble believing they're not magic and I don't think I'll fully believe it until I get to try one myself. I think I hate you and Cesare a bit for always being able to talk on them, whenever you want, however long you want, and instantly, whilst I have to wait an ENTIRE DAY to hear back from either of you. Luckily, I am obsessed with the Gobstones set you've sent, and I must admit that Dip Dabs seem to have a much better and larger flavour range compared to Fizzing Whizbees. Thank you so much! I know it’s only a postal owl but I still gave it one of Marcellus' frozen voles because he deserved it for lugging that package all the way over from London.

Hope your Christmas went well! How was that uncle of yours who thinks you've been sent off to military academy? Ours was the opposite of restful- the baby was supposed to come on Boxing Day, and Cece got her tea leaves read by apparently a very legit Seer who told her to be prepared for unexpected good tidings, so obviously she went into a frenzy thinking the baby would come early so you can imagine how fun THAT was. I don't know how she hasn't murdered Benny yet, he's so laidback he's practicially horizontal- she was getting more and more high-strung during Christmas dinner and all he did was pound back Firewhiskey. Anyway the baby still hasn't arrived, although who knows if that will change by the time this letter reaches you- could really do with a tellyphone round about now.

Is A Beginner's Guide To Potions enough to scrape a passing mark on Sluggy’s essay? Because I have definitely misplaced the reading list so I don't remember what the extra material he recommended was- PLEASE don't send it to me if the main textbook is enough to get the job done, and you know I say that with a lot of love.

Miss you and Ces so so much and can't wait to see you guys soon!

Lots and lots of hugs and kisses,

Alice xxxxxx

P.S. Please don't bother trying to explain how the tellyphone works- I didn't get it when you and Cesare tried in person, and I certainly won't get it if you write me an essay about it.

***

I'm very glad we're not reliant on letters because even through the parchment I can hear Alice YELLING that I'm a crap writer, so you'd definitely also have the same complaint. Anyways here's The Man Who Sold The World- try and listen to it before we call, I’ll be interested to hear what you think and whether you’ll like it- it’s SO different from anything he’s done before.

See/hear you at 4!

Ces

***

To our wickedly smart, very good pal Hermione,

Thank you very very very much for the whooping cushions- and deluxe, on top of that! If anyone else had sent them to us, I might have said that you didn't know what you had unleashed, but you, Miss Hermione Granger, must surely be aware of how much delicious fun and inspiration these INGENIOUS devices will provide us, so I can only surmise that this is you giving us carte blanche to do whatever we can dream up to those puffed-up ponces you call housemates.

We will endeavour to use this Christmas gift of yours in the spirit with which it was intended :)

Gid says hi, Moll's hexed him something wicked for sneaking the whooping cushion on her seat when Arthur's parents dropped in on Boxing Day. Apparently he'll grow his fingerprints back before we return to Hogwarts. One can only pray- as it stands, he is unable to pen his own correspondence to you due to being unable to hold a quill.

Thanks again, and hope your Christmas was fantastic! Let me know what you thought of the book we sent- the clerk at F&B said it's a seminal exploration of something something, sounded right up your street.

Looking forward to seeing you soon!

Love,

Fabian

AND GIDEON

***

Hermione!

Thank you so much for the planter you sent! It was such a big package I'm afraid I couldn't quite sneak it past Mum, and then I had to explain that you'd done the charmwork to make it turn different colours depending on how desperately the plants needed water yourself, and now she's hidden it away somewhere so that I can only pot something in it when she's there. As annoying as it is, she's right that I probably would drop and break it within the day, so I suppose it's for the best. Not sure I'll be able to bring it to Hogwarts but when we go back for the summer then whatever I'll have planted will have bloomed and then I can post you pictures! I'm thinking something like Pillaging Idaho Ferns- I asked my Uncle Algie to bring me a cutting from America, so hopefully he can get it to me in time before we have to go back to Hogwarts. What do you think?

Lots of love,

Frank

***

Dear Hermione,

I hope this letter finds you and your loved ones in good health, and that your Christmas festivities were enjoyable and also relaxing. Thank you ever so much for the scarf- your tension is excellent and I’m sure it must have taken quite the effort to knit without magic.

Are there any Muggle traditions you partake in for Christmas? I presume they aren’t as numerous as Black family Christmas traditions- Christmas Eve at my Uncle Cygnus’ dreary London townhouse, then interminable Latin rituals in the East Lawn on Christmas morning before we can have lunch, then we visit my Great-Aunt Cassie for dinner, with a dreary gala at Black Manor the following evening with a hundred of Father’s colleagues at the Ministry and two hundred of Mother’s tittering and taunting friends. Not to mention the Malfoy New Year’s Eve Ball and the countless soirees and tea invitations that litter the entire festive period. I rather fear I will be unable to complete the essay Professor McGonagall set on regulated and legally enforced Transfiguration limits to as high a standard as I was hoping to as Mother is determined to clutter up my social calendar. Cissa still hasn’t entirely forgiven me for going to Hogwarts without her, so I do have to accept the odd invitation here and there with her, but I will try and dig out that article I mentioned about the charmwork used in currency production to protect against duplication.

Hope the rest of your holidays have been enjoyable besides- I rather miss the tranquility and calm of Hogwarts now that I’m home, as my sisters are always creating a cacophony in unfortunate proximity, Mother has rather forgotten the concept of privacy, and there’s always cousins and small children underfoot when the Pureblood mamas come over for tea. I’m looking forward to returning to Hogwarts, and to seeing you.

Yours sincerely,

Andromeda Ophelia Black

Chapter Text

Lucius couldn’t help shifting around restlessly as he stood beside his parents to welcome the guests.

Only the previous year he had been internally preening and trying his level best to make his face look haughtily composed rather than smugly self-satisfied at being on such prominent display as the Malfoy heir; dressed in sharply cut, subtly brocaded robes, pinned with a centuries old, goblin-wrought emerald brooch fetched specially for him from the family vaults; cooed at by his mother’s friends for being so smartly-dressed and grown-up whilst their husbands seriously shook his hand, their eyes twinkling all the while.

“Not much longer to go darling, so please desist from jumping around as if your robes are lined with nettles,” came Rosaline Malfoy’s cool murmur in his ear.

Lucius straightened ever so slightly, darting a glance at his mother who was looking straight ahead, a practiced and polished smile fixed on her face. “Mother, Emmett’s here and now Aidan’s arrived too- if I could just-”

“Merlin, Lucius- you’ve just spent a whole term sharing a dorm with those boys.” Only the faint note of exasperation in his mother’s voice broke through her carefully crafted genial front. “You know we have-” elegantly curling gold numbers sketched themselves in the air before gently dissolving- “seven minutes to go before we can go in and your father gives his speech.”

“Aidan’s at Durmstrang, I haven’t seen him since August.” Ever since his formal announcement as the Malfoy heir, Lucius had made a conscious effort to stamp out any vestiges of petulance in his voice- his discipline had wavered on this one occasion. 

 “How about this.” His father’s smooth baritone cut off any further protestations Lucius might have made. Abraxas Malfoy stood on his mother’s other side, resplendent in slate grey robes and a matching ribbon pulling back his gleaming platinum hair, the Malfoy signet ring winking alluringly at him from the hands neatly folded over the head of his cane. “We greet the Blacks, and you then escort Andromeda into the ballroom.”

Lucius barely had a moment to process the horrendous corner he had been expertly backed into, before Cygnus Black was sweeping down on them, the faint scent of goblin-produced tobacco accompanying him like a cloud, his mustachioed face twitching with joy as he vigorously shook Abraxas’ hand.

“Abraxas, old friend! It’s been a good few weeks since I saw you last, you slipped rather quickly out from that Wizengamot session with the rampaging Chimaera-hybrid geese in Warrington…”

Druella Black, swamped in spidery black lace that only emphasised her pallor and fathomless, dark eyes, and reedy and inscrutable where her husband was portly and effusive, listened politely as Cygnus rambled on, awaiting her own introduction. The Blacks would all greet Father, before he then introduced them all to Mother, after which Lucius would then be presented to the elder Black brother, his mother’s cousin, and their two Hogwarts-age daughters.

What Bellatrix and Andromeda Black lacked in physical similarity, they more than made up for in their facial expressions and clear dislike for him. The three Black daughters shared the same general template but each somehow wore it very differently- where Andromeda's build made her seem unobtrusive and easily looked over, Bellatrix loomed and intimidated; Andromeda's spiraling, jet black ringlets were glossy and carefully coiffed whilst Bellatrix's rough hair puffed out and bristled; Andromeda's dark gaze was inscrutable and cool but Bellatrix Black had sharp eyes that pinned you in place and sparked with something unnamable that made you nervously check your wand was in drawing reach. He hadn't seen the youngest daughter in well over a year- he imagined her looks fell somewhere in the range of her two older sisters'.

Now, however, Bellatrix and Andromeda were giving him jarringly identical looks of disdain, watching him scathingly, their lips curled in derision. Lucius glared back defiantly at Andromeda- the last time he'd seen her, she-

"Cygnus, Druella, you know our son Lucius, of course."

His mother's voice drew him out of his staring contest with Andromeda- he turned to Cygnus Black with a small, polite smile, as Cygnus pumped his hand enthusiastically, before bowing shortly to Druella, who inclined her head in response.

"The Malfoy heir, of course!" boomed Cygnus. "A credit to your father and your family name, I'm sure! It's always a blessing to have a son… irreplaceable, truly… the security that the family name will live on is one that only those without can properly value…"

"Indeed," said Abraxas blandly, his gaze not even flickering towards a stony-faced, rigid Druella or the murderous look on Bellatrix's face. "Although the most important priority of them all is of course, maintaining the lineage and bloodline- Merlin knows that our traditions face new and growing threats from the wider magical community with every day. On that topic, there's one or two people I wanted to introduce you to, Cygnus- come, we'll go in, I don't expect any late arrivals at this point- Lucius, please escort Miss Black in, I'm sure you two get on quite well."

With that thinly-veiled warning delivered, Abraxas ushered Cygnus through the double doors into the ballroom whilst his mother swept Druella Black behind them, their heads already bent together.

"Don't even think about coming near me, Lucy," came Bellatrix's cold tone. "And don't let Father inflate your self-importance- I don't care if you're the heir of Merlin himself. You're not a big boy just because Mummy and Daddy finally let you show your face at their ball." And with a swirl of her black, beaded robes, she was gone.

Lucius glared after her. The eldest Black sister had never particularly given him the time of day- even before the scandal that saw to her removal from Hogwarts, an event his parents still wouldn't give him the full story of, she had been a sneering, skulking presence, chafing at being forced to attend garden parties and socialise with the other polite, well-behaved, Pureblood heiresses, snarling at all the younger children and shooting nasty jinxes at the slightly older ones. Self-preservation was a key Slytherin characteristic- Lucius wasn't ashamed to admit he preferred to steer far clear of her.

"If you've quite finished gawking over my sister, perhaps you wouldn't mind escorting me in so I can get away from you?" Andromeda said coldly, and Lucius tamped down the urge to snarl at her, proferring his arm abruptly instead.

Andromeda's hand curled through the space in the crook of his elbow, barely touching him as they passed into the ballroom- a cavernous, circular space, the domed ceiling arching away overhead, the detailed and intricate frescoes obscured with a million sparkling pinpricks of fairy lights. Elegant, antique vases on raised plinths spilled over with immaculately formed, blush-pink camellias and trailing clusters of winter jasmine and lightly dancing ferns, his mother's lovingly cultivated white roses in pride of place at the centre of every arrangement. Trays levitated at shoulder height by scurrying elves, proferring the finest elf-made wine and champagne to the hundreds of guests, arrayed in flowing gowns of shimmering silks and subtly luxurious, well-tailored dress robes.

"I don't know what delusions your father is under, but I hope it's not too much trouble to request that you make it clear to him that you and I want nothing at all to do with each other." Lucius had been too caught up with drinking in the sights before him- Andromeda's hand had fallen away from his arm and she stood, straight-backed and composed before him, her arms folded. "I have no intention of ever becoming a Malfoy broodmare- I didn't before knowing exactly what kind of sneering, vicious bully you were, and witnessing it first-hand has done nothing to make the prospect any more enticing."

Lucius couldn't help the way his jaw dropped. "Brood- I'm not- I don't want-"

"You're embarrassing yourself," cut in Andromeda, who glided off without a look backwards.

Lucius almost wanted to race after her and grab her arm, shake her as he set her straight. From the moment a child was born, Pureblood parents would be assessingly looking at the other children in the same age pool, evaluating bloodlines and blood purity and weighing up who they could stand to have at extended family gatherings, or be the other parent of their eventual grandchildren. His parents had never had any conversation directly with him, and a few cutting remarks by his mother about this girl or that didn't count, but it was likely they had undertaken similar perusals. For Andromeda to bring it up herself, her, of all people, the uptight, arrogant priss who he would never have touched in a thousand years-

"There he is!" A hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind, and Lucius whirled around to behold Adrian Travers, lanky even at twelve, his usual unruly toffee-coloured curls slicked down, the navy formal robes dissonant on Lucius' scruffiest and gregarious childhood friend. "I thought you'd be a bit keener to come find me- instead, you're here chatting up Andromeda Black!"

Lucius had luckily recovered enough to only roll his eyes at his friend's teasing comment. "I have no interest in even going near the cesspit of crazy in that family," he drawled.

"At least they're lookers," said Adrian, elbowing him. "You should see Durmstrang girls- I don't know what they feed them in Eastern Europe but they’re all as mean and big and ugly as bears."

"That's surely not the headline of your first term at Durmstrang." Lucius rolled his eyes, pulling Adrian through the crowd behind him to the outskirts of the ballroom. "Let's find Emmett, and then we can go up to the west gallery."

"Has your Father still had that charm put on the glasses?" Adrian looked on mournfully as a silver platter arrayed with flutes of pale gold, sparkling liquid spun past them.

"I'm sure he's come up with something even nastier now that he knows you're of age to attend," snorted Lucius. "Grab a Gillywater and then help me look for Emmett."

They found him soon enough- hair gleaming with product, standing dutifully beside his pontificating father as he droned at a cluster of more junior Ministry workers. Lucius made the barest of civil small talk with Avery Senior before he was able to escape with Emmett in tow, shepherding him and Adrian out of the concealed second exit and up a narrow flight of stairs that took them to a shadowy walkway that circulated the perimeter of the ballroom.

"Now this is the kind of view to enjoy parties like this from," Emmett whistled admiringly, as they leaned over the balustrade, the murmur of conversation below slowly swirling up to them.

"I think I just wanted to be present in some capacity because I didn't want to be left out,” Lucius pondered aloud, “but now I'm of actual attending age, I have responsibilities and duties and it takes the fun out somewhat."

"Probably be more fun once we're old enough to drink alcohol and talk to girls, eh?" Adrian wiggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

Lucius grimaced. Adrian's mother, Juliet Travers, née Brown, had grown up with his own mother in southern France, and the two boys had been practically raised alongside each other. Adrian was one of the few boys his age that Lucius genuinely liked and would willingly call a friend, but his outgoing and sociable personality led him a bit too regularly into skirting the line between inappropriate and suitable social etiquette.

Somewhere distantly in the back of his mind, Lucius was aware he was extra touchy on the topic of girls because of the jibes Andromeda and Bellatrix Black had only minutes previously thrown his way. Still, it didn't make Adrian's lascivious commentary any easier to tolerate.

"One track mind," Emmett mock-scolded, and Adrian shrugged unapologetically.

"Durmstrang is nothing like polite British society," he told them. "Yes, they value the Dark Arts and teach you things old Dumby prohibited at Hogwarts decades ago, and they do afford Purebloods the respect we’re owed, but the Sacred Twenty Eight don't hold nearly as much sway there, and in general, they find British Pureblood culture quaint and amusing. I've actually missed these kinds of events, you know- and the possibility of girls that perfume themselves and use beauty charms and favour bright silks and satins instead of dank furs and dragon leather."

"This elegantly dressed and beautifully scented visage you're conjuring up must be some sort of Transfigurated phenomenon," said Lucius in amusement. "Because my eyesight has been horrifically assaulted by that cloud of violently fuchsia lace that Isabel Selwyn's wearing, and I haven't been able to focus on anyone else since."

Adrian shot upright from where he had been draped over the bannister, flipping around so he was reclined against it with his elbows propping him up. "Speaking of horrific assaults to ones sensibilities," he exclaimed, "what's all this I've heard Mother and Father mention about a Mudblood in Slytherin?"

Emmett pulled a face. "Just that, really," he said. "The Sorting Hat had a moment of madness and sorted her into Slytherin."

"A Mudblood?" Adrian said delightedly, looking between Lucius and Emmett, both grimacing. "What's she done- why did you both randomly fall silent?"

"Nothing," said Emmett. "She's pretty unremarkable… no one talks to her, she doesn't talk to anyone either- spends all her time hanging out with blood-traitors from Gryffindor." He hesitated, hovering over his words before suddenly rushing ahead. "I mean- maybe not unremarkable- she's wickedly smart actually… none of us can figure out how she does it. I mean you can cram and swot up on theory and do well on essays, but she's… pretty good at magic, somehow. There has to be trickery involved, but…"

Lucius stayed quiet, his heart pounding suddenly for reasons he couldn't fathom. Memories of that last, shouted confrontation with the Mudblood had kept flashing across his mind throughout the holidays- at first, flooding in densely, her heaving shoulders and sodden cheeks almost imprinted across his eyelids, before his repeated efforts to determinedly think of French conjugations whenever thoughts of her brimming eyes lazily swept to the front of his recollections, managed to help him quash the reminders.

She was a little upstart- vicious and smug and conniving, a personal and vivid reminder of the encroaching swarm of Muggle-spawn swanning their way into polite society, goaded on and applauded by powerful benefactors who resented those witches and wizards that were proud and protective of their heritage and cultivated their magic and recognised the danger of Muggles for what it was. She deserved everything he had said to her- her cock-sure jauntiness ever since she had cheated in their DADA duel had enflamed him, every smirk and knowing look she sent his way since another biting, jagged piece of kindling for his rage, until thoughts of tearing her down consumed him and followed him late into his dreams.

But… the tirade in the Slytherin Common Room wasn't quite his proudest moment.

He felt no shame for what he had said- he knew he was justified, his fury at her valid, and as the de facto leader of the Slytherins in their year, if anyone was going to put her in her place, it would be him. But his outburst, his complete lack of control, his helplesness in the face of his aggravation and intense hatred of her- it was unbecoming, of a Pureblood heir. His parents hadn't rigorously enforced proper etiquette and infinite comportment lessons his entire waking memory for him to throw it all out in a red-misted moment.

She was beneath him, unworthy of his attention and notice- and he should have treated her as such the minute he had learnt of her blood status. Malfoy scions did not stoop to petty schoolboy taunts; did not hound and fixate on girls regardless of who they were and what they had done; did not let under-developed, unsophisticated, crass delinquents like Antonin Dolohov- of all the people! The indignity of being so influenced by a boy who had shot sparks in his own face when he received his wand because he didn’t know which end was the right one!- rile him up into joining their persistent and puerile campaign against her.

He would ignore her, he had decided recently, staring up at his satin-swathed bed canopy one sleepless night when memories of her racking sobs and her tiny, crumpled figure had left him feeling inexplicably queasy. He would work hard, regardless of how galling it was to sweat for schoolwork, and he would beat her in classes, and silently rejoice whenever the web she was using to deceive and ensnare the teachers collapsed on her. The less he thought about Hermione Granger, the better.

"You sound impressed, Emmett!" Adrian's drawling exclamation drew Lucius out of his thoughts. "Are you trying to convince yourself that she must be some wily trickster?"

Emmett rolled his eyes, unflustered. "Nothing of the sort. I'm just pointing out that she's not exactly flown under the intruder wards, and she's not as easy to overlook and forget as you'd expect a Mudblood to be." If his gaze flickered to Lucius even for a second, he didn't notice- he was just grateful for his friend's discretion, and his affirmation of his new resolution to not even think about the Mudblood if he could help it.

"She's nothing interesting," Lucius said dismissively, waving his hand as if to swat the mention of her name away. "And you won’t ever come across her, so no point thinking or talking about her. Why don't you instead tell us absolutely everything that happened to you since your parents frog-marched you onto that rickety galleon to Durmstrang?" He pushed a flute of Gillywater towards Adrian, who took it with a mock salute in his direction.

Lucius barely knew where the time went after that, laughing and reminiscing with Adrian and Emmett, swapping Hogwarts and Durmstrang tales, exclaiming over the recent Quidditch Championship fixtures and marvelling over Adrian's tales of the Durmstrang league, summoning Hotsy to bring them platters of salmon and dill vol-au-vents and caviar gleaming dully on magenta coloured crackers and neat slices of chocolate gateaux. It was only when Hotsy appeared with a crack, fretfully wringing her hands as she squeaked out a summons from Castor Travers, followed closely by one from Avery Senior, that the boys trickled their way down, to the now almost empty ballroom.

Lucius bid the pair of boys farewell and traced his way down the dim corridor, the hour so late that the oil portraits lining the wall were all softly snoring, still smiling faintly from the time he had been able to spend with his two closest friends. The plush runner underfoot muffled his tread as he approached his father's study; Abraxas Malfoy's deep tone bade him enter as he rapped on the heavy door.

His father's study should have been intimidating, with its low lighting, ubiquitous dark hardwood, the monstrous desk behind which Father could often be found silently scratching away with quills made from the feathers of his mother's peacocks. But Lucius had spent too much of his childhood in this same room, Father watching indulgently as Mother got down on her hands and knees to play with him on the decadently soft rug facing the fireplace.

He craned his head as he entered; the desk was uninhabited, but his parents were reclined on the chaise to the side, where Father sometimes entertained guests. Father had loosened his cravat and his polished brogues were carefully lined up along the side of the rug; Mother's baby blue kitten heels were beside them, and she was laid out flat along the length of the sofa, her head resting in Father's lap as they conversed in low voices.

"My darling boy!"

Lucius couldn't help grinning as he kicked his shoes off and hurried over to his parents. His family wasn't the most outwardly expressive not physically affectionate- he loved his parents, and was secure in their love for him, but there was a level of propriety and ettiquette that had been drilled into him since he was young, and it did not lend itself to casual physicality and smacking kisses and effusive declarations of love. It was only when his parents returned from parties and galas, loosened and relaxed by alcohol and in this case, the success of a flawlessly executed event, that he saw their clear ease with each other dissolve into something sweeter and more affectionate, his mother's eyes drinking in every movement Father made, giggling and pink-cheeked as he murmured into her ear; Father propping her up against him, running careful fingers through her scalp.

Mother pulled him down so he was sitting on the floor in front of the chaise near her, Father grumbling as she pulled away slightly to press a kiss to his hair. "So handsome, so grown up," she said softly, her familiar rose perfume washing over him, contentment draping over his body like a warm blanket.

"I didn't see you in the ballroom during my speech," said Father, but there was no bite in his words. "It was your first New Years Eve Ball since your introduction as the Malfoy heir, Lucius- you could have slipped away with those boys after."

The warmth of the golden, dancing fire was settling into Lucius' bones, lulling him into a hazy state of relaxation. "I'm sorry, Father," he said softly. "I didn't think- I'll be more careful next time."

"It's not a problem, Abraxas," Mother said chidingly. "He's still young, years away from being of age- there will be plenty of balls to come. Regardless, he made a lasting impression- everyone I spoke to complimented me on Lucius first, although some of their questions were a tad probing- Maria Fawley thought she was being discreet casually enquiring about betrothal contracts, as if I don't know her daughter is four. Druella hinted that she hasn't even shown a sign of accidental magic!"

Father chuckled at Mother's indignant tone. "I rather thought Druella herself would be angling for some sort of arrangement with one of her daughters, and I know how you feel about the eldest Black."

Lucius felt Mother's hand pause where it was carding through his hair. "Well, quite," she said dismissively. "Andromeda is a very collected and polite girl, and it helps that they're in the same year, and the youngest, Narcissa, is almost angelic- one of the sweetest girls I've ever seen in fact. Bellatrix's reputation outweighs that all unfortunately, and after that nasty incident with that Hufflepuff girl, I think poor Druella will have a hard time getting a respectable family to take her off their hands."

Lucius made himself as still as possible. His parents rarely spoke about things like this in his presence- betrothal rumours, Ministry scandal, his own marital prospects, and despite his mother lightly scratching her nails across his scalp, they seemed to not really be registering his presence. The late hour had settled dreamily and intoxicatingly over the study, everything shrouded and shadowy and warm; his parents' voice were low rumbles and despite his best efforts, Lucius could feel the creeping tide of sleep trying to take him unawares.

Father made a noise of irritation. "It all comes back to that fool Dumbledore- it's amazing that a single person has so much sway in the Ministry and Hogwarts, the two more eminent wizarding institutions in the country. He makes a big song and dance of demurring every time the public and the papers clamour for him to run for Minister, just so he can look like altruistic and humble and impartial, but he pulls all the strings behind the scenes. One would expect it from this Leach administration, but it was Tuft before him who Dumbledore shot down over the Black accident. Spineless incompetent- if Leach hadn’t beaten him, a Transfigurated paper bag easily could have."

"Darling, there was very little chance that Bellatrix would be allowed to stay," came his mother's amused voice. "It's a miracle that they managed to hush it up and the press didn't get hold of it- as a matter of fact, I would have thought it leaking would have helped Dumbledore on his crusade."

"Not that he needed some feral teenager as a pawn when he was planning to hand-select a Mudblood Minister," muttered Father darkly. "The two of them cooking up all kinds of demeaning regulations to target us, inventing spurious quotas for Mudbloods and half-breeds- Jericho Abbott was telling me just now that there's whispers coming out of the Undersecretary's office of introducing an inheritance tax. Cygnus caught a glimpse of a memo where family vault audits were mentioned." 

Mother inhaled sharply. "There's not a chance of that law passing. They mean to steal our heirlooms and generational artefacts? The Wizengamot won't ever let it happen."

"They're too sly to word it like that, Rosie," Father said bitterly. "They won't call it a Pureblood tax- they'll pretend they're borrowing artefacts of great magical worth and putting them in a museum or exhibition to show off British magical heritage or some such nonsense. They'll tip off the papers and get the International Federation and Council of European Wizarding States excited that we're finally leaving our conservative, traditional values behind, and just like that… everyone will crumple."

There was a beat of silence. "Well at least you know it's coming," Mother said eventually. "Better than it being sprung on you- you can prepare for it, start gathering support, talk to the other old families who still share our values-"

"I'm fed up of talking," Father cut in sharply. "It's all we do, all we've ever done- since that upstart Mudblood was elected, we gather at galas and balls and shake our heads and lament and reminisce about the times when our ancestors used to hunt Muggles for sport. It seems everyone but me is too busy thinking about the glory days to consider the actual, concrete future and what is in our capability to change."

"Abraxas," said Mother warningly.

A fizzing silence suffused the room, heavy with unsaid things and loaded meanings that Lucius was too tired to parse. His parents' conversation swirled through his ears like snatches of a breeze- he perceived it, luxuriated in the feeling, but it was gone before it had time to settle. He tried to hold on to their words- something to do with Bellatrix's expulsion, with Dumbledore's interference, with Leach's campaign, but they were whisked away by the wily trespass of sleep.

"Trust in your husband, Rosie." His father's voice came as if from very far away, veiled by sleep and the excitement of the day spent in good company. Distantly, he felt a hand come to rest gently on the crown of his lolling head, dwarfing and cradling the hand his mother had cupped there already. "Trust that everything I do, I do for my family, and for my son. For the Malfoy name."

Chapter Text

“Hermione! There you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Hermione carefully moved her ink well out of the locus of Alice’s wildly swinging arms, shuffling some of her parchment aside to make room for her friend who had thrown herself and her bag down in the chair beside her. An arm hooked around her shoulders in a quick hug; Hermione smiled as Cesare rounded the table from behind her, plopping down in the opposite seat.

“Bit early to hit the library, even for you?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, it’s literally the first day of class!” Alice exclaimed. “We only chatted for a few minutes yesterday evening and we haven’t seen you since!”

 “There was a journal we wanted to check out and add bits from to the Herbology essay,” Hermione said defensively. “It’s really hard to get into the meat of the subject with only the standard class textbooks.”

“They’ve always been good enough for me,” laughed Alice. “Anyways, old Beery cares far more about how well you do in practicals than on essays.” She let the chair she was precariously balanced on land on all four legs with a thump as she began to gather Hermione’s books haphazardly. “Alright, hurry up and pack this away, you’re coming with us.”

“What- Alice, I need that!” Hermione made a grab for Photoluminescent Fungi and their Functions as Alice held it out of her reach and tossed it over to Cesare, who gave her an apologetic grin as Alice then began to sweep her stationary up.

“You absolutely don’t, class has barely started. Give the rest of us a chance!” Alice waggled her finger sternly at Hermione. “You, Miss Granger, are coming with us- Fab and Gid have been working on some prank toy that apparently you gave them for Christmas?”

Hermione groaned. “I knew that would come back to bite me in the- Ces! Be careful, that’s not mine!”

Cesare froze, holding a beautifully glossy and meticulously formed ravens feather quill. “Oh, I thought this was all… why do you have someone else’s quill?”

“I’d say it rather looks like you’re the one that currently has it.”

The silence, as Alice and Cesare’s heads slowly swivelled in unison to take in Andromeda Black standing at the head of the table with one brow elegantly arched, was almost comical in its deafening volume. Hermione stifled a nervous giggle at the thought of the absurd tableau they must have made- Alice and Cesare agape and goggling at an ever-aloof, ever-composed Andromeda, Hermione squirming and caught in their midst.

Cesare was the first to snap out of it. “Your- sorry, I… I didn’t mean to…” he spluttered, thrusting the quill at Andromeda, who slipped it daintily from his fingers.

“Apology accepted,” she said lightly. “By the by, I think that’s my chair you’re sitting in.”

Alice unfroze, as Cesare hastily pushed the chair back from the table. “Wait just a minute!” she cried, “your chair?”

“Well, I didn’t bring it from home, but these are all my things that your friend was poking around in, and I was sitting here for the past twenty minutes.” There was a faint note of amusement in Andromeda’s voice, and Alice’s face darkened at the sound of it.

“Well, you can piss off now,” she spat. “You’re all bullies and bigots and I’ve no intention of letting Hermione put up with your behaviour for a single moment longer this term!”

“Alice!” exclaimed Hermione, causing her friend to turn her scowl onto her. “Don’t tell her to piss off! We’ve been working together!”

“You can partner with us, or the Prewetts, or Frank, as much as possible this term- don’t let the professors shove you in with these Pureblood ponces.” The more venomous Alice’s words were, the more Andromeda’s smirk grew.

“No one’s shoved me anywhere,” said Hermione, exasperated. She shot Andromeda a nervous look. “We came to the library together, ourselves. We’re… friends.”

Andromeda Black was as unlikely an ally as Hermione ever though she’d have. The Blacks were Pureblood royalty- Sacred Twenty-Eight, an ancient and fanatically guarded bloodline who put even the Malfoy pedigree to shame, the foremost Wizarding family, outshone only by the gold glinting in the Malfoy vaults. Hermione had come across Andromeda’s disturbingly intertwined family tree in a genealogy reference when she had been poring over Pureblood customs; she had seen the Black name crop up in texts in association with blood magic, binding rites, Dark artefact collections; Hell, she had witnessed Andromeda Black floating around the Slytherin Common Room and between classes, head held high, dark and inscrutable gaze cutting through everything and everyone as if it were lacking and beneath her notice, the barely concealed sneer whenever Malfoy or Dolohov or anyone tried to speak to her.

Andromeda had intimidated Hermione even more than Malfoy. His vehement hatred of her was unfiltered, unadulterated, upfront and obvious and a physical, lingering thing. There was no ambiguity or uncertainty as to his attitude towards her- Hermione knew bullies, and at his core, that’s all Lucius Malfoy was. Now, when she flushed hotly at the memory of being brought to ugly, gasping, very public tears by his vicious taunts, it was with embarrassment, no longer rage. She had thought she was impervious to his frenzied verbal attacks, but the incident with the legacy entrance and the yawning isolation that had swallowed her in the moment as jeering and sniggering Slytherins surrounded her, had wormed its way through the barest chink in her armour.

It had all changed, with Andromeda. Hermione hadn’t known what to make of the other Slytherin girl- she had always firmly ignored her, but she ignored everyone, seemingly having even fewer friends than Hermione herself. There was no reason to expect her opinions of Hermione would be any more positive than those of her fellow Purebloods and House members, but her silent watchfulness kept Hermione on edge more than the threat of Jugson’s stinging jinxes did. There was an intimidation factor, of course- Andromeda’s wildly curly hair was perfectly behaved and glossy and beautiful; her tie was never less than perfectly knotted and she definitely had anti-creasing enchantments on her robes, making Hermione feel scruffy and unkempt in comparison; she glided serenely everywhere, never cowering or hiding or slightly self-conscious about her lack of companions or the smirks the Slytherin boys sent her way, or the glares the Gryffindor boys did.

When she had caught Hermione in her arms, imperceptibly rocking her as Hermione snotted into the shoulder of her robes and tried to stop hiccupping in her ear, Hermione had relaxed into her, no questions asked. It was only as her tears finally abated and her breathing was back in control and her eyes had dried somewhat, that Hermione had felt a faint unease stirring as she carefully pulled back from Andromeda, avoiding eye contact and fussing with her sleeves as she braced herself for Andromeda’s reaction. Mired as she had been in angst and self-pity and the gaping maw of inadequacy and loneliness, she hadn’t expected anything positive from the other girl.

But Andromeda had said, softly, gently, “Let’s get you away from these cunts.”

And Hermione had found the word so jarring in Andromeda’s cut-glass accent and serious delivery that she had let out a watery, snorting giggle and let herself be pulled to her feet and guided down the stairs to their shared dorm, Andromeda’s warmth pressed against her arm.

They hadn’t spoken much, the rest of that evening, Hermione falling into a fitful sleep and rising the next morning to find only a delicately yawning Camille in the dorm. Andromeda hadn’t been seen anywhere for breakfast or the chattering melee of students making their way down to Hogsmeade station, and then Alice and Cesare and the twins had shepherded her into a noisy compartment so she hadn’t even had a moment to try and find her.

But two days into the Christmas break, Helen Granger had let out an exclamation and slopped her tea over the newspaper one frosty morning, causing Hermione’s head to whip up and see a majestic, sable-feathered, stoney-gazed owl blinking imperiously at her through the kitchen window, a green-ribboned scroll tied to its leg.

Andromeda was… open, in her letters, in a way that Hermione found difficult to reconcile with the silent, aloof girl she had known at Hogwarts- telling Hermione about her younger sister and her sprawling family estate and the Black magical archives, asking Hermione about her parents and her Muggle childhood pre-Hogwarts and, eventually, her approach to their holiday assignments, a topic Hermione was eager to expand on length about to an equally eager audience. It must have been the medium- it was, somehow, easy to confide in Andromeda about the snooty, blonde-pigtailed, double-barelled girls at Langhill Primary who poked fun of her teeth, or the sorrowful, nervous looks she would catch her mother giving her in the days following her Hogwarts letter, when she was gliding her fountain pen over paper and not having to look into Andromeda's inscrutable eyes. Secrets that made her feel small and soft and tentative, that she hadn't ever found worthy of unpackaging and examining, had never considered or indeed, found an opportunity, to share with Alice or Cesare or anyone else.

But she could share them with Andromeda, because Andromeda told her things too- about her father's frustration at having three daughters, about her mother's coldness and relentless snapping and pinching and clipping of Andromeda and her sisters into the perfect Pureblood heiresses, about balls and galas where she would be paraded in front of the wizarding upper crust, their eyes beady and their jibes cutting and their laughs high-pitched and mirthless.

Despite a Christmas break filled with a consistent flurry of owls bearing increasingly lengthy and comfortable missives, Hermione couldn't help the low-level trepidation she felt the entire way back on the Hogwarts Express, a discomfiting weightlessness in her stomach that the squealing reunion with Alice and the bantering exchanges with the boys did nothing to dissipate. She didn't need Andromeda, had in fact survived- just about- her first term in Hogwarts without her.

But… it would be nice. To have a friend in Slytherin.

And so, when Hermione had huffed and sweated her way down the stairs to her dorm, lugging her trunk behind her, and Andromeda, composed and picture-perfect as usual, had greeted her and asked if she wanted to see  the revised third edition of Hogwarts: A History with Bathilda Bagshot's annotations that she had smuggled out of the Black family library, Hermione had beamed a radiant smile, only slightly related to the magically preserved, unassuming paperback that the two girls had reverently examined later that evening.

Andromeda was diametrically opposite to Alice in obvious ways-  Alice was boisterous, quickly outraged but quick to forgive, inelegant but effusive in her affection for Hermione. Andromeda balanced her out in her colouring and her composure and her personality- the Slytherin girl rarely let emotion or excitement seize control of her voice modulation, always kept a haughty expression of faint amusement carefully balanced on her face, had table manners so iron-clad and pristine that Hermione herself, who wasn’t raised in a barn thank you very much, made a conscious effort to sit straight and not lean her forearms on the table and cut carefully small pieces of her food.

But she wasn’t unfriendly by any means- her smiles weren’t loud and showy but they were genuine, she wasn’t a nattering extrovert like Alice but she was still talkative, and having been on the receiving end of her cool gaze before, the warmth in her eyes when she was with Hermione gave her a pleased, glowing feeling inside of her.

It was this same look that Andromeda was directing at her now- her eyes dancing with amusement and her smirk softening into something more genuine at Hermione’s declaration of friendship, and Hermione couldn’t help grinning back at her.

“What is going on?” Cesare’s aghast whisper made her shake off her dopey smile. Alice was watching her like she’d loudly announced her intention to become a nudist, and suddenly, without another word, got up and stalked off.

Hermione turned uncertainly to Cesare, who looked obviously torn as his conflicted gaze bounced between Hermione and Alice’s rigid and retreating back. “I’ll talk to her,” he said eventually. “I’ll make her understand… she’s just…” It appeared Cesare himself didn’t know what Alice just was, his words petering off as he grimaced and hastened after her.

“That went well,” Andromeda said blithely, calmly sitting down on Cesare’s vacated chair.

“It went about as well as I thought it would,” Hermione said gloomily, pulling the stack of books back towards her. “Alice saw how bad first term was, I know she’s just worried about me… but I was hoping she wouldn’t kick up a big and public fuss.”

“That’s asking a lot of a Gryffindor,” said Andromeda, and Hermione snorted, ignoring the twinge of guilt. Alice really was a consummate Gryffindor, living up to absolutely every stereotype of the House, and Hermione had internally rolled her eyes at some of her over-dramatic reactions in the past. She’d never had anyone to exchange sighs with before though, and she wouldn’t feel bad for liking it.

They worked in silence for a few more minutes, before Andromeda cleared her throat, pulling Hermione’s attention.

“I’m sorry, about last term.” Her voice was as steady and calm as it ever was, but she wasn’t meeting Hermione’s gaze and she had laid down her quill to nervously fiddle with her rings on her lap. “I saw how bad it was for you too, and I didn’t do… anything. I can’t even give you a good reason why- it’s not like sticking up for you would have put a target on my back. But… I’ve never been very good at making friends- I’ve only really ever been close with my sisters, so I suppose I wasn’t quite sure how to approach you, or to assure you of my intentions. It was easier to stick my head in the sand and pretend it wasn’t happening… well, until Lucius Malfoy decided to be a little bitch in front of everyone.”

Andromeda’s potty mouth never failed to amuse Hermione. It was perhaps the only thing she had in common with Alice.

“By that point, even I couldn’t ignore how they were breaking you,” Andromeda continued, quietly. “So I’m sorry I was a bystander and let them treat you like that for so long, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Hermione felt a rush of gratitude at Andromeda’s apology. She hadn’t harboured even the smallest bit of resentment towards her, didn’t think anyone owed her their friendship, and had been too excited about actually, genuinely liking someone from her House, who seemed to like her just as much, to think about past grievances or retrospectively assign blame. But her acknowledgement of the bullying Hermione had faced was validating, made her trust in their newly formed and still uncertain friendship that little bit more.

“I forgive you,” Hermione said. “I forgave you a long time ago- I’m not sure I ever actually blamed you.”

They smiled at each other, something warm fluttering in Hermione’s chest and in the air and cocooning them together, before they were both drawn back into editing their essays.

Having Andromeda as a friend took apart Hermione’s ill-fitting and inelegant Hogwarts experience and put it back together, a seamless, comfortable, butter-soft fit. Whenever she hadn’t been able to be with her Gryffindor friends she had gotten used to her own company, barely registered the dark looks and every-day exclusionary acts of the other Slytherins. But with Andromeda to now happily partner with in DADA and to sit beside in the front row of Ancient History and to go down to breakfast with, she felt like she was finally experiencing what was an every day occurrence for everyone else, ever.

And she loved it, even if it had come at the expense of her friendship with Alice who had been watching Andromeda balefully from a distance and refusing to make any kind of contact with Hermione for two days now

“Alice Macmillan does not like sharing,” Andromeda had declared the previous evening, when Hermione had been unable to stop morosely fretting over Alice’s newly frosty attitude towards her and finally voiced her concerns out loud. The two girls were sitting facing each other in one of the cushioned nooks in the Slytherin Common Room. Hermione had never been daring enough- or indeed, particularly had the inclination- to spend time in the Common Room before; another benefit of finally having a friend in her own house, one who had absolutely no compunction about stealing any of the more coveted seating arrangements in the shared space, at that. It was nice to have somewhere to study that wasn’t the library or in her drawn four-poster, and the Slytherin Common Room was surprisingly comfortable; much warmer than the murky green light and the rough-hewn stone of the walls suggested.

“She’s gotten used to having you to herself,” Andromeda continued, “and she liked that you only had her. She doesn’t know what to do now that you have other options, and don’t need her swooping down to rescue you all the time.”

Hermione looked at Andromeda, casually still perusing the book in front of her. “I didn’t need rescuing,” she protested.

“Well, you did a bit,” said Andromeda. At Hermione’s stoney silence, she looked up and let out a sigh. “Listen, it’s not to do you with you, or even really to do with me- she’d be reacting like this if you’d made friends with anyone. It’s her- she doesn’t know how she fits into your life any more, particularly now that you don’t need her as much as you did. Gryffindors love being needed- it feeds that atrocious hero complex they all have.”

“Well, I’m not some squeaky toy to be wrestled over,” grumbled Hermione. “My friendship with both of you isn’t mutually exclusive- I don’t understand why she’s acting like it is. Not that I fully buy your theory, anyway,” she hastily added. When Andromeda hummed disinterestedly and turned the page, Hermione tilted her head consideringly. “Has she done something to you? You sound very well-informed on the inner workings of Alice Macmillan’s mind.”

Andromeda scoffed, somehow elegantly. “She’s not quite as important as all that.” Hermione shot her a glare, making her relent. “I don’t know her, if that’s what you’re asking- the Macmillans, and particularly her branch of the family, aren’t people that my parents would ever associate with. I just know her type, and I don’t usually get on with them.”

“Well, you’re going to have to,” Hermione declared grandly. “Because you’re both my friends, and I have no intention of giving either of you up.”

Andromeda had rolled her eyes and not said anything further, although there was the faintest flush stealing over her cheeks.

It was unfortunately a bit harder to convey this game plan to Alice, who had turned slipperier than a greased otter. Hermione couldn’t help feeling guilty- second term had seen all the professors take the gloves off, assignments and readings and essays were coming in thick and fast, and the threat of end-of-year exams, whilst not counting towards any kind of grade, was sending Hermione and Andromeda both into a tizzy. It was easy to forget that she needed to force some sort of reconciliation with Alice amidst the blur of homework and evenings spent giggling with Andromeda and peaceful, hushed sessions in the library.

When she did spot her huddle of Gryffindor friends, however, she’d feel a pang of disquiet at Alice’s refusal to meet her eyes and the shifty looks that Ces, the Prewett twins, and Frank were giving her.

“Listen, she needs a bit more time,” Cesare said pleadingly, after Alice had shot from the Transfiguration classroom the second the bell pealed out, and Hermione had ambushed him at his desk whilst he was still packing his bag.

“Time? For what?” asked Hermione aggravatedly. “Am I meant to sit around waiting for her whilst she decides if she wants to stay friends- for, what, the cardinal sin of being friends with a Slytherin. I’m a Slytherin in case you forgot!” Her temper was suddenly flaring, and she couldn’t help the anger she felt at Cesare awkwardly shuffling on the spot. “And we all follow Alice’s edicts, do we? She has a problem with so now you, Frank, Fab, Gid- none of you want anything to do with me either?”

Cesare looked stricken at her words. “Hermione, it’s not like that! We’re friends, of course we are, but… Alice is taking this really hard, you know, and I don’t know why either… it’s a bit weird that the Pureblood Princess has taken you under her wing, sure… but there’s no reason for it to be this weird,” he added hastily, when Hermione made an indignant sound. He took hold of her shoulders, looked her firmly in the eyes. “I will talk to her. I promise. Whatever the issue is, I’ll get to the bottom of it.” His gaze shifted to just over Hermione’s shoulder, and he slowly released her. “I’ll just.. go…”

Hermione watched him leave, felt more than saw Andromeda appear next to her. “I quite like Pureblood Princess,” she said conversationally.

“You would,” grumbled Hermione, grateful that Andromeda wasn’t going to make another of her scathing aspersions, and Andromeda winked at her. “Come on,” she said, knocking Andromeda’s shoulder lightly, suddenly missing the way Alice would always be quick to seize her in a side-hug or a squeeze. “Charms next.”

It took only until that evening for Cesare to make true on his promise.

"Can I talk to you?"

Alice popped up beside her, determinedly staring only at Hermione, who looked up from the telescope case warily. It had been a cloudy night with low visibility and little practical element to the Astronomy class- combined with the chilly highland winds, laced with a hint of upcoming late-January frost, Hermione was not particularly in the mood to linger.

"Just you," Alice insisted, and whilst Hermione knew Andromeda was too refined to roll her eyes, the sentiment was the same.

"Suit yourself," Andromeda murmured, her icy fingers brushing Hermione's as she handed her a brass lens, and then folded her hands in her cloak. "See you back in the dorm, Hermione."

Alice waited for Andromeda to disappear down the stairs before turning back to Hermione. "So, you two have gotten pretty friendly," she said, with no preamble.

If Alice had caught her on any other day, Hermione's patience would not have been as scarce as it was. "That's a sin, is it?" she snapped, fastening the clasp on the telescope case and drawing up to face her.

Alice looked at Hermione with wide eyes. "I didn't…" she tried, but Hermione was too incensed, all the frustration and insecurities she had kept bottled up and tried to rationalise falling out in a tumultuous spill of words.

"I really don't understand what your problem could be! You barely know Andromeda so it's not like you have a valid reason for disliking her or not wanting us to be friends, and if you're scared that you and I would become more distant, you've got a funny way of showing it. What, you figured you’d cut me off before I had an opportunity to do it to you? For someone who loved to go on about how I'm nothing like a Slytherin and should have been in Gryffindor, you certainly have as poor an opinion of me as you do of the rest of them, if you thought I was the type of person to drop you, out of nowhere, knowing that I-"

"It's nothing like that!" cried Alice. "It just- I just- you didn’t- I mean, what the fuck, Hermione? You didn't have any friends in Slytherin for the first three and a half months of school, all the other first years were bullying you, and I don't remember you mentioning Andromeda sodding Black as an exception to that rule. What was I supposed to think, when on the first day back I saw you cosying up to the Pureblood Princess when you’d never mentioned her in any kind of context before, positive or negative? You were distracted, the entire train journey here, and don't think I didn't notice how silent and withdrawn you were, on the Express back to King's Cross for the holidays.  I didn't say anything because I figured you'd tell us if it was important enough, but when I saw you with Black… I thought you were being blackmailed, or- or- or some new and elaborate form of bullying-"

"You didn’t think to ask?" The two girls were facing off properly now, the frigid fingers of the wind running around their collars and through their billowing robes, but neither girl made any move to leave, worked-up and panting furiously. "You just decided to assume- and that's still slightly understandable if you hadn’t then decided, on top of that, to just start ignoring me?"

"I wasn't ignoring you! I just- Hermione, what do you actually know about Andromeda Black? Her family are the biggest blood purists in this country, bigger than the Malfoys and even more bigoted- her older sister got kicked out of Hogwarts for maiming someone, they all inter-marry and inbreed, just as much as the freakish Gaunts-"

"Why can you not just let me have my friends?" Hermione threw her hands in the air, wanted to shake Alice. "You've made comments about Morgana before, and I asked you not to- I don't care what her family is like, she's nothing like them- I won't do what everyone else in this castle did to me and punish her for who her parents are! And you don't think that Andromeda could be different to her family, when she clearly doesn’t have a problem with me?"

Alice tried to adopt a more conciliatory tone. "Listen, I'm not saying that she's playing you, or that she has ulterior motives-"

"Good, because she's not playing me," snapped Hermione. "Andromeda's been there for me when no one else was- she helped me through some awful times in Slytherin, things that literally kept me up all night and made me cry myself to sleep, things that I never bothered telling you about, because what could you possibly do?"

Alice whitened at this, her hand tentatively coming up to take hold of Hermione's forearm. "Hermione- I didn't… you should have… why didn't you say anything?"

Her fury was gone just as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving Hermione feeling physically exhausted and emotionally drained. "I did say things," she said hollowly. "I'd tell you about what Malfoy and Dolohov and all the rest of them were doing, and you just never got it. You don’t understand how Slytherins operate, the things you have to do to get by there- your advice was well-intentioned but… I eventually just stopped telling you, because you weren't even in my house, to provide any kind of emotional support. And I know that's not something in your control, or your fault, and I would never blame you for it, but equally, I won't let you blame me for making a friend that can be there in the dungeons with me, no matter what you think of her."

There was a ringing silence. Hermione hadn’t realised the extent of her frustrations with Alice- subconsciously, she must have been suppressing them. She loved Alice like a sister- the small clashes in their personalities insignificant in the face of how much she enjoyed her company, how effusive Alice was with her affection, how novel a genuine friendship felt, but that wasn't to say Hermione wasn't aware of the imbalance in their relationship. Cesare might have been her friend, Frank and Gideon and Fabian too, but they were all Gryffindors- they all lived together, had all their classes together, and would side with Alice in an argument as had been amply demonstrated. Hermione could feel hurt about it, but also understand. She was on a different tier of friendship, by dint of the inescapable fact of her Sorting, and her position had always felt precarious to her. Deep down, she had been scared of doing anything to tip the scales, be an inconvenience to Alice and Cesare, make them realise she wasn't worth the hassle; the spectre of the over-eager, over-nervous, uncertain seven-year-old girl alone in the playground too difficult to shake off.

"Just… be careful, Hermione," Alice exhaled eventually, her hazel eyes open and unguarded. "I'm sorry that it seemed like I was giving you the cold-shoulder- I thought it better I leave you alone until I figured out what was going on with Andromeda, rather than confront her and accidentally say or do something to make things worse for you. I was the one who saw how much of a toll their bullying took, not her. I don't want you to end up hurt again." She reached forwards to take her hand, gave it a quick squeeze and Hermione a wan but sincere smile. "I'll see you around."

Hermione listened as Alice's footsteps receded down the spiraling staircase as she levitated her telescope case to join the others in the storage cupboard. Alice's conviction that Andromeda had befriended her for nefarious purposes was galling because if anyone had up-close and personal experiences with a bully and could pick them out a mile away, it was Hermione. But the most irritating part was that she couldn’t be upset at the insinuation that Andromeda wouldn't genuinely want to befriend her because logically Alice was right, and her concern was understandable- from the outside, her and Andromeda's friendship looked very suspicious.

"You and Andromeda Black are a friendship I didn't see coming," Morgana had said to her, only yesterday, when Hermione had left the Potions dungeon a good thirty minutes after the class had ended, to query something she had read in an old textbook about the original methodology for a Detoxing Draught, the jovial Potions Professor always happy to expound at length on even the simplest of topics. Hermione had finally extricated herself from the grasp of Slughorn's rambling tangents and left the classroom to find the Slytherin prefect waiting for her own turn to talk to the professor about her OWLs prep.

The inquiry, asked casually and randomly whilst Hermione was enthusiastically relaying the references and journals Slughorn had pointed her towards, had caught her a little off guard, but Morgana was nowhere near as judgmental and opinionated as Alice so Hermione didn't feel attacked. "Neither did I," she said simply. "But she was there for me, after last term, when… well, you know."

Morgana had nodded thoughtfully, surveying Hermione with an inscrutable dark gaze. "I'm glad," she had said finally, and Hermione had felt relief at the easy declaration, at not being forced to cobble together an explanation for her approval. "Slytherin is a lonely place to be without friends, and Andromeda seems like the decent sort. And she scares Malfoy, so he'll definitely leave you alone too."

Malfoy had been a non-issue this term, fortunately. Hermione had decided, firmly, to be an implacable, blank, unfeeling automaton before him, not give him a single soft spot to dig his claws into, treat him as irrelevantly as he was. Luckily, he had done all the work for her- Malfoy didn't even look her way anymore, much less try to engage with her or rile her, and he had leashed the rest of his pack too, although Dolohov and Jugson and Mulciber were far less composed about it, watching her darkly and muttering to each other whenever she passed by, even alone.

She didn't know whether it was due to her new friendship with Andromeda- it might have been demoralising, to think that she was still dependent on someone else's good graces for protection, but their friendship was different. Andromeda only had Hermione, the same way Hermione just had Andromeda. If anything, now Hermione was the one with more friends, although she wasn't quite sure how she felt about Alice and the other Gryffindors at this particular moment. Or how much Alice herself meant what she had said about not cutting Hermione off.

This question was answered that weekend.

"Budge over, would you?"

Hermione had blinked up from the tiny, faded print of Highland Herbs and Ferns she had been poring over, her gaze swinging from a determined-looking Alice, nervously shuffling Frank, and cautiously smiling Cesare, to Andromeda, indifferently regarding them.

Hermione moved her bag from the chair beside her and Alice plonked down on the seat, haphazardly tipping out essay drafts and quills from her school bag, as Cesare and Frank took seats opposite her and beside Andromeda, shooting her awkward smiles that she didn't return.

"What are you working on?" Alice asked loudly.

Hermione was too befuddled by the idea of Alice Macmillan voluntarily coming to the library to do homework to answer immediately. "Umm… just Herbology," she offered up weakly.

Frank perked up. "Ooh, the essay about cross-pollinating Scottish gillyweed? Wait- I thought you'd have finished it."

"I did, but Andromeda remembered a Herbologist's diary that the Hogwarts archives have where she does some interesting fieldwork investigating how freshwater salinisation affects the gillyweed's potency."

There was an awkward pause as Frank warily regarded Andromeda, who had turned back to her essay and was steadily writing.

"What did you think of Lena Dubrov's hypothesis, Andromeda?" he asked tentatively, and even Hermione held her breath as Andromeda looked at him.

"I think there's some merit to the idea that minerals and salts affect a plant's magical properties, simply because the intersection isn't well studied," she said eventually. "But I'm not convinced that there's enough variation in different glens across the highlands for that to be solely responsible for the strength of the Scottish strain."

Frank leaned forward, his face animated the way it only ever was when talking about Quidditch or plants. "It's a great starting point though, isn’t it? I agree there's some holes in the argument, but the true merit of Dubrov's field journal was that it was the first comprehensive study that made use of Muggle geohydrology methods in such a way that even the most adamant wizard-supremacist had to admit that it got us data we never had access to before!"

Hermione let out a huff of amusement as Frank's enthusiasm for discussing the intricacies of magical fauna and his appreciation for anyone willing to indulge him, barreled past any discomfort that he might have harboured at Andromeda's presence. Andromeda herself was not immune to his infectious passion- her reserved demeanour thawed and her replies became more and more spirited until their discussion was so energetic that Madame Pince had to swing by and hiss a warning at them.

Hermione let their impassioned discussions wash over her, a comforting hum in the background as she lost herself in discussions on frond dimorphism and intricate ink-sketches of spiralling fractal leaves. Or tried to, at least- Alice kept trying to draw her out of her reading with random and forced questions about the homework and the upcoming class schedule, painfully obvious in her attempt to stake a claim on Hermione's attention. If she hadn't been only been doing supplementary reading, or been touched by proud, stubborn, confrontational Alice making an effort, however grudgingly and reluctantly, to bridge the divide that had crumbled open precariously between them, she might have found it irritating rather than endearing.

Hermione simply looked at Andromeda, when the Gryffindors bustled off to their DADA lesson, and the two girls began the winding descent down to the castle bowels for Potions.

"I don't know what you're giving me those looks for," Andromeda scoffed eventually, when the loaded silence that twisted heavily between them became too much to bear. "You certainly don't need my seal of approval to continue your friendship with them- just don't expect me to get all pally with a group of Gryffindors."

Hermione wiggled her eyebrows at her. "You were getting pretty pally with Frank, if my eyes did not deceive me,"

Andromeda levelled her with a deadpan look, although Hermione could make out the faintest tinge of pink high on her cheekbones, even in the sepulchral light of the lowest levels of the castle. "Just because one of your friends surprised me with their semblance of a brain and ability to hold a decent conversation does not mean I have any desire to voluntarily spend time with them."

"You don't desire to spend any time with a good Pureblood boy like Frank Longbottom?" asked Hermione delightedly, nudging Andromeda.

"I'll certainly object to any further association if time spent in their company means you take on boorish Gryffindor tendencies," scowled Andromeda, edging away from Hermione, who was too giddy and relieved at having evidence of her two vastly different friend groups being able to co-exist to tease Andromeda any further.

It was this same goodwill that drove Hermione down to the Quidditch pitch a few days later. Alice and Cesare had stopped at the Slytherin table at breakfast that morning- Hermione was not yet brave enough to traverse the inter-House boundary of the morning meal with Andromeda in tow- doggedly ignoring the repulsed looks and intentionally audible mutters from the nearby Slytherins as Cesare made determined small-talk with Andromeda and Alice invited Hermione to come down and watch the Gryffindor Quidditch team practice. Hermione had promised that she would try and join them after popping up to the Transfiguration classroom to return a book she had borrowed from McGonagall’s own personal collection, and surprisingly, after popping her head into the Deputy Head’s office and having an invigorating discussion about the validity of the some of the assumptions in the author’s arguments, she found she was in the mood to join them. Andromeda had made no attempt to even pretend to want to go down with her- not that she had been privy to an invitation in the first place- and regardless, had retreated to their dorm to pen inividual letters to various family members, a task that invariably stretched on for hours as Hermione knew from past experience.

And anyway, it was Hermione’s favourite kind of weather- a cold and crisp January morning, frost delicately dusted over everything as far as the eye could see, festooning the drooping fir boughs and in the crevices of the cloisters’ mottled stonework, glittering and crunching underfoot, the pale blue sky gently dappled with wisps of cloud. Her breath billowed before her, and she tucked her chin into her Slytherin scarf as she picked her way down to the Quidditch stadium.

Only the most devoted of friends and fans appeared to be in attendance as red specks arrowed across the pitch overhead. There were a scant few clusters of observers, and Hermione easily picked out Alice and Cesare, the latter enthusiastically gesticulating to the former, clearly sulky and cold.

“Hermione!” Cesare’s face brightened as she neared, and Alice grumbled a hello, nestling her flushed nose into her striped red scarf.

In lieu of a greeting, Hermione cast a warming charm over them before drying the damp wooden bench and taking a seat next to Alice, visibly unthawing and peeking out of her knitwear to smile at Hermione.

“Merlin, I’ve missed your warming charms,” she sighed, holding out her gloved hands for Hermione’s wand.

Hermion laughed as she applied the charm liberally all over Alice. “My warming charms and I have always been at your service, Alice.”

There was a pause, as the captain’s piercing whistle rang out and there was an increased flurry of activity overhead that the two girls dispassionately observed. “Didn’t feel like that, for a while,” Alice said quietly.

She was looking straight ahead, as Hermione turned to try and meet her gaze. Cesare was in his own world, enraptured by the barely visible Quidditch practice, oblivious to anything that wasn’t happening on a Comet Regal a few hundred metres above ground.

Hermione was suddenly, searingly aware of Alice’s loneliness. Alice Macmillan was gregarious, outgoing, personable- knew everyone and everything and wasn’t quiet about it, gathered friends like she was strawberry-picking on a thickly hot summer afternoon. But for all the rowdiness of the Gryffindor first-years, and for the rotating lineup of Frank and Gideon and Fabian and her dormmates Jenna and Tia and Amos in Hufflepuff who had recruited her for Gobstones Club and his friend Ted, she was fiercely most devoted to Hermione and Cesare. Perhaps it wasn’t so easy to shake off the friends you made as a nervous firstie on Platform 9 3/4, and when one of them was a boy who you couldn’t quite follow wherever he went, and the other was a girl in their arch-rivals’ House who suddenly made a new friend that was in all the same classes and shared all the same leisure time…

No one was immune to jealousy and insecurity, and Hermione felt ashamed for forgetting the way Alice specifically had gone out of her way to include her when she used to nervously approach the Gryffindors with her heart in her mouth in the first few weeks of Hogwarts.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, heartfelt and with feeling. “I didn’t think about how much you’d be worried about me, and it was unreasonable to expect you’d immediately warm up to Andromeda when she scared even me for most of term one. I accused you of cutting me out, but I should have also made more of an effort to spend time with you too, and I’m really sorry, Alice.”

Alice’s eyes were glossy when she finally looked at Hermione, and Hermione felt an answering burn in her own eyes. “It’s not your fault,” Alice said eventually. “I don’t know Andromeda, and of course I trust you to tell if someone is being genuine with you or not, but… I missed having you around, all the time, and I didn’t know how to handle it when you found someone else, someone who’s always around you. I know I can be a bit of hard work sometimes, and… I just didn’t want you to drift away and forget us. Forget me.”

“You are the easiest work there is,” said Hermione fiercely, grabbing Alice in a side hug. Alice let out a snort of laughter, patting away the swelling tears in her eyes. “And I dare anyone to forget Alice Macmillan. You’re the first friend I ever made, Alice, and nothing and no one can change that.”

The two girls beamed at each other, the moment broken by Cesare’s ear-splitting whoop as someone did something overhead.

“Can’t take him anywhere,” Alice grumbled, as Cesare held out his arms to the heavens and did a celebratory jig on the spot.

“I can’t believe you let him drag you along to these practices,” laughed Hermione.

“Well, I’m used to having my other best friend to keep me company,” Alice mock-complained, and Hermione glowed.

“You’ll like Andromeda,” she said eventually, poking Alice in the side when she scoffed. “I’m serious, you will! She’s a lot of fun once she lets her guard down, you’d definitely enjoy her humour- it’s drier than the Sahara. She’s absolutely nothing like you’d expect.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Alice said, rolling her eyes. “Just because you’re friends with her doesn’t mean I need to be too.”

“But I want you both to be friends!” Hermione pouted. “I want you all to be friends. I’m telling you, you’ll all get on- she’s somehow clicked with Frank of all people.”

“That’s true, I’m not letting Longbottom show me up,” Alice agreed seriously, and then brightened up. “Oooh- you won’t believe what happened to him last week! His mother, who is absolutely terrifying, by the way, and you should fear for your life if you ever run into her, sent a Howler to the Gryffindor Tower, in the evening when we were all…”

Flurries of the lightest snow began to drift downwards in spirals, and Hermione caught them on her tongue as her best friend filled her in on all the drama she had missed, feeling the happiest she had ever felt at Hogwarts. 

Chapter Text

“Honestly, I don’t know why we bothered inviting you two, when we knew you’d both end up doing this.”

Hermione let out an involuntary and distressed yelp as she lunged for the sheaf of notes that Alice yanked out of her grasp.

“Don’t even think about it, Zheng,” said Andromeda crisply, not moving a muscle, and Cesare froze mid-dive.

“Alice don’t crease them!” cried Hermione. “I need them to revise in the evening!”

"And you can revise," Alice said sagely, rolling the sheaf of parchment back up and waggling it sternly at Hermione, "later, not now when we're meant to be enjoying the weather."

“Andromeda’s revising,” complained Hermione.

“Well, I don’t really care what Andy does or doesn’t do.”

“Right back at you, Millan,” said Andromeda, not even looking up to catch Alice’s scowl.

Hermione sat back with a defeated sigh. Exam season was well and truly underway, and Hermione had thrown herself into them with all the vigour and intensity of a harried and over-worked seventh year for whom the results would dictate and shape their entire future career path. First year exams didn't count for anything; Hogwarts did not, unfortunately, send home regular or even annual school reports- whilst the exact contents might not have made much sense to her parents, they had usually been Hermione's place to shine in Muggle primary school. Hermione had however never met an exam or assignment or test that she did not treat with all the seriousness and intensity of a PhD viva, and had been holed up in the library every evening, writing and rewriting her notes with the aid of about seven different textbooks and academic papers, completing reams of practice questions, and introducing flashcards to Andromeda, who had readily accepted the Muggle revision technique with fervour.

Hermione was tentatively hopeful about the papers she had sat thus far. There had been a tricky question about Snargaluff pollination in the Herbology exam that she wasn't certain she had gone into adequate detail about, and she couldn't confidently claim that she had gotten the Pleiades and Hyades completely straight in her head, the ditty she had made up to memorise their right ascensions having frustratingly evaporated from her mind mid-exam. But Hermione was making a concentrated effort to not fixate on the things she might have gotten wrong, instead revelling in the satisfaction of the fifteen-marker about the third revision of Gamp's Laws that had been exactly like the one she had practiced, and the textbook-perfect deep umber shade of the Anti-Hiccuping Brew that had made Slughorn's moustache quiver excitedly when she had turned in the decanted vial.

Still, that didn't mean she was going to rest on her laurels. Complacency was the enemy of excellence, and Hermione was absolutely determined to comprehensively top their year, never mind her House. She had had very little to do with Malfoy, Rowle, Dolohov and the others since the Christmas holidays- sometimes passing Malfoy's blond head bent over his notes in the library, but not otherwise having any indication of how he or anyone of his Pureblood Posse, as Alice had dubbed them, were faring in their exams. But she would be damned if she'd let Lucius Malfoy within ten marks of any of her results.

"Can’t believe we've been missing out on this glorious weather all this time," Alice lamented, hitching her skirt up and lying back down in the grass, an arm flung over her eyes. "Why does exam season have to be at the nicest time of the year?"

"Well, trial exams are just before Christmas break, and that would be a bit rubbish too," Cesare said reasonably. "Not many other logical windows in the calendar to hold exams."

"I was being facetious," grumbled Alice.

Hermione let out a put-upon sigh, and lay down next to Alice, propping herself up on her elbows. It was a glorious June afternoon, the sky a dazzling cornflower blue with not even the suggestion of clouds, the breeze dancing across the Great Lake, undulating ripples in its wake, a serene and innocuous looking sheet of stillness. It seemed that the entire castle population was spread out along the lake's arcing banks, splashing in the shallows or sunning themselves on the gently rolling inclines bordering it- rambunctious first years, all the way up to the most frazzled seventh-years, the weather too enticing for anyone to think about exams.

Academia did seem to be a distant worry even for Hermione, the golden heat of the sun suffusing through her body, sinking with a palpable weight into her bones, the breeze caressing her scalp and her face and her ankle…

Hermione frowned. That wasn't a breeze. She dragged her leaden eyelids open, and peered down the length of her body to see an intricately folded parchment bird nudging insistently at the arch of her foot.

"What the…?" Hermione pushed herself up and carefully reached for the figurine, which shivered to a standstill as soon as she made contact, a faint thrum running up her hand as the magic animating it dissipated.

"The hell is that?" Cesare asked.

Hermione carefully turned it over, marvelling at the delicate pleating that made up its plumage, the cleverly folded fan of its tail feathers, the careful nips and tucks of its beak. "A phoenix, I think."

"Did someone lose it? Is it a toy or something?"

"I've seen variations of those," Andromeda said, her attention finally pulled away from her notes. "There's a similar thing used in the Ministry- they're letters."

"Ooohh, is it a love note?" Alice teased.

Hermione had finally, reluctantly, carefully, unfolded the parchment creation, to find slanting, deep maroon writing. "I should hope not- I'd hate to have to report Professor Dumbledore," she said faintly.

Alice shot upright. "Dumbledore?" she semi-shrieked. "Dumbledore sent you a letter?"

"Does he want something from you?" Andromeda asked, craning her head to try and peek at the note, interested despite herself.

"Umm…"

Dear Miss Granger,

It pains me to have to request this of you during such a vital time for any studious first-year, but I would be greatly honoured if you would be able to join me for a spot of tea in about half an hour. Whilst my own introduction to the Hogwarts exam system was an entire lifetime ago, the simple pleasure of enjoying fair weather after an intense bout of productivity is one that does not leave as age insidiously advances, and so I trust that I am not interrupting your preparation for your final papers. I cannot stress this enough- you are not in any sort of trouble, nor will I take up too much of your time.

With great anticipation,

Professor A.P.W.B. Dumbledore

P.S. I do hope we share a similar fondness for the Crunchie bar

There was silence as Hermione finished reading the note aloud, and lowered it to find matching expressions of confusion on all three of her friends' faces.

"What the fuck is a Crunchie?" Alice and Andromeda asked in unison.

"Muggle chocolate bar," Cesare said.

Alice snorted. "Why the hell would he tell you about them?"

"Maybe it's to put you at ease, shows that he liked Muggle things?" Cesare offered.

"It's no secret that Dumbledore's a Muggle-lover," Andromeda said. "I… did not intend for that to sound as derogatory as it did," she added carefully, in the silence that followed when everyone turned to stare at her. "It's just a fact- he's a big advocate for Muggles and Muggleborn integration, everyone knows he basically pushed Leach into power."

"What does he want, though?" Hermione asked, her mind racing as she tried to categorise any possible misdemeanour or infraction she might have committed. Surely it wasn't because the Headmaster knew that she had spent an evening in Gryffindor Tower once?

"Better go find out," Alice said cheerfully. "I'll put money on it being nothing bad- he probably wants to congratulate you on topping the year. Sign you up for some 'geniuses only' fast-track to Minister."

"Do you know where his office is?" Cesare asked.

"I know it's in a tower in the Southern Quarter, but not the exact location- Christ, I'd better leave now if I want to find it." Hermione jumped to her feet, snatching her notes back from Alice and haphazardly gathering up her stuff. It was tempting to leave everything with her friends, particularly the robes that felt oppressively heavy when she shrugged them back on, but she had absolutely no idea how long this meeting would take.

"I might stay out here," Andromeda said blithely, when Hermione lingered over her friend's shoulder, waiting for her to join her. "The sun's good for you."

There was a moment, when Andromeda bent back over her notes, where Alice, Cesare and Hermione considered each other, wide-eyed. Andromeda had never spent time with the two Gryffindors without the buffer of Hermione in between, had always rolled her eyes and been vocal about her displeasure when Hermione would drag her into spending time with her other two friends, all of them together. Alice and Cesare were Hermione's friends, and Andromeda was Hermione's friend- they were not each others. Hermione was half-terrified at the idea of leaving the three of them together, unchaperoned, no neutral presence to hastily throw up a shield charm if wands were pulled, which Hermione wouldn't rule out.

In the end, her nervousness about Dumbledore's invitation won out, and she mumbled a sound of acquiescence and turned on her heel, ignoring Alice vigorously shaking her head and Cesare's pleading looks.

Where before golden lightness and the serene sensation of drifting had infused throughout Hermione's body, now there was only the jittery fizziness that Hermione recognised from when her parents would sit her in the patient's chair at their practice. And whilst she knew what to expect when Mum gestured for her to open wide, masked up and wielding a terrifyingly pointed steel instrument, Hermione couldn't fathom why Dumbledore had singled her out, and it was this uncertainty that had her on edge.

She made her way to the Southern Quarter, wove through the quadrangle and hopped neatly into the shadowy cloisters, motes of dust swirling through the dappled golden sunlight that painted patterns on the floor. She knew most of the classrooms here- the Hermione of nine months ago would have been tickled pink at the idea of ever knowing her way around any part of Hogwarts with any kind of familiarity- but there was absolutely no signage that she could ever recall seeing, nor was having much luck finding, that indicated the Headmaster's office.

Increasingly anxious as the clock ticked closer and her loops of the Southern Quarter remained fruitless, Hermione tore after the distant figure of a Ravenclaw prefect crossing the far side of the quad.

"Dumbledore's?" the girl said distractedly, when Hermione panted out her question. "There's a gargoyle, opposite the tapestry of Wilhelm the Wanderer- guards his office."

The gargoyle opposite, nestled in a niche upon a plinth, observed Hermione with lifeless, stoney eyes. It didn't seem likely that she was expected to defeat it, or undo some sort of enchantment- it would be an over-zealous security measure for an office that should theoretically be accessible for everyone. If only Dumbledore had some sort of secretary instead, or a special pass, or a password…

Oh! "Umm… Hermione Granger," she said tentatively, feeling slightly ridiculous

The gargoyle was impassive.

"I have an appointment with the Headmaster?" she tried.

Now it was almost smirking at her.

"He sent me a note, shaped like a phoenix- I don’t have a clue what he wants, he was rambling about revision timetables and Crunchie bars-"

There was a deep groaning noise as the gargoyle's plinth began to revolve, roughly carved steps appearing at its base as it began to slowly rotate upwards. Hermione barely had a moment to gape at the fascinating magic and the ridiculous password before she hurried up after it, to the top of the spiral staircase where the gargoyle seemed to have dissolved into thin air and there was a circular landing with an ornate door set in the wall.

Hermione hesitated. There were voices coming from inside, and as she moved closer, she could faintly make them out.

"- what you would have me do?" asked a wearied voice, that Hermione recognised as Dumbledore's. "They are well within their rights to demand that she be examined under the British system, so even the best case scenario would see her at Hogwarts at least for the duration of the OWLs examination period… although I would bet Godric's sword they want to make a point by insisting she be enrolled as normal student for the school year."

"You should be able to leak- something!" spluttered someone else, who sounded vaguely familiar. "It worked against Fawley, didn't it?"

"You are the Minister now, and a known antagonist," said Dumbledore firmly, and with start, Hermione finally matched the other speaker to a voice she had heard snatches of on the ornately carved teak tabletop radio in the Slytherin Common Room. "That worked when your opponents were complacent and didn't realise the threat you posed- you are in the polar opposite situation here. This move, their insistence- they're throwing their weight around. They want to remind us of the status quo."

"I didn't think being Minster would involve this much coddling and placating of Pureblood egos," the other man replied. "I wanted to improve Britain's standing on the global wizarding stage, goddamit- instead, I'm having to smile politely as the Russian Foreign Minister make snide jabs over blinis about the absolute fit Thaddeus Nott had in the Wizarding Duma when we tried to set a levy on imported nogtail hides. They're the ones making us the laughing stock of the COEWS, but anything to kick the Mudblood out of office."

"I would prefer you not describe yourself that way, Minister," said Dumbledore, mildly but still admonishing. "Many an impressionable Muggleborn child entering our world takes great heart in seeing you in that same office, and I fear I must ask you to take your leave in order to speak with one such student."

Hermione barely had a moment to stumble back from the door before it soundlessly swung open, leaving her perfectly framed in the doorway as the two men in the Headmaster's office turned to look at her.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled genially. "Miss Granger! Come in, come in."

She didn’t know when her feet carried in, but despite embodying a woodland creature immobilized in the bright yellow glare of halogen headlamps, she could marvel at the elaborately vaulted ceiling, the slowly rotating configuration of impossibly delicate metal threads and flittering lights that hovered above them, the rows and rows of gently murmuring measuring instruments and leviathan tomes and dully gleaming, wizened artefacts thrumming palpably with magic. In front of them all, a glossy, intricately carved desk, presided over by Albus Dumbledore, with Nobby Leach sitting opposite.

Nobby Leach, the Minister for Magic, who unfolded himself from his seat and rose as she approached. “Miss Granger, nice to meet you.” The words were as cool as the hand that he proffered.

“Miss Granger is one of the most promising students to have passed through the doors of this institution in recent memory, Minister,” Dumbledore said, his gaze warm. “I won’t have the pleasure of teaching her myself for a few more years, but I have received glowing reports from all her professors. Professor McGonagall in particular was very complimentary, and as I’m sure you’ll remember from your own school days, Minister, she’s not an easy woman to impress.”

Nobby Leach’s eyes were assessing as they returned to her. Hermione had seen pictures of him in the Daily Prophet- he had seemed unassuming and unnoteworthy, with his average height and medium build and neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and well-tailored but plain black robes. In person though, there was something about him that drew the gaze, made one’s attention snag- he held himself with a quiet watchfulness, his gaze was sharp and piercing, and he had a tightly coiled energy that made Hermione nervous to look away from him, as if he were a reclined panther that might lazily swipe at her at any point.

“Don’t I just,” he murmured, his hazel eyes flicking down to Hermione’s green tie, and suddenly sharpening. “A Muggleborn, did you say, Albus?”

“Yes,” Hermione interjected, before Dumbledore had the chance to speak. “My parents are dentists, with a practice in Chiswick.”

“Dentists, eh?” The Minister’s gaze was considerably warmer, as it met Hermione’s. “My mother read Classical Languages at Lady Margaret Hall, and my father was a brigadier during the war- I’d wager we have similar family backgrounds.”

A thrill ran through Hermione at this comparison. “Oxford?” she breathed. “I always… hoped I might attend, one day. Ever since I was a little girl.”

Leach grimaced slightly. “I would be remiss if I pretended that that might not have been the better option.”

“Minister.” The Headmaster’s tone was reproachful. “I’d thank you not to tell one of my brightest first-years that the wizarding world has no need of her.”

Leach ignored him, as he sat back down in his seat, those piercing, murky eyes fixed on Hermione. “One of the Lestrange boys is still at Hogwarts, yes? I know there’s a whole gaggle of Notts, the Fawley twins will be finishing up soon… sweet Jesus, is Abraxas Malfoy’s son in your year?”

The revolted tone threw Hermione. “Lucius Malfoy? Ermm… yes… yes- he is,” she stuttered.

Leach let out a bark of laughter. “I won’t ask you if he’s every bit as unpleasant as his father, or if he makes your life as much of a pain as Abraxas makes mine.” His head whipped in Dumbledore’s direction. “I hope you can provide some form of guarantee for Miss Granger’s welfare, Headmaster. It’s all well and good to toot the horn of progress and inclusivity and tolerance, but it should not blind us to society’s realities and the viciousness that children can be capable of.” There was an undercurrent of dark menace to Leach’s words, a leading emphasis and a weight to them that made Hermione feel as if she was missing something.

“My students’ well-being has never been anything but my foremost concern, Minister,” Dumbledore said, his voice placid. “Miss Granger has shown remarkable strength of character in her time here at Hogwarts, and by the end of it, I wager she’ll have cemented friendships that neither party would have dreamed of at the start of this year. We are fortunate indeed, to have such a capable and resilient and talented witch amongst our numbers.”

Hermione knew she was flushing a deep, marvelous crimson. To have the Headmaster himself, one of the most influential and powerful wizards in Britain if not the world, knowing who she was and complimenting her so kindly… even if it was exaggeration to ease the nerves of a first year abruptly summoned to his office, Hermione knew the memory of Dumbledore's words would be a comfort that she would turn over in her mind and be warmed by and glow bashfully at for years to come.

Leach held up his hands in mock protest. "You'll hear no arguments from me, Headmaster. Perhaps it's a sign of progress and our changing times, to have Slytherin be opened up to the rest of the world, experience the magic and skill of the kind of person they've been told all their lives doesn't have any. I have no doubt your exam results will be more than worthy of all the praise from your professors, Miss Granger."

Hermione bit her lip to suppress her smile, the sharp push of pressure cutting through any of the mistiness gathering in her eyes. Leach let out a sigh and got to his feet. "I'll be off now, Headmaster… let you get to your conversation with Miss Granger." He shook hands with Dumbledore, holding onto it the way he held the other man's gaze. "I implore you to give serious consideration to my request- I'll have my office send you an owl." The words were low, clearly not meant for Hermione's ears.

"Nice meeting you, Miss Granger." The Minister shrugged on his cloak and tipped his hat at her, his eyes gleaming warmly at her in complete contrast to the beseeching tone he had just used with Dumbledore. "I look forward to observing how your academic journey progresses- my office is always in need of accomplished and hard-working witches."

"You won't take the Floo, Minister?" Dumbledore gestured to the ornate fireplace, which roared into life with emerald flames at his words.

Leach smiled. "You know I never pass up the chance to revisit my old stomping grounds, Albus." With a wink at Hermione, the Minister passed his wand down the length of the body, the Disillusionment fading him from view, the only sign of his presence the door silently swinging shut in his wake.

"An interesting character, Minister Leach." Hermione's attention was drawn back to Dumbledore, who smiled at her and motioned for her to take a seat. "If you'd known him as a student, you would never have expected politics in his future… oh, he was sharp as a tack, of course, as Ravenclaws usually are, but certainly with a strong penchant for mischief, and not nearly as hard-working as he could have been. Still, politics is just as much about personality, and young Norbert was quite the magnetic figure… immensely popular and charming, making connections left right and centre, gathering friends wherever he went. I daresay he cracked the code of success far sooner than most people do- it's just as much who you know, as what you know."

Hermione nodded politely, still not entirely processing that she had just met the Minister for Magic, who had told her he would be keeping an eye on her progress at Hogwarts.

"An unfortunate instance of poor scheduling, although perhaps we can reframe it as a happy coincidence," the Headmaster said jovially. "It's never too early to introduce promising students to the kind of people who can really help them make the most of their potential later in life, and potential is certainly something you possess in abundance, Miss Granger, if your professors are anything to go by."

Hermione had never been impervious to compliments from authority figures, and having them heaped onto her by the Minister of Magic and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot had not yet lost its charm. "Thank you, Professor," she beamed.

Dumbledore peered at her over the rim of his delicate gold spectacles. "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here, Miss Granger- although I wouldn't be surprised if someone as bright as you managed to figure it out.

"Sorry, Professor- I'm not quite sure."

"I suppose I just wanted an opportunity to speak with you and find out how your year has been so far." He chuckled lightly at the incredulous look on Hermione's face. "Not a mundane question, my dear! I assure you, I was quite truthful when I told the Minister that student welfare is important- an undervalued aspect of Hogwarts life in the past, I must admit. And I can confidently say, that no student has ever experienced exactly what you've gone through since your Sorting."

It took Hermione a second to place what he was referring to. It was bizarre, after months and months of the ever-present sensation of nausea that accompanied any moment she wasn't with Alice and Cesare or the other Gryffindors, and the hot dread that melted through her whenever she sat down at the Slytherin tables or stepped foot in the dungeons.

"It's gone well, Professor," she said eventually.

Dumbledore's voice was calm, and kind. "I have no doubt that you embody many of the positive traits of your House… resourcefulness, self-preservation… and time is perhaps the best teacher of all- I say this as someone who has spent more than half their life shaping young minds at this point. But every student deserves to feel safe and welcomed at Hogwarts, Miss Granger. Despite being Headmaster, my hands are bound in many ways- there are many people that I am answerable to, people who, whether rightly or not, believe they know what is best for the next generation of witches and wizards. I must reassure you though, that your wellbeing takes priority and precedence over anything else."

Hermione stifled her immediate impulse to reassure the Headmaster that everything was well and fine and perfect, and sorted through his words. Undoubtedly, he was referring to pressure from Pureblood parents, many of whom she knew sat on the school's Board of Governors- it was half the reason that people like Malfoy acted with such swaggering impunity. The snatches of conversation between the Headmaster and Nobby Leach played at the back of her mind, swirling nebulously with half-remembered mentions that danced out of reach before she could pin them down.

But she couldn't help feeling a twinge of annoyance. Even if Dumbledore didn't know about the constant bullying and the totalizing ostracization and the vandalisation of the Merlin statue, he must have had some idea of what she might have faced as soon as her blood status was revealed to the other Slytherins- hell, the Minister for Magic had unerringly pointed out the worst of the culprits. He might have requested Professor McGonagall to have a similar talk with her at the start of the year, but what was the point if he couldn’t defend or protect her when it mattered the most? Where was the red line beyond which Dumbledore could only helplessly shrug at her?

"If I asked to move from Slytherin to Gryffindor," she asked carefully, "could you make that happen?"

Some of the sparkle in Dumbledore's eyes dimmed at her question. "I'm afraid that is one of the many things not in my purview, Miss Granger," he said sadly. "The Sorting is an ancient magic who's secrets have been lost to time- but if there is one thing we can confidently say about it, it's that it is completely and totally binding. There are no re-Sortings, Miss Granger, much as it would be my absolute pleasure to claim you as a member of my own House."

Hermione had known, quite comprehensively that that was the case, was now far more at ease in Slytherin than she had been nine months ago when it was Professor McGonagall on the other side of the desk, no longer dreaded classes without the Gryffindors or skipped meals to avoid sitting alone at the table. But there was still a faint swoop in her stomach, the door shutting on the barest vestiges of yearning she had harboured to be ensconced with her friends in the Gryffindor Tower.

But she didn't just have friends in Gryffindor. She now had Andromeda- witty and dry and clever Andromeda, who pushed her own notes in Hermione's direction without even asking when Hermione had spent too long scribbling down the lecturer's words and had missed the start of the next point, who had painstakingly taught Hermione the hair-detangling charm she used, who was assembling a mountain of shared snacks and lovingly battered paperbacks and small magical trinkets on their shared dresser. And before she had Andromeda, when it was just her alone against Malfoy and his band of bigots, she had had herself, and it had been enough, for a while.

"That's alright, Professor," she said, fixing a smile on her face. "I thought I might as well ask. I won't pretend it wasn't hard in Slytherin at first, but I've made friends now, and it makes everything easier."

"Ah yes, so I have heard. A very interesting choice- I can't claim to know Miss Black very well, but I am certainly familiar with many of her family members, and it is a credit to her that she seems to have broken away from some of their more… exclusionary values."

Hermione kept the bland smile on her face, as Dumbledore observed her, before letting out a small chuckle.

"I am well aware of some of the other traits emblematic of Slytherin House too, Miss Granger, and whilst I would never ask or expect the member of any House to reveal any of their secrets to an outsider, I know that Slytherin secrecy combined with the attitudes that many of your House cling firmly to, can make quite an unfortunate combination. I must impress upon you that your Professors, as well as myself personally, will always do what we can to protect the students in our care, and treat offenders with the appropriate level of severity."

"I'm glad to hear that, Professor."

Dumbledore gave her a resigned smile when she said nothing further. "In that case, Miss Granger, I'll let you get back to Miss Black and the rest of your friends."

***

The rest of Hermione's first year at Hogwarts lolloped past at a perambulating pace. Whatever else Hermione might have gotten from the meeting with Nobby Leach and Professor Dumbledore aside, their encouragement and affirmations had buoyed her up, bestowed a sort of serenity and faith in her abilities that centred her in the run-up to their final exams. Her revision was no longer a panicked frenzy of inhaled information, didn't manifest on an almost physical dependency on her notes as if they were an actual crutch, like she might stumble and fall if she was not clutching a roll of intricately inked plant diagrams in her sweaty palms.

"I thought I wanted you to relax a bit," Alice had said the evening before their Charms written paper, watching suspiciously as Hermione casually thumbed through Spellwork Fundamentals, Andromeda and the two Gryffindors in varying degrees of anxiety around a square table tucked away in the Alchemy section of the library. "This zen mode you're in… I think it's more jarring, actually."

"Would you prefer I shoot quickfire revision questions at you?" Hermione replied amusedly.

"You might be this laid back if Dumbledore had told you that he hadn't ever seen a student like you, Al," Cesare said, not looking up from his feverished note-taking.

"That's absolutely not what he said," protested Hermione.

"Not in so many words, anyway."

"Ces!"

"You loved it, Hermione," said Andromeda, a teasing light in her eyes. "Don't even pretend you didn't."

Hermione buried her face in her hands as if they hadn’t already seen her flaming cheeks and bashful grin. “Stop.”

Hermione's friends had been awestruck at Hermione's meeting- she had skirted around some of the particulars, what Dumbledore had implied and what he had tried to prod at, not sure any of them would understand the indignation she had felt. Alice and Cesare were starstruck by their Headmaster, an alumni of their own House, and while Hermione had never discussed Andromeda’s family or their views or her father’s political involvement with her friend, she had made enough disparaging remarks to surmise her friend’s wary attitude towards Dumbledore and couldn’t quite trust her to react proportionately. With no one to confide in, Hermione had tamped down her disgruntlement until it was but cherry-red embers, smouldering deep in her chest.

But it would be hard, regardless of anyone’s opinions on both figures, to not be impressed or agog at Hermione appearing to be on the radar of two of the most influential wizards in the country, if not the world, and her friends had been delighted for her, asking Hermione for every minute detail of her conversation with Leach, the password-activated gargoyle, the layout and design of Dumbledore’s office, complete with good-natured teasing about Hermione’s “two new BFFs, don’t think you can forget me and Ces, Hermione- Andy’s replaceable though, she’s new.”

That was the other thing that had made the rest of the year so mellow and comfortably easy. Hermione hadn’t given much thought to how she’d integrate Andromeda with her Gryffindor friends, so when it happened as easily as liquid flowing into a vacated space, she had boggled at how naturally it had occurred.

That wasn’t to say it was frictionless. Hermione was attempting to absorb cool and composed and ever-aloof Andromeda Black into a group of loud and rowdy and boisterous Gryffindors- whilst the boys had a healthy wariness of Andromeda that made them unfailingly polite and formal with her, Alice was disgruntled at Andromeda’s inclusion in their group.

“I must say, the more obvious Macmillan makes it that she would rather I have absolutely nothing to do with her, the more I enjoy imposing,” Andromeda had said cheerfully after a particularly awkward hour spent in the library where Alice had determinedly joined them for DADA revision.

“Black is obstinate as fuck,” Alice had complained to her, on a walk through the grounds where it had just been the two of them. “Short of me setting off Dungbombs every time she approaches, she just won’t take the hint. I mean, there’s not reading the room, and then there’s whatever entitlement runs through her Pureblood veins.”

“Alice, you’re a Pureblood too.”

“Hermione Jean Granger, don’t you ever dare compare us again!”

Hermione might have been worried, if Andromeda didn’t have that quiet sparkle in her eyes whenever she animatedly dissected Alice’s reactions, or Alice didn’t continually emphasise, with a vigour usually reserved for gleefully relaying castle gossip and dating drama, how little she enjoyed Andromeda’s company. Perhaps there were situations, in which two people were too similar to coexist in any kind of manner, but this was not one of them.

Hermione and Andromeda, Hermione and Alice and Cesare, Hermione and Andromeda and Alice and Cesare- the rest of the school year was spent in swirling iterations and versions and combinations of all of Hermione’s different friends, arrayed in a long row of seats in their Transfiguration class; roaming the grounds whilst swapping Chocolate Frog cards when exam prep became too stifling; the Gryffindor game collection brought down to the Westerly Quadrangle in the gloriously sunny days after their last exam, Cesare heckling as Frank valiantly tried to teach Hermione wizard’s chess before Andromeda challenged him to a game which she won in six and a half minutes.

And suddenly, Hermione's first year at Hogwarts had petered out to a finish- her final exam completed (a thirty minutes Charms practical, where Flitwick had gone into such raptures at the perfectly concentric and balanced four apples she had rotated in a wide circuit around their heads that he had toppled off his stool), her last afternoon spent lazing on the banks of the Great Lake, robes long discarded under the shimmering summer heat, exam results a distant, far-off thought. The last day of the school year saw her trunk packed and stacked at the foot of the bed, ready to be magically transported to the Hogwarts Express; all the bed linens stripped, the curtains around the four-poster tied severely back, and the usually cluttered dresser stark in its emptiness.

"Ready?" Andromeda appeared beside her, smoothing down the front of her robes.

Hermione was surprised by her reluctance to leave, something like melancholy settling over her at the sight of the room she had grown fondness for, started sculpting memories of laughing with Andromeda as they did flashcards late in the night where tiredness swirled into hysteria; curled up on opposite sides of the bed with a mountain of Ice Mice and Flying Saucers between them as they dissected their day; nestled into her pillows as she read letters from home. It had seemed a pipe dream, when she had first stepped foot in the dormitory, to ever consider it a sanctuary of any kind, but the fact that it had was nothing to do with the room.

"Ready," replied Hermione, sliding her arm through Andromeda's to link them, meeting her surprised smile with a grin of her own and feeling suddenly, wonderfully light.

They joined the thickening stream of students converging on the Great Hall- Alice had woven all manner of fanciful tales about the splendor of the Leaving Feast and Hermione drank in the excitement and chattering and giddiness of the sea of life buffeting her along. The Hall was bedecked with shimmering bronze and navy banners and the enchanted ceiling reflected the blazing, brilliant blue summer skies of the Scottish summer, echoing and amplifying the hubbub of students calling out to their friends and excitedly talking. Alice was waving exuberantly with both arms from across the Hall- Hermione waved back, poked at Andromeda who grumbled and twisted out of her reach, trying to redirect Hermione's attention to the front of the Hall, where Dumbledore was getting slowly to his feet, shaking back the voluminous sleeves of his chartreuse robes to fold his hands on the eagle sculpted lectern as he surveyed the slowly quietening students.

His voice was sonorous as it swept across and along all eight tables. "As another year draws to a close, it is my absolute pleasure to congratulate Ravenclaw House on their victory in the House Cup-" riotous applause and whooping broke out from across the Hall as Dumbledore beamed at the jubilant Ravenclaws, "-and just as importantly, congratulate everyone present in this Hall, for making it to the end of another school year. To our spectacular first-years, I hope that Hogwarts has been everything that you have wished it to be, and I hope that you leave today richer in your magic and your knowledge, but far more importantly in your friends and the families that you have created in your own Houses. And right at the opposite end, of this spectacular odyssey that is Hogwarts, to our wonderful final-year students, who have toiled tirelessly for seven years, who are leaving today as only the barest versions of the children who first stepped foot in this Hall, who are finishing this journey with friends that they will hold dear for the rest of their lives- it has been a privilege to serve as your Headmaster all these years, and it is my dearest wish that you flourish wherever you go from here, that you cherish and cultivate your magic, and never forget the lessons Hogwarts has taught you."

Hermione caught sight of Lucius Malfoy on the other Slytherin table, sitting with the first-year boys amidst a gaggle of older students, his head tilted as he listened to the Headmaster. Malfoy had already taught her the most important lesson of her first year, perhaps of her entire time at Hogwarts, and now that she was distanced from it and him, shielded by her new-found faith and confidence and certainty in her magic, by Andromeda's steadfast friendship, even by Leach's reassurance, she could look back and see the explosive argument as being a blessing in disguise. Better to have been ripped down and come crashing to rock-bottom now, better to know exactly what kind of abhorrent person he was now, better to have learnt the reality of Slytherin House and their flimsy, meaningless values in first year, where it didn’t matter. She might not have learnt how insubstantial and hollow the whole system was, might have harboured a persistent, necrotising unease in the wizarding world, a debilitating inferiority about her magic.

What had the Hat said? You'll break yourself down and be reforged.

Rousing applause and whistling pulled Hermione out of the current of her thoughts, her attention away from Malfoy- feeling unaccountably giddy, she joined in with the cheering as Dumbledore beamed and sat down to conclude his speech.

Andromeda threw her a look. "That happy to be going home, are you?" she asked, as the empty tureens and trays suddenly became laden with food.

Hermione hadn't realised she had started grinning. "It's just… oh, I can't believe we've made it a whole year! And imagine leaving- I can't even imagine the person I'll be in six more years! It feels so abstract and far away."

Andromeda nodded thoughtfully, before breaking out into a smile. "We'll be second years when we return in September! Cissa will have started too- it'll be fun being able to show her around Hogwarts."

"Second years," Hermione said wonderously. She beamed at Andromeda, a mega-watt smile that Andromeda matched.

"Second year."