Inside the scarlet steam engine, the corridor was a bustle of activity. Robes fluttered, owls hooted in their cages, and the nervous energy of hundreds of students filled the air.
Hermione sat quietly, her posture perfect, though her mind was miles away. She was undoubtedly conspicuous. Even among the eccentricity of the wizarding world, her refined temperament and startling beauty drew the eyes of passing older students. Boys peeked into the compartment, whispering and nudging each other.
However, their envious glances were currently directed at Ron Weasley. Or rather, at the object on his head.
Ron sat beaming, wearing the bright, grassy green cotton hat Hermione had gifted him.
"Harry!" Ron waved enthusiastically as the boy with the lightning scar entered the compartment after changing into his robes.
Harry paused in the doorway. He blinked, his green eyes widening behind his round glasses. In a sea of drab black and gray wizarding robes, the hat on Ron's head was aggressively, radiantly green.
"Ron," Harry said, his voice straining with the effort to remain polite. "Where... where did you get that hat?"
Harry assumed Ron had bought it in a moment of questionable judgment in Diagon Alley.
Ron puffed out his chest, adjusting the brim. "Do you remember that beautiful girl? The one who fixed your glasses? She gave it to me."
Harry nodded. Of course, he remembered Hermione. The girl who bought two wands and nearly blew up Ollivander's shop.
"Miss Hermione gave it to me," Ron whispered excitedly, leaning in. "Harry, do you think she has a crush on me?"
Harry looked at the hat—a symbol of cuckoldry in some Eastern cultures, though Ron was blissfully unaware—and then at Ron's hopeful, freckled face. He couldn't help it; a laugh bubbled up in his throat. He managed to turn it into a cough.
"Maybe," Harry said diplomatically.
"Don't make that face," Ron said, misunderstanding Harry's reaction. "I gave her a scarf—my mum knitted it—and she took it! It's a trade."
Hermione, sitting by the window, heard every word. She kept her expression impassive, staring out at the darkening countryside. She had indeed taken the scarf, but she hadn't even looked at it before tossing it into the infinite void of her Space Ring.
Relationships? Romance?
Elara Vance—now Hermione—sighed internally. In her previous life, she had just finished the grueling college entrance exams. She was supposed to be starting university, enjoying freedom. Instead, she was essentially back in elementary school, surrounded by eleven-year-olds.
What a demotion, she thought dryly.
The train began to slow, the pistons hissing as they pulled into the Hogsmeade station. The sky outside was a heavy, bruised purple, threatening a storm.
As the students poured onto the platform, shivering in the cold night air, the atmosphere shifted.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid's booming voice echoed over the heads of the students.
Hermione followed the crowd, keeping to the back.
Across the black lake, perched atop a high mountain cliff, sat Hogwarts Castle. It was a behemoth of stone, a fortress of turrets and towers that pierced the sky. Windows glowed like hundreds of eyes in the dark.
"Whoa," Ron breathed. "This is Hogwarts!"
It was majestic, yes, but to Hermione, it looked like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole. The Forbidden Forest to the side was a dense, impenetrable mass of shadow, emitting a depressing, heavy aura. Above, black clouds swirled around the astronomy tower, illuminated by sporadic flashes of lightning.
This was not a fairy tale castle. It was a place of ancient power and danger.
Hermione tightened her grip on her robe. Caution, she reminded herself. Survival is King. Lie low, stay safe.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere was even more imposing.
High above the entrance hall, behind a row of leaded glass windows, the Professors of Hogwarts watched the new intake arrive.
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor, adjusted her square spectacles. She wore a dark green robe over a tartan blouse, her black hair pulled back into a severe bun. She was thin and looked to be in her fifties, but there was a vibrating energy to her, a sternness in her sharp eyes that commanded instant respect.
She turned to the man standing in the shadows beside her.
"This year's freshman class is substantial, Professor Snape."
Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin, stood like a specter. He was thin, with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy black hair that framed his face like curtains. His eyes were cold, black tunnels, devoid of warmth. He was young—the youngest of the Heads of House—but he carried the weight of a bitter old man.
"Quantity does not equate to quality," Snape drawled, his voice a low baritone.
Down below, amidst the sea of bobbing heads, Snape's eyes instantly locked onto a messy-haired boy standing next to a redhead wearing a ridiculous green hat.
Harry Potter.
Snape's lip curled slightly.
"No matter how many students are in Slytherin," McGonagall said, following his gaze but choosing not to comment on Potter directly, "they must be obedient."
She knew the history. She had helped leave the baby Harry on the Dursleys' doorstep. She hoped, silently, that the boy would just be a boy, not a legend.
The massive oak doors groaned open.
The students were led into the Entrance Hall. The scale of it was dizzying. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, the ceiling was lost in shadow, and a magnificent marble staircase led to the upper floors.
Hermione walked cautiously, her eyes scanning for traps, for ghosts, for anything unexpected. The smell of stone, old wax, and something savory wafting from the kitchens filled her nose.
They approached the double doors to the Great Hall.
Professor McGonagall met them there, gave her introductory speech, and then led them inside.
If the exterior was majestic, the Great Hall was magical.
It was a cavernous space, lit by thousands and thousands of candles floating in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were already seated. The tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets.
Hermione looked up. The ceiling was not stone, but a velvet black sky scattered with stars. It was a perfect reflection of the weather outside, enchanted to look like the heavens.
It's a hologram, Hermione rationalized, trying to keep her scientific mind engaged to suppress her awe. Just a very advanced, magical hologram.
She walked carefully, terrified of bumping into anything or drawing attention to herself. The pressure was immense.
At the top of the hall sat another long table for the teachers. Dumbledore sat in the center on a golden throne-like chair, radiating power.
And then, there was the stool. And the tattered, patched wizard's hat sitting on top of it.
The Sorting Ceremony.
This was the moment that would define their next seven years. The hat would delve into their brains, judge their characters, and assign them to a House.
Hermione stood in the crowd of first years, her heart hammering against her ribs. She prayed silently. System, please don't do anything crazy. Just let me be sorted. No drama.
But the System, as always, had a terrible sense of timing.
Just as the hat finished its song and the applause died down, the world froze for Hermione. The blue light curtain popped into existence, hovering right in front of Dumbledore's nose, invisible to everyone but her.
[Mission Triggered: The Sorting Ceremony]
> [Option 1: Step forward before the ceremony begins. Announce loudly to Headmaster Dumbledore and the entire school that Professor Quirrell is actually Voldemort's temporary Horcrux. Reward: Basic Attribute +1.]
> [Option 2: Whisper to the Sorting Hat that you demand to be placed in Slytherin. Reward: 1 Magical Pet.]
> [Option 3: Don't move. Be as silent and invisible as the air. Reward: 1 Cotton Hat.]
>
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .