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Chapter 13 - Chapter 13: The Sorting Ceremony

The Hogwarts Express only began to slow as the sky turned purplish-red.

"Hey! Time to change!"

Nietzsche jerked awake on the sofa. Like a startled rabbit, he patted Hermione's arm in a frenzy, heart racing from his dream.

"Wh-where are we?" He clutched his chest, still dazed.

"We're nearly at school. Put your robes on." Hermione tossed him a black wizard's robe.

"Then you change…"

"So get out!" she snapped, pushing him towards the corridor. "Or do you want me to dress out here?"

"I had my eyes closed just now."

Hermione's cheeks flushed, but she held her composure, seized his wrist, and shoved him out the door.

Nietzsche rolled his eyes and changed calmly in the corridor, pulling the black robe over his grey shirt.

In truth, he had been dreaming of another universe again—towering skyscrapers, futuristic technology, a world that looked like a DC comic come to life. It had felt too real.

When the compartment door slid open again, Hermione was dressed in full uniform, Mercury's cage in hand.

"Nightmare?" she asked.

"Not really. Maybe your voice is scarier than the dream."

Hermione, gazing out the window at the looming station, could not hide her nerves. Harry only half-counted as someone she knew; apart from him, Nietzsche was her sole familiar face.

She sneaked a look at him. He sat lost in thought, as if detached from everyone around him. At times he seemed driven by logic, at others consumed by passion. To her, he looked like a reader contemplating an illustration, distant yet absorbed.

"What did you dream about?" she asked.

"The future," he murmured.

Before she could press further, a booming voice shook the platform.

"First years! First years, follow me!"

It was Hagrid, the giant they had seen at Madam Malkin's. His lantern blazed steadily, the wind and mist failing to dim its glow.

The first-years trailed after him along a stony path. On either side, darkness pressed in, broken only by the croak of frogs.

Nietzsche leaned towards Hermione. "The wizarding world is ruled by those obsessed with blood purity. Their influence only waned after the magical war in Britain during the twentieth century. Families like the Weasleys and Malfoys are still opposed to one another."

"You've just read too many comics," Hermione said dryly, giving him the same patient, exasperated look her mother often gave her father.

"You've heard of the murders in Britain lately?" he pressed.

"Yes."

"The killer is a wizard. From Ron Weasley's hints, Malfoy's side was deeply tied to dark magic."

"That could be anyone," Hermione argued.

Nietzsche shook his head. "It isn't religion. Someone is trying to fracture relations between wizards and the government."

He drew a Chocolate Frog card from his pocket—the spare Harry had given him. On it, the silver-bearded figure of Albus Dumbledore smiled and polished his half-moon spectacles.

Hermione read the card aloud: "Albus Dumbledore. Defeated Grindelwald in 1945. Current Headmaster of Hogwarts." She squinted at the small print. "The most Muggle-friendly wizard of his age."

"You-Know-Who fell in 1981. Afterwards, the Malfoy faction retreated."

"You mean Malfoy is connected to the murders?"

"Not him alone. The entire faction that once supported You-Know-Who. They retreated into the shadows when he fell, while Muggle-friendly wizards rose to power." Nietzsche's brow furrowed. "But even so… how could they know where Britain's senior clergy live? Wizards barely understand the Muggle world."

Hermione chewed her lip. "But why kill ordinary people at all, if You-Know-Who is gone?"

Nietzsche's headache throbbed. No matter what, he would send word to Mycroft and Sherlock tonight.

Hagrid's voice thundered again. "No more than four to a boat!"

They emerged by a vast, dark lake. On the far bank, towering on a cliff, stood the castle of Hogwarts, its windows glowing amber.

Hermione gasped softly. At last—something like a fairy tale.

By chance, she and Nietzsche ended up in a boat by themselves, the ivy brushing gently over their heads as they passed beneath the shadow of the cliff.

"Cheer up," she said as they docked. "Think about the Sorting instead."

Professor McGonagall, stern in emerald-green robes, waited before the great oak doors. The crowd hushed. Hermione instantly regretted her part in the train scuffle; teachers always weighed heavily on her conscience. But McGonagall only swept them with her eyes before moving on.

The Sorting began. In the Great Hall, candles floated above four long tables. Golden plates gleamed, crystal goblets sparkled, and the enchanted ceiling reflected the starry sky outside.

At the front, a chair stood waiting. On it was placed a ragged, dusty hat. Its brim tore open, and it began to sing—not tunefully, but muttering in verse:

Perhaps you belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart… Perhaps in Ravenclaw, where those of wit and learning will always find their kind…

Nietzsche groaned inwardly. Two months of training to block out noise, and still he could not shut this out.

Students were called in turn. Hannah Abbott was sent to Hufflepuff, Terry Boot to Ravenclaw.

Then: "Hermione Granger!"

She walked stiffly forward, glancing back at Nietzsche every few steps.

The Sorting Hat's voice echoed in her mind: "Ambition, courage, intelligence… you have them all. A tricky one."

"Can you read my thoughts?" she asked, gripping the chair.

"Not at all. Think of me as an artist. I cannot read your mind, but I can sketch its colours. You would do well in Slytherin—ambitious, clever, determined. But…" the hat mused, "the House is too bound to bloodline now. Gryffindor would better match your adventurous streak."

"Nietzsche and I together!" Hermione pleaded.

"Oh, that boy. Complicated fellow." The hat chuckled. "Still, I think your spirit belongs with the lions. Gryffindor!"

Hermione slid off the chair, breathless. Professor McGonagall remarked, "That was a long time, Miss Granger, five or six minutes."

"Was it really that long?"

"Yes. I was the same. It's nothing to worry about."

Then: "Nietzsche John Holmes!"

He seated himself, resting his cane against the chair, and gently placed the hat on his head.

The voice came at once. "Another complex one. Must you all be so troublesome?"

Nietzsche smirked inwardly.

"Quickly. Any House but Gryffindor."

"Quickly?" the hat huffed. "Do you think this is chopping vegetables?"

It sifted through him with curiosity. "I sense loyalty and warmth, Hufflepuff would suit you. Yet your ideals are sharper than hers, and cunning ambition lurks beneath. You would also thrive in Slytherin."

Nietzsche folded his arms. "What about belief?"

"Ah, ideals. A true compass. Unlike fantasies, ideals drive a lifetime. Yours… yours is curious."

It probed deeper. "What is your vision, boy?"

Nietzsche thought back to the day he first named magic "the Force." Raised in the Holmes household, steeped in cases and deductions, he had always felt the world's future demanded something from him. A utopia, perhaps, or simply order.

So he answered with a question.

"Do you think the sun ever grows bored of rising and setting every day?"

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