Chapter 3: Slytherin? Gryffindor!
The Headmaster's gaze felt like a physical weight, a pair of focused, analytical probes attempting to drill directly into her mind. Hermione's blood ran cold. Her polite, carefully constructed smile felt stiff and brittle, like a china mask about to crack.
Oh, hell no. Not on the first day.
Compared to the overt, world-ending threats of the Marvel Universe, the dangers at Hogwarts were far more insidious. She could dodge a laser beam or a flying car, but how did you defend against a wizard who could peel back the layers of your mind and read your secrets like an open book? The very thought of someone like Dumbledore discovering the truth of her existence—the reincarnation, the magic book, the memories of a different world, the brutal murder she had committed just last night—sent a wave of pure, icy terror through her.
She had to be here. Hogwarts was the most efficient and comprehensive source of magical knowledge on the planet. But it was a castle filled with Legilimens, masters of mind-reading. It was a den of lions, and she was a gazelle trying to pretend it was just a particularly clever sheep.
A second later, which felt like an eternity, Dumbledore's eyes slid away, his expression softening back into one of grandfatherly benevolence. It was so seamless, she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing.
Did I overthink it? Or was that a warning?
She forced herself to take a slow, steadying breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Shaking off the lingering paranoia, she focused on the present.
As was tradition, Dumbledore gave a short speech, his eyes twinkling as he cheerfully recommended that all students steer clear of the Forbidden Forest, a place full of delightful and deadly wonders. Then, he announced the start of the Sorting.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a long scroll of parchment. The Great Hall fell into a hushed, anticipatory silence, broken only by the flickering of thousands of floating candles. One by one, the names were called.
"Abbott, Hannah!" A nervous girl with blonde pigtails stumbled forward and was quickly sorted into Hufflepuff. "Malfoy, Draco!" The boy with the pale, pointed face swaggered to the stool, and the Hat had barely grazed his platinum-blond hair before it bellowed, "SLYTHERIN!" "Weasley, Ron!" The red-headed boy from the train shuffled forward, looking green. After a tense moment, the Hat declared him a "GRYFFINDOR!" … "Potter, Harry!"
The hall erupted in a tidal wave of whispers. Every head turned, every eye straining to get a look at the living legend. Harry walked to the stool, his steps hesitant, and sat down. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and then… nothing. A long, tense silence stretched on as the Hat presumably engaged in a fierce internal debate. Finally, after what felt like an age, the brim opened wide. "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table exploded in triumph. "We got Potter! We got Potter!" the Weasley twins chanted.
"Granger, Hermione!"
At last. She ignored the slight alphabetical anomaly and walked forward, her posture exuding a calm confidence she did not feel. She sat on the stool, and the dusty, frayed brim of the Sorting Hat fell over her eyes, plunging her world into musty darkness.
An ancient, raspy voice echoed not in her ears, but directly in the center of her consciousness. "Well now… what have we here? A difficult mind. Walls within walls. And two lives burning where there should be one… fascinating."
Hermione's blood froze. It knows.
"I see courage, yes, enough for Gryffindor," the Hat continued, its voice a dry whisper. "And a mind sharper than any I have seen in decades. Ravenclaw would welcome you. But underneath it all… oh, my. There is ambition here. Cunning. A ruthless pragmatism born of great loss. I see a soul that has already made choices that would make grown wizards tremble. There is only one place for a soul like yours…"
No.
"…it must be SLYTHERIN!"
"Shut up," Hermione commanded in her thoughts, her will a blade of cold, hard steel. "Gryffindor."
The Hat seemed taken aback. "Child, you misunderstand. Your potential for greatness in Slytherin is nearly limitless. The power you crave, the knowledge you seek—it could all be yours."
"And be surrounded by a pack of inbred, bigoted morons who would try to kill me in my sleep the second they learned my parents were dentists?" she retorted mentally. "No, thank you. I've done the analysis. Slytherin is a tactical dead end. It breeds enemies, not allies."
"You see allies as mere tools," the Hat observed shrewdly.
"And you see children as labels to be slapped on a jar," she shot back. "My choice is Gryffindor. There is another, more important reason. I need to keep an eye on Harry Potter. Where he goes, trouble follows. And in the shadow of that trouble, there are opportunities for someone who knows how to look. That is an advantage no other house can offer me. My decision is final."
There was a long pause. The Hat felt less like an object and more like an ancient, weary intelligence. "You would use the boy as a shield… as a diversion. Cunning indeed. Very well. You have the courage of a lion, but the heart of a serpent. If you are so certain… then you had better be…"
To the waiting hall, it bellowed its decision: "GRYFFINDOR!"
A wave of applause, slightly less enthusiastic than the one for Harry, came from the Gryffindor table. As Hermione walked over, Ron nudged Harry. "Look, it's that girl from the train. I thought for sure a genius like her would be in Ravenclaw."
Ron patted the empty seat beside him and waved her over. Hermione gave a slight nod and sat down, her mind still reeling from the mental battle. Only then did she allow herself to properly survey the staff table. Snape, in his billowing black robes, looked less like a man and more like a vampire that had lost its way. The shortest professor was surely Flitwick. And Dumbledore… God, what happened to you? she thought, a spark of her past life's meta-humor breaking through her tension. How do you go from looking like Jude Law to Gandalf's older, more disappointed brother?
Her eyes scanned down the line, past the nervous-looking woman who taught flying, and finally landed on the last person. He was a twitchy, pale man in a ridiculous purple turban. Quirinus Quirrell. And nestled on the back of his head, she knew, was the spectral, parasitic form of Lord Voldemort. He was the first boss battle of the game. A pathetic, doomed creature who would lose his life to a first-year student while trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
Miserable, Quirrell. Truly miserable, she thought with a dark, detached amusement. I look forward to your performance.
The feast appeared with a flash of magic, and the hall filled with chatter. Dumbledore raised his goblet in Harry's direction, but Hermione could feel his gaze slide over to her for a split second. She kept her head down and focused on her food, forcing herself to act like a normal, hungry child.
The next morning, Hermione was awake before the sun, the snores of her new dorm mates echoing in the circular Gryffindor tower. Her world-hopping ability had recharged overnight, but she had no intention of leaving. She had a role to play.
Marvel is the training ground, she thought, pulling on her robes in the pre-dawn gloom. But Hogwarts is the armory.
Her plan was simple. She would establish a persona: brilliant, studious, and intensely private. The "Library Witch," as she'd already been dubbed in a future she hadn't yet lived. It was the perfect cover, giving her a built-in excuse to spend countless hours alone, researching in the library, while explaining away the social awkwardness that came from being an adult trapped in a child's world.
She was the first to arrive at the Transfiguration classroom. True to form, she chose a seat in the back corner and opened the book she'd borrowed from the library: Hogwarts: A History. It wasn't for idle curiosity. The [Ancient Magic] category in her grimoire was still blank. She had a hunch, a wild theory based on a video game from her past life, that clues to forgotten, powerful forms of magic might be hidden not in spellbooks, but in the very history of the castle itself.
As she read, other first-years began to trickle in, already forming the small, tentative cliques that would define their school lives. A few glanced her way, but the aura of intense concentration she projected was as effective as a shield charm.
She was deep in a chapter about the four founders when a flicker of movement caught her eye. A sleek, silver tabby cat with spectacle-markings around its eyes had leaped silently onto the professor's desk. It regarded the room with an unnervingly intelligent gaze, then hopped to the floor and began to pad elegantly, silently, down the aisle. Straight towards her.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .