The small girl on the platform never noticed the cloaked figure, never felt the brief press of the wand against her neck, never heard the whispered incantation. But later, sitting under the ratty hat, she remembered:

Slytherin, she thought. Put me in Slytherin. Slytherin. Slytherin.

. . . . . . .

"Abbot, Hannah"

"This is pathetic." Circe Greengrass cast a dismissive eye over the trailing first years. After six sorting ceremonies, she considered herself an old hand at their favorite game. "Seven galleons we don't even fill the first-year dorms."

"Boot, Terry"

Circe ran her eyes over the small heads, mentally cataloging each recognizable family. Blond hair and pointed chin? Malfoy. Weedy and dark? Nott. A riot of chestnut curls? Her sister Daphne. No suspense as to where those three would be sorted. She sighed and rested her chin on her hand as the knobbly boy was sorted into Ravenclaw.

"Brown, Lavender"

"You know I won't take that, darling," Evelyn Gray glanced down the table to where the five second years were clustered together. "There are few enough of us as is." Even with the handful of Purebloods this year, there would be too many empty beds in the dorms. Why let the five-year trend change? They were a living memory of a war that refused to feel over, especially if you were unlucky enough to be sorted into the house of the snakes.

Privately, in the security of her own brain, Circe wondered if the diminishing numbers wasn't an elaborate plot by the Ministry to starve out Slytherin House. If their numbers dwindled to only a handful, would Hogwarts discontinue the fourth house? The students would be resorted, the textbooks would be re-written, and Slytherin and his legacy would fade into a footnote of history. If they were ever remembered, it would be as the cursed house- the home of the damned and forgotten.

"Granger, Hermione."

At Evelyn's sharp elbow, Circe brought her hands together as a shell-shocked first year took a few stumbling steps towards the table in green. Morganna, what lies had the poor girl been told to make her glance around the table with such apprehension? This was exactly what Dumbledore and the Ministry wanted; terrified little witches and wizards writing home to their parents and begging to resorted. Anywhere but Slytherin.

"Greengrass, Daphne."

Circe clapped enthusiastically as McGonagall whisked the hat off her little sister's head after only a heartbeat of consideration. Naturally, Daphne would come to Slytherin; the Greengrass' appreciated tradition in a way that few other families could match. One of the benefits of being able to trace their ancestors back to the Druids.

"It wanted to sort me into Hufflepuff!" Daphne ran up to her and threw her arms around Circe. She was beaming, almost shivering, with excitement, as if she had dodged the killing curse. "But I wouldn't let it!"

"Good girl," Circe planted a quick kiss on her sister's temple, while frustration curled in her stomach. Where each of the purebloods offered a place in another house? She would speak to Malfoy and Nott this evening. If so – well, she wasn't sure what they could do, but the information should be passed along to those who were interested. "Though we'd love you even in Hufflepuff."

Daphne sneered, "Yellow and black with my complexion? No thank you."

"Very true," Evelyn agreed, playfully tugging on one of Daphne's curls until the girl reached over and gave her a hug as well. By this point, Evelyn cared for Daphne and Astoria as though they were her own sisters and the young girls loved her back just as much. "Plus, snakes take care of their own."

"Speaking of," Circe glanced down the table to the little knot of Slytherins. Ten in total, the largest class in all the years Circe had attended Hogwarts. Most of them were cradle friends and were exchanging relieved, quiet grins. Everyone, that was, except for-

"Daphne, do me a favor and go befriend that poor girl," Circe nodded to where the scared, bushy-haired girl was sitting and staring at her plate- decidedly ignoring all of Mayble Flint's attempts to engage her in conversation, for which Circe didn't blame her in the slightest. Mayble's idea of a riveting conversation was to describe her latest kill from the Dark Hunt.

With nary a word of complaint, Daphne peeled away from her sister and trotted down to the end of the table, where she neatly inserted herself between the girl and Mayble's demonstration of something with a butter knife.

They'd show her the beauty of the ambitious.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

If there was one benefit to the diminished standing of Slytherin, it was that there were enough empty dorms that each student over their fifth year could claim their own private space. Circe, by dint of her prefect status and last name, had claimed a beautiful room tucked right against the lake. Sometimes, when nerves drove sleep from her mind, she would sit and watch the moonlight filter through the still water.

"So, how was your first day?"

"Granger is a Muggleborn!" Daphne confessed.

. . . . . . .

"Stop sniveling."

The bushy-haired first year glanced up- her eyes red and wet and her mouth twisted into a miserable scowl.

"I-I-I-m not." She protested

"You are." Petra Martins pushed herself from the doorway and with a flick of her wand made sure the bathroom was clear. When they proved to be alone, she twisted her wand and the door flew shut and locked. All through the little display of magic, the girl sat on the floor with a mulish expression as though ready to deny her wet cheeks and dripping nose.

"Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"Why should I?" The girl demanded, "You won't care. You'll just laugh along with all the others!"

"Yes, probably." Petra rolled her eyes at the girl's shocked expression, "Please, Gardner. You make it too easy."

"It's Granger."

"I really don't care."

"Then why are you here?" The girl demanded- irritation finally eclipsing self-pity.

"The Hat took a rather long time to place you," Petra commented. She raised her wand to her temple in mock contemplation, "Let me guess what it told you. 'Ah, quite a drive to prove yourself. Carve off a place for yourself in the wizarding world. Ambitious goals for a Muggleborn. There's only one place for you- Slytherin!'"

"H-how did you?"

"What?" Petra smirked down at her, "You think you are the only Muggleborn among Snakes?

. . . . . .

"Oh no, this simply won't do." Circe shook her head at the young girl in front of her. Behind her, Evelyn sighed and laid a thin hand against her cheek.

"Darling, who taught you to stand?"

. . . . . .

"Hermione, would you like to come over and look at the winter collection with me?" Daphne put down her latest copy of La Sorcress- arrived just that morning. Her father was childhood friends with the editor of the magical magazine and always sent his daughters a copy at least a week before the official release. This time, he had included a dozen samples of the new scent line from L'Occulte. Father would have been an Excellent Slytherin if he hadn't gone to Beaubatons.

"No." The girl barely glanced up from her heavy textbook. True, Daphne was stung, but she was willing to ignore the rude comment for an impending head cold or something if Hermione hadn't muttered in a voice just audible enough to hear, "I'm reading something important."

"Excuse me?" Daphne sat up straighter as every head in the room turned towards the two of them.

"I said, I'm reading something actually important. Some of us actually do our homework."

"She's finished her homework," Pansy but in, "We all did after dinner." The sniff Hermione gave in response could only be described as dismissive.

"Is this your entire essay?" Tracy slid off her bed and held up a long scroll that was nearly black in cramped writing, "Flitwick only assigned six inches."

"It's the first draft-" Hermione tried to grab the scroll back, but Tracy held it easy out of reach with her superior height.

"The first draft?" Pansy laughed, "Are you planning to submit it to 'Que Sais-Je?'"

"What?" Hermione blinked at them blankly.

"You know- Gray's 'Que Sais-Je'" Seeing Hermione's continuing blank look, "Evelyn Gray? Sixth year? My sister's best friend? Third generation editor of- Oh never mind."

"Why are you writing this much?" Millicent was reading the essay over Tracy's shoulder, "It is, of course, necessary to juxtapose the fourteenth-century clerical definitions-"

Pansy laughed, "Merlin. I feel bad for the professors who have to read that."

"We're first years, Hermione," Daphne said gently, "No one expects anything from us."

"Much easier that way," Millicent agreed, looking very relieved at the prospect.

"But-" Hermione glanced around and then frowned as if a headache was coming on, "I expect things from me-" She reached for the essay and Millicent handed it over peaceably. Daphne glanced over at Pansy and saw her friend's face twisted into an uncomfortable expression.

"Well, that makes sense." Daphne declared grandly into the silence. "I have lots of expectations of myself too! So does Mother. I'll lend you the magazine when I'm done with your essay Hermione." Hermione looked as if she was about to say more, but Pansy was already asking about trying the lavender and sea breeze perfume and Tracy had roped Millicent into a game of chess in the common room. Hermione hunkered down and picked up her quill, but she didn't write for a long while.

. . . . . . . . .

"You're in my seat."

Hermione Granger looked up to see the awful Martin's girl standing over her with arms folded and a terrible scowl. Actually, she wasn't in anyone's seat. Even more actually, there were no assigned seats in the common room, she had asked. As it was, the small table tucked away next to the drafty wall was generally free and certainly not the plush armchair Petra favored. But three months in Slytherin had taught her that it was better not to argue with older students who you couldn't beat in a duel. Even if they were muggle-born.

"Fine." She snapped, beginning to pick up her books.

"Too slow."

A flick of the wand and mutter curse and suddenly Hermione dropped her books as her teeth began to grow past her lips, past her chin, and towards her stomach.

"Oh dear." Circe sauntered up to stare at the rapidly expanding teeth, "Whatever happened?"

"No idea." Petra didn't even bother hiding her wand and to Hermione's fury but not surprise Circe didn't even glance at the older girl.

"Must have been a misfired spell. You must be more careful, Granger. Well, come along, we best get you to the Infirmary."

. . . . . . . . .

"And who was it who hexed you, Ms. Granger." Madame Pompfrey waved her wand and the overly long front teeth began to recede slowly. The little girl glanced over at the Slytherin Prefect who brought her in and then lowered her eyes.

"No one." She murmured.

"Really." Madame Pompfrey had low opinions of Slytherin loyalty, but years of managing the infirmary had taught her that further prying was useless.

"Just a little bit further," Circe glanced critically at the girl's smile, "There. That's how it was."

. . . . . . . .

Alone in the bathroom, Hermione ran her tongue over her front teeth for the fourteenth time that minute and spared a smile for her reflection. For the first time, her grin looked normal- perfect, even teeth that could have belonged in Daphne's magazines. Her parents had been discussing braces this summer, but now. . .

Hermione abruptly frowned. She wasn't going to be grateful to the Awful Martins girl. Or to Greengrass. They certainly couldn't have known- couldn't have intended this to happen.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Why do you always get such stupidly good grades?" Pansy flung the stolen essay back in Hermione's face but paused as though she was expecting an answer.

"Because it's interesting."

"It's not." Pansy shook her head, "If you were just interested in learning all this, you would have been in Ravenclaw. But the hat put you in Slytherin, so why?"

"Well, I need to get into a good university. . . "

"What's a university?"

"Cambridge? Oxford." Pansy's blank look did not waver, "Education after Hogwarts?"

"An apprenticeship program. You think you're going to get into an Apprenticeship program by studying?"

Hermione had learned enough to know that Pansy was itching to tell her something, "How would you do it, Parkinson?"

"I wouldn't. Too much work. Too much bother. Not enough reward. But if I was, I'd talk to Daddy to ask around to make an introduction."

"So grades don't matter?" Pansy shrugged

"Well, you probably need to know your stuff once you get there, but it's who you know who opens the floo, right?"

"I see." Hermione said slowly, and she did. A little.

. . . . . . . . .

"There are no such books in the library, Ms. Granger" Madame Prince looked down her nose sharply. "We are an institute of learning not a finishing school."

Hermione felt her shoulders slump. No books on etiquette, manners, or pureblood customs. How was she supposed to learn how to meet people in Hogwarts?

. . . . . . . .

"Hi. Are you Catta Rowle?" Hermione asked brightly, plunking herself down next to a very surprised fourth-year boy in the library. "My name is Hermione Granger." She held out her hand to shake and his bemusement shifted quickly into a sneer.

"I don't believe we've been introduced." He said, rolling up his half-finished essay.

"Well, that's what I'm doing now," Hermione reinforced her dimming smile. Her teeth were even now at least.

"Mmmm. . . No. You're not." The boy decided and slid out of his chair.

. . . . . . .

"Well, what did you expect?" Pansy sneered as she copied Hermione's notes from Charms. Pansy said lectures put her to sleep so Hermione had quickly found out that her presence would be tolerated for as long as her notes took to be copied. "Why did you even want to meet with him?"

"I overheard that he is pursuing an Apprenticeship in Italy and wanted to learn more about it," Hermione said promptly. "I didn't think he'd mind bragging about it."

"Oh, he doesn't." Daphne piped up from where she was studying the spring season's collection of nail polishes with feverish intensity. "But you hadn't been introduced."

"What does being introduced mean?" Hermione asked, biting down on the frustration. There was no book, no syllabus to study these customs. As soon as she thought she had a handle on one, something else popped up out of the blue. The only way she could learn was by listening to her classmates and keeping her eyes open.

"It means to be introduced," Daphne replied blithely, "I'll arrange it." And, without another word, the girl bounced out of the chair and headed towards a cluster of older boys around the fire.

"Wait-" Hermione turned to Pansy who was glaring at the graph Hermione had copied, "Why doesn't she need to be introduced to them?"

Pansy barely spared her friend a glance, "One, because she's speaking to Patrick, my brother, and they've known each other all their lives. Two, because she's engaged to Palin, my other brother, and thus is basically family. And three, because she wants a new set of nail polish but has spent all her allowance for the quarter year already. I'd recommend the sunrise set."

Pansy concluded, sliding the magazine over to Hermione and tapping a manicured nail on one of the circled products. Hermione blinked.

"You want me to buy her nail polish?" she asked.

"Merlin." Pansy rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved, "Are muggles really so barbaric as to not give thank you gifts?"

. . . . .

"Reading again, Granger?" A nasal voice snickered. Hermione hunched her shoulders and bent her head to focus more intently on the text in front of her. If she hadn't, she might have seen the spell that grazed the top of her shoulder or heard the muttered incantation.

. . . . .

"I'm sorry Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey sighed lowering her wand, "The hex will fade in a few days, so there's no point in trying to undo it sooner."

"No point?" Hermione cried. She stared at the mediwitch in mute horror. The woman looked perfectly clear and normal now, but as soon as she lowered her eyes to look at her medical chart, the words blurred and faded until she couldn't make them out.

"It will fade in no time," the older witch assured her, "I'll write you a letter for your teachers. In the meantime, just listen to the lectures and do your best to catch up on written assignments afterward."

Hermione clutched trembling hands together, feeling truly alone for the first time in her life.

. . . . . .

"I can tutor you."

"What?" Millicent glared up at the mudblood standing in front of her with a pale, determined face.

"I caught sight of your grade on the last Transfiguration quiz. And your reaction to your letter at breakfast. Plus, I overheard Daphne telling Mayble that your father will cut off your allowance unless you make all A's this term." Hermione took a deep breath, "I can make sure you get E's if you want. You know I know the material."

Millicent narrowed her eyes further. It was true that the Muggleborn got the best grades in the class. It was equally true that Pansy and Daphne were no help in studying.

"What do you want?" She finally asked and Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding. Being unable to bury herself in a book during meals had paid off. A little.

"Information- tutoring in wizarding culture." The girl hurried on as Millicent's eyes became slits in her consideration, "I don't trust the other girls to not make up some nonsense as a joke."

"Fine," Millicent agreed, "But don't tell anyone you're helping me.

. . . .

"Daphne, which of these colors do you like best?"

It was the first day back from Christmas holidays and Hermione had done some shopping with a very bemused and confused mother. Now, she held a bouquet of different nail polishes collected from drugstores across G- in various shades she had seen Daphne wear in the past. The girl preferred pale and pearl tinted shades to Pansy's bolder colors and Tracy's chipped black. Millicent, and up to now Hermione, were the only girls who didn't bother with this ritual.

"Ooh!" Daphne squealed in delight as she happily abandoned her first charms assignment and began rummaging through the collection. "I don't recognize these bottle shapes. Are they American? Or Australian. Or-"

"They're English," Hermione told her and took a breath before adding. "They're Muggle."

It was a gamble. But Hermione had noticed that the wizarding world's selection of products was limited at best. Three or four colors per brand in almost the exact shade year after year. A single beauty aisle in the simplest drug store could beat them for variety.

Daphne immediately dropped the bottles on the bed with a loud gasp. "You made me touch muggle things?" She stared down at her hands as if she were debating washing them.

"They have some good colors." Hermione defended herself, "I'm wearing them, see?" She held out a hand which was the result of a feverish break spent painting and repainting her nails until she was sure the paint wouldn't smudge or streak or come out lumpy.

Aversion warred with curiosity as Daphne glanced critically at her nails. Then the girl sniffed and pulled one of the bottles towards her.

"My family manages land that some Muggles live on," She admitted after a moment, "It's not like this is the first time I've seen Muggle products." With that, she scooped up a pale pink and a glittering pearl nail polish and added.

"You chose the wrong shade. You have warm undertones so you need warmer colors. That pink is too cool."

. . . . .

"Well done, Ms. Granger! Two points to Slytherin!" Professor Flitwick chirped happily as her latest essay floated back to her. Draco snatched it out of the air and groaned.

"Another O. Merlin Granger." He sneered and handed it over to the witch. Hermione snatched it out of his hand and stared at the round letter in the upper corner of the page.

An O? On this? She had expected an A at the very best and had spent all evening fully prepared to accept a T- her first failing grade in her life. She'd finished the essay in twenty minutes at breakfast the day it was due. It was barely the required eight inches, included none of her usual extra research, and didn't even have a bibliography or endnote section for citation. And it received an O?

Hermione was flabbergasted for the rest of the week.

. . . .

"It's the last game of the year. Of course, you are going Granger." Pansy stood over the seated witch with her hands on her hips. Hermione, who had never attended or been invited to attend any other game, felt no need to break her streak.

"You can bring a book," Daphne added, bundled in several jumpers, scarves, mittens and fortified with at least five fashion magazines. Pansy glared at her in turn and then relented.

"Fine, but it has to be quidditch related. And," She pointed a threatening finger at Hermione, "You have to cheer when Slytherin scores."

. . . . .

"What. The. Hell." Tracy snarled. Up and down the Slytherin table faces mirrored the sentiment as the linens shifted from a cool green to a fiery red. "How could we lose?"

"We won the Quidditch cup," Millicent whispered.

"We had the most points." Daphne agreed.

"We had Granger." Draco cried pointing a finger at the girl, "She won us like five points every class."

Hermione frowned at the cheering Gryffindors. "This isn't right. It's blatant favoritism. We followed the rules perfectly."

"What do you expect?" Theo muttered into his goblet, "We're Slytherins."

. . . . .

"Will you be alright this summer?" Millicent asked with a scowl at the inoffensive brickwork through which the Muggle world lay. Hermione sighed and hefted her bag up over her shoulder.

"Yes, Bulstrode."

The girl kept frowning. "They aren't going to snap your wand or lock you in a closet or-"

"They're my parents." Hermione snapped. "Are your parents going to do that?"

Hermione didn't particularly like the blank silence between them so she added, "You can write if you're worried. Otherwise, I'll see you next year."

"Good. Transfiguration is going to get harder."

. . . . .

"How was school, Hermione?" Her mother asked, twisting in her seat to peer at her daughter who, for the first time, hadn't immediately pulled out a book upon getting into the car. The past nine months had left a mark on her daughter that Jean Granger couldn't quite put her finger on.

"It was good," Hermione said. "I made some friends."

Robert caught his wife's eye in the mirror. Friends was an unusual word in their daughter's vocabulary. Maybe this magic thing was the right move after all.

A/N: A series of snippets I've been sitting on and decided to give up on stringing into a full story. If this resonates, let me know and I'll see if it can be expanded.

Edited: 9/19 - for personal amusement.