Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. This is just a work of fanfiction and I make no money from this.

A/N: I intend for this to be a somewhat realistic Hermione in Slytherin AU. So the Slytherin house is neither a snake pit with brutal politicking, nor a congregation of misunderstood do gooders willing to accept muggle borns with open arms. They're kids. Kids hostile to things they do not like or respect. Hermione fits the bill. And since, in this AU, she is extremely introverted, don't expect her to wand wave and put people in their place. This does not, however, mean that she suffers any sort of physical abuse or broken bones. Kids being supervised rarely, if ever, tend to go that far. They can be very grating, though.

There is eventual romance, but it is (extremely) slow burn. I also intend to cover each year within 12-15k words, if possible, so you don't have to worry about pacing.

If that isn't your jam, then this is where we part ways. Thank you for taking a look.

Chapter 1 (Year One)

"And if something there scares you, hun, write back, won't you?" her mother said, the edges of her eyes tightening in tension, the border of her mouth resembling an inversion of the letter U. She pulled Hermione into a terse hug. "We'll write to the headmaster, and—"

"I know, mum," Hermione said, rolling her eyes the way you did when you were eleven and on the verge of setting out on a new adventure, discovering a new world. "I know. And I'll be back for Christmas, I promise. But you'll see, mum; you'll see that there'll be no trouble whatsoever, none at all. There'll be magic, mum! Magic! You've been to Diagon. You've seen them. These people aren't like Evelyn from form B, or that big meanie, Mary, who sat behind me in class and tugged my hair, or even… but mum, the train will leave any moment now. I have to go. Good bye, good bye."

And with another parting hug, and a whispered word that she—mother—convey to father how much Hermione would miss him—he'd been held back by being under the weather, and his commitments to dentistry—she strode through the brick wall and into platform nine three quarters. Ah, the unbridled joy that coursed through her veins by just being in the vicinity of that shining steam engine, shimmering bridge between the mundane and the magical! A surreal feeling thrummed through her heart watching these men and women in bowler hats and three-piece suits and suave robes and splendid gowns hug children her age, draw them near. She caught snippets of conversation with odd names mentioned and odd terms thrown about. So novel, so nice! She was grinning even as she got on train and found herself an empty compartment. So happy! So, so happy! The steam engine, like a sky lark, sang the promise of a new life. Sunlight streaked through the slatted windows and turned the slick floor a brilliant orange. She pushed her trunk under the seat and just sat there and listened to the sounds of shuffling feet outside, of all these strangers who were like her, who studied in a place where she would finally, finally! belong. Perhaps someone would separate themselves from the throng and check in here; and they would speak and be friends.

With trembling hands, she extracted a book from her bag—first year Charms, which she had already read cover to cover; memorized, even— and started to aimlessly flip through it, fidgeting all along, tapping her feet against the seat rail, waiting, waiting in agitation for someone to come, to check in, wondering why no one did, why no one would enter, speak to her about—well, whatever it was that witches discussed.

Ten minutes into the journey, the door slid open. Two students, a male and a female, both maybe sixteen, stumbled in, giggling, sucking each other's faces off. The girl came up for air and looked at her with a raised, nonchalant eyebrow. Face flaming, Hermione mumbled an apology—for what, though? a dull voice in her head said— and, dragging with her her trunk, scurried out of the compartment.

The next compartment held people who were probably in year four. There was a single seat unoccupied. She sat there and shakily pretended to go through her transfiguration text, which, again, she had already memorized. They let her be and ignored her the rest of the journey.

Rain swirled in the skies, and Hermione shivered and pulled her cloak close to her. They were led to boats by a big man with a booming voice. He said 'Firs' years here' in a funnily weird way, and she giggled a little even as he said it; then felt her cheeks redden when he heard her and met her eyes. She ducked her head in implied apology: she so hated disappointing people. Yet he only offered her a gentle smile, which she reciprocated with a watery one, an uncertain one, feeling oh so horribly conscious. Was this like that time when Evelyn had laughed at her condescendingly and called her a nasty know it all, a stooge that sucked up to teachers for good grades? Would the big man, who now seemed awfully nice—he had even offered her a smile; the first smile she received in this world—take offence and think she was mocking him, like Evelyn mocked her? It was too late now. Too late to take it back. She'd find him later, away from prying eyes, and apologize.

She got on a boat with a blond boy, a girl with a pug nose, and a dark-skinned boy with a stony face that looked as though it had never broken into a smile. The blond leapt in last, rocking the boat dangerously, and she felt the sting of cold water against her cheek. She kept mum. He waved his hand at his two friends and said, "next boat for the two of you. Now shoo."

"Apologies," he said to her, taking the seat opposite. He'd noticed the splash he'd made, then.

"Oh, no, no, it's nothing, nothing at all." She smiled. A thin film of sweat beaded her brow. At long last she had a chance to say something to someone her age, someone who would understand exactly what she went through all these years, who would understand everything; but now, just when she needed them most, words— bosom buddies she'd found entrapped in the bound covers of dusty tomes, and bonded with in solitude—seemed unwilling to emerge from the tip of her tongue. She tried speaking, and was only able to emit a slightly strangulated squeak.

They all turned to her. Hermione blushed.

"Nice weather, no?" she settled for saying.

"It's raining," the blond said, raising an eyebrow.

"Hm." Hermione nodded mechanically. "I always knew I was different," she said suddenly, spiritedly, throwing caution to the winds. "I knew I was like you through and through, and not them, not those other people who laughed at me and found me strange and… and I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, and I've read all our textbooks, and oh there's so much to study, but magic seems so wonderful! So wonderful, and I'll learn it all. All of it!" She extended her hand, beaming beatifically, embarrassment a thing forgotten.

The girl was giving her a look not unlike the one Evelyn gave her at school. Her lip was curled in a smile, except it was the sort of smile that made you think she was laughing at you, and not with you. The stone-faced boy was staring at her as though she were something he'd found under his boot while wading through dung on a particularly muddy day. And the blond merely raised the other eyebrow, looked at her proffered hand, smirked, said something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like mud-something—but she couldn't quite catch it—then extended and shook, and made a show of slowly retracting his hand in horror and carefully wiping it against a crust of mud collected at the bottom of the boat. The pug-nosed girl giggled and stone-face cracked a grin.

"Malfoy," the blond boy said suavely, voice dripping with so much insincerity that even someone as socially awkward as she caught on. "Draco Malfoy. Pardon me, miss Granger, but you—you are muggle born, aren't you? Your manner says as much, as does your rather… regrettable demeanour. After all, we are not at fault for where we are from, or what flows in our veins, or our less than adequate… upbringing." He said the last word with a smile, but his tone was smug and the words cut deep.

She'd read and mostly ignored a small, vague section on Purebloods in Hogwarts, a History. It had mentioned a few unsavoury associations and some ideals they steadfastly upheld. At that time, it'd felt grotesquely exaggerated, and she'd turned up her nose at the little details with an indelicate snort. Yet now…now she was not so sure.

There were a hundred things that sprung to mind, a hundred things she could say. But what she felt instead, on that day, was some secret hope harboured somewhere within her shatter into a million fragments. Experience had educated her that the best course to adopt when mocked was to suffer in silence, and she was sure she was being mocked, and that too for no fault of hers. So, she withdrew into a silent shell. She still didn't understand half of what Draco Malfoy said, and she wasn't sure she wanted to, but suddenly, somehow, this world didn't seem much different from the one she left behind, even though she'd only trawled on its periphery and couldn't possibly claim that with any degree of certainty.

She might have been left to stew in that gloom if Hogwarts hadn't, at that moment, loomed over them.

And the sight took her breath away. And the cares from a moment ago were uneasily set aside.

The sorting, up to her name, had been short and swift. She had heard the three on the boat mention Slytherin, and she had read in her spare time about Slytherin's history, and You Know Who's story, so she knew which house to avoid. No, no, it was Gryffindor for her; Gryffindor, house of the brave, that had set on his way the brave Albus Dumbledore. Or Ravenclaw, perhaps, where her intellect would be best utilized.

So when she stumbled up to that stool, rendered clumsy by the stares of hundreds of curious eyes, and when that hat stayed on for what seemed like an hour, saying nary a word, she grew worried. Then a soft voice said, I'm sorry, dear, but someday you'll understand.

And then the hat split its brim and screamed "Slytherin!"

As she unsteadily wobbled off the stool and slunk past a white-faced professor Mcgonagall, she found herself recipient to a hundred unkind faces, a hundred hostile stares. And just like that, Hermione Granger knew life at Hogwarts would not be all so different after all.

A/N: The hat's lack of reasoning behind the sorting isn't some grand conspiracy. It's just that, if that artifact can actually rummage through your mind and connect instances to form its own conclusions about your personality, then perhaps it is best that it doesn't divulge to you some of those aspects, both due to the possibility of denial, and the prospect that, at eleven, you yourself might be unaware of what sort of a person you are, and any such counsel would essentially condemn you to either forcing yourself to prove the hat wrong, or to falling into a rut and turning what was said into a self fulfilling prophecy. I mean, I, for example, just turned twenty three, and am still unsure about facets of my personality. In this case, yes, she pursues wisdom, but why? How many people in pursuit of wisdom and knowledge do so without the presence of at least an iota of ambition? How many people who can cope with abuse and make do with whatever they are offered can't be considered resourceful and worthy of a place in a house that prides cunning and ambition? Moreover, would a eleven year old's mind, that is both one track and binary, be able to accept any of these conclusions? Food for thought.

So, to that extent, the hat is somewhat non-canon. The premise is based on the idea that you often cannot separate two interwoven qualities from each other for the sake of sorting, as one may not exist without the other.

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review!