Chapter 38: Through Her Eyes
Hermione Granger stood at the edge of the Great Hall, heart steady, eyes sharp. The grandeur of Hogwarts didn't overwhelm her—it intrigued her. The enchanted ceiling overhead mirrored the starlit sky, candles floated like ancient spirits, and the very air carried the scent of age-old magic and stone. She took it in like a scholar preparing for her first experiment: carefully, methodically, curiously.
Around her, students fidgeted nervously. Some whispered excitedly about the Sorting Hat, others seemed moments away from fainting. Hermione had heard the wild stories on the train—how the Sorting Hat could see your deepest secrets, how it sometimes shouted, or worse, rejected students.
Utter nonsense.
She knew magic well enough to understand enchanted objects by now. That hat was powerful, yes, but not malevolent. At worst, it was annoyingly clever. She tilted her head slightly, examining it as it sang its song—a piece of sentient fabric performing its programmed function.
Still, as the Sorting began, she couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting. She kept glancing sideways—to one boy in particular.
Barrett.
He was... not like the others. The moment they'd locked eyes on the boat, she had felt it—like the hum of chaos rippling through an otherwise orderly system. He radiated quiet power and deep focus, and despite his effort to blend in, he clearly didn't.
Just like her.
Hermione crossed her arms and watched the Sorting unfold. Names were called, hats were placed, decisions shouted. She watched carefully, measuring reactions. Ravenclaw had a surprising number of intelligent eyes. Slytherin looked like a chessboard of ambition. Gryffindor was noisy and warm. Hufflepuff? Kind but perhaps too soft.
Her name rang out.
"Granger, Hermione."
She inhaled once, then stepped forward.
The moment she sat down and the Sorting Hat dropped over her ears, the world shifted. It was as if her mind was gently pushed aside—enough to make room.
"Ah... another bright mind. Very bright. My, my—you've read more than half the staff."
Hermione didn't flinch. "Let's get on with it."
"In a rush, are we? Curious. Very curious... Plenty of bravery in you, yes, and a thirst to prove yourself... but that's not your deepest current. Oh no, you have a hunger for knowledge—understanding—not just books, but the mechanics of existence itself."
"That sounds about right," she replied.
"I see cunning too. And control. You could thrive in Slytherin, you know. With your drive, your clarity—oh, you'd go far. Very far indeed."
"I'm not here to manipulate or dominate."
"A shame. You'd be good at it."
Hermione paused. "Ravenclaw is a better fit."
"More noble? More comfortable?"
"More honest."
The Hat chuckled. "Honest. Yes. But I wonder, Miss Granger, if you truly understand what you'll become. Still—Ravenclaw, then? You're quite certain?"
"Yes."
A beat.
"Very well. RAVENCLAW!"
She lifted the hat and walked briskly to the Ravenclaw table. Polite applause met her arrival. Some first-years smiled, older students nodded. A few gave the knowing look of quiet intellect. She slid into her seat but didn't look around—her eyes remained fixed on the Sorting.
She didn't have to wait long.
Soon, the name came.
"Barrett."
He walked calmly to the stool. There was a confidence in his stride, not arrogance. The hall hushed a little more than usual. Some students tilted their heads. She leaned forward slightly.
The hat dropped onto his head.
And immediately, something changed.
The Sorting Hat twitched.
Hermione frowned.
He's... different.
The hat sat in silence longer than it had with most others. His face remained calm, unreadable. He didn't fidget or blink. She noticed a slight twitch in the hat's brim—a hesitation? A surprise?
The Sorting Hat made a soft, almost inaudible hum of thought. Then, just loud enough to be heard:
"Another... strange one this year... intriguing..."
Hermione straightened slightly. Another? Who was the first?
Then, with sudden certainty, the hat announced:
"RAVENCLAW!"
Her eyes lit up.
She couldn't help it.
She had expected him in Slytherin, maybe Gryffindor—but not Ravenclaw. Not with her.
And yet, as he approached the table, she realized... perhaps that was exactly where he belonged.
POV: Barrett
Barrett slid into the Ravenclaw table with composed ease, receiving a healthy round of applause and a few murmurs of surprise from the existing students. His entrance had already drawn attention—an unfamiliar face, with a poise that felt far too regal for an eleven-year-old. Now, seated in deep blue and silver, some curious second-years openly gawked.
He didn't mind.
If anything, he liked it.
Barrett wasn't one to seek attention for vanity's sake, but the awareness of being seen, of being acknowledged—it was useful. Every whispered curiosity, every sideways glance, was a thread in the web he would eventually weave. Influence began long before words were exchanged.
His eyes casually scanned the table, locking briefly with Hermione Granger's. She was sitting three places down, stiff-backed and alert, fingers twitching like they were itching to grab a book.
Her expression was unreadable save for one thing—interest.
Not attraction. Not yet.
But the way her brows drew together ever so slightly as she studied him spoke volumes. A puzzle had walked into her House, and Hermione Granger loved puzzles.
Then, as though catching herself, she looked away quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the enchanted ceiling.
Barrett looked away too, the barest smirk tugging at his lips.
"We'll see how long you resist."
The Sorting continued. There were a few whimpers from nervous first-years, a couple of long, awkward pauses as the Sorting Hat debated a student's fate, and even one Hatstall that lasted nearly five full minutes. But Barrett's attention had already begun to drift. His gaze rose to the ceiling—currently a cloudy, starlit dome that mirrored the night sky outside.
He tilted his head slightly."Interesting charm. But limited."
Finally, the last name was called.
"Zabini, Blaise," sorted into Slytherin after barely ten seconds on the stool.
The hall filled with the sounds of silverware clinking and shifting plates as Professor Dumbledore rose from his high-backed golden chair. All eyes turned to him—even Barrett's.
"Welcome!" said Dumbledore, his voice somehow gentle and commanding all at once. "To a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin our feast, a few start-of-term notices…"
Here it comes.
Barrett mentally ticked them off like a student checking items on a list.
"The Forbidden Forest is, as always, forbidden to all students—hence the name."A pointed look toward the Gryffindor table. The redheaded twins smirked and elbowed each other."Mr. Filch, our caretaker, would like me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes—especially not for... recreational purposes.""And finally, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."
There were scattered gasps, a few nervous laughs, and more than one uneasy whisper.
Barrett's lips twitched.
"A warning cloaked in theater. Classic headmaster tactic. The best way to spark interest... is to say 'don't.'"
Third floor corridor? Forbidden Forest? Painful death?
Perfect.
It was as if Hogwarts itself were daring him to break the rules. And Barrett did love a good challenge.
"So many places they don't want us to go... How could I resist?" he mused, eyes gleaming with quiet anticipation.
Then Dumbledore's arms spread wide, his blue robes shimmering in the candlelight.
"Let the feast... begin!"
In a blink, the empty golden plates filled with food. Steaming roast chicken. Crispy potatoes. Honey-glazed carrots. Yorkshire puddings. Gravy boats. Tarts, pies, and something that looked suspiciously like a treacle-soaked monstrosity wobbling on the end of the table.
Barrett didn't lunge forward like the others.
He ate with grace.
Measured movements. One hand held the fork delicately, while the other carved meat with practiced elegance. He chewed slowly, appreciating textures and flavor pairings most eleven-year-olds wouldn't even notice.
He looked like someone raised in marble halls.
He ate like a prince from some forgotten celestial court.
Naturally, this did not go unnoticed.
Across the table, two fifth-year girls leaned into one another, eyes never leaving him. A Hufflepuff a few seats down dropped her spoon when he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Even a seventh-year Slytherin did a double-take before quickly looking away.
And Hermione?
She gave him a long, calculating side-eye.
Not judgmental.
Just... processing.
As though mentally rearranging a few hypotheses in her head.
Barrett, for his part, never acknowledged any of it. Let them watch. Let them wonder. Attention was currency—and he was rich.
When the feast ended and the golden plates vanished with a soft chime, the prefects began calling their Houses to order.
The Ravenclaws moved gracefully through the castle, following their two designated prefects—a composed seventh-year boy named Marcus and a clever-eyed sixth-year girl named Amira.
The castle turned quieter as they climbed, and the torches gave way to glowing blue lanterns that bathed the stone in cool light.
Eventually, they reached a spiral staircase that wound up into the heavens.
Each step felt like a secret being revealed.
At the top, they found a tall wooden door. No knob. No lock. Just a bronze eagle knocker gleaming under moonlight.
Marcus turned to the group.
"This," he said with a smile, "is Ravenclaw Tower. We don't use passwords here. We use logic."
He rapped the knocker once.
The eagle's eyes lit up as a melodic voice rang out:"I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?"
Barrett didn't hesitate.
"An echo."
The door clicked open.
He stepped through first.
The Ravenclaw common room was nothing short of stunning. Circular in shape, with walls lined by tall arched windows that revealed the mountains and Black Lake. Stars glimmered on a painted domed ceiling. Cushioned seats, elegant bookshelves, and floating candlelight created a space that felt both sacred and scholarly.
And floating at its center—serene and translucent—was the Grey Lady.
Barrett's eyes narrowed slightly.
Helena Ravenclaw.
A daughter. A thief. A victim.
And still, a guardian.
Her voice was soft, distant—like a breeze speaking in dreams.
"Welcome, first-years. May your minds remain sharp, and your hearts curious. Seek knowledge, and you shall always have a place here."
Barrett inclined his head in a silent gesture of respect.
The prefects then began assigning rooms.
"One per student," Amira explained. "We believe solitude encourages focus. You'll appreciate the quiet when exams begin."
Some kids grumbled at first, but most accepted it.
Barrett was pleased.
A shared room would've complicated things.
When he reached his door, he paused. Polished oak. No enchantments, just good craftsmanship. He stepped inside.
The room was minimalist—but elegant.
A single bed with soft blue sheets. A tall arched window letting in moonlight. A wardrobe. A desk of carved birchwood with a stack of parchment, ink bottle, and a shimmering blue quill.
Barrett stepped to the window and stared out.
The stars above seemed to blink at him knowingly.
"So this is my nest," he thought. "Let's see what kind of bird I become."
He sat at the desk, running a finger along the smooth surface.
Not bad.
Not celestial—but not bad.
At last, he lay down, folding his arms behind his head. The ceiling held no stars here—but the window's moonlight bathed him like a silent lullaby.
"Ravenclaw," he murmured again, quietly.
"Didn't expect that."
But his smile—slight and sharp—spoke for itself.
He wasn't disappointed.
Not at all.