They talked for several more minutes—about the little they both knew of wizarding politics and history, the maddeningly vague definitions of Pureblood, Half-blood, and Muggle-born, and the countless unwritten rules that marked Muggle-borns as outsiders.
They also discussed how, in an otherwise largely secular wizarding Britain, taking the Lord’s name in vain was considered a serious faux pas; most people substituted “Merlin!” instead.
“Honestly,” Harry admitted, “I only care about all this because my father—James Potter—comes from a very old Pureblood family. One day, Merlin willing, I’ll inherit his seat in the Wizengamot. I’d rather not accidentally insult anyone important.”
“Merlin willing,” Hermione repeated, shaking her head with a small smile.
“That’s going to take some getting used to. Any other major blunders I should avoid? Keeping in mind that I have no intention of changing my principles just to appease bigots.”
“Nor do I. And as I said, most wizards won’t care about etiquette unless you commit a truly serious offense or you’re dealing with an old Pureblood family. Still, better safe than sorry.” Harry thought for a moment.
“Here’s a big one, especially important for first-years: never raise your hand in class.”
Hermione “What?!”
looked incredulous.
“More precisely, never raise your hand unless you’re asking the professor a question or they’ve clearly called for volunteers after someone else has given a wrong answer. When a teacher asks a question, they usually already have a specific student in mind and are just giving them time to prepare. My mother was very firm about this. Apparently, as a first-year she kept raising her hand every single time and couldn’t understand why everyone treated her like an outcast. Someone finally explained that it came across as implying her classmates were too stupid to answer if called upon.”
“Wow,” Hermione breathed.
“I never would have realized that.” She blushed.
“Before Hogwarts I attended a gifted school where class participation counted heavily toward your grade. I would have made a complete fool of myself.” Harry nodded sagely.
“There are dozens of little things like that which can make newcomers stand out like sore thumbs. Essentially, Miss Granger, you and I are about to begin our first year at something like Oxbridge—you as a brilliant scholarship student, me as a legacy raised abroad—neither of us raised with any knowledge of its unwritten rules.”
Hermione stared at the floor, absorbing the weight of it all.
“Do you think… Mr. Potter… that I’ll face discrimination because my parents are Muggles?”
Harry hesitated.
“I’m not sure. Personally, I expect to be treated as something of an outsider at first, and I’ll have to navigate that as it comes. Some people will certainly be biased against both of us because of our backgrounds. But not everyone. And even the bigots may be somewhat restrained now that their side lost the last war.” He paused.
“Have you thought about which House you’d like to be in?”
“I was hoping for Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Why? Do the Houses have different attitudes toward Muggle-borns?” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Everything I know comes from my parents, so take it with a grain of salt.
Many Slytherins supported You-Know-Who during the last war, so I expect some of their children will be hostile toward Muggle-borns—and probably toward the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived.
Not all of them, I hope.
Ravenclaws are the most academically inclined, which might suit you, but they can be very traditional and cutthroat.
Hufflepuffs pride themselves on accepting everyone, but that tolerance often earns them disdain from the other Houses.
My father called them the House of Duffers, but I doubt that’s fair—there have been more Hufflepuff Ministers of Magic than from any other House.
Surprisingly, my mother said Muggle-borns tend to do best in Gryffindor.
They’re the closest thing to rebels wizarding society has, and they embrace Muggle-borns and half-bloods partly to spite the traditionalists.
They’re also the least concerned with formal etiquette, so they’re more forgiving of small mistakes.
Of course, she was a Gryffindor herself, so she may be biased.”
Hermione stood.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Mr. Potter. I should go find Neville—Mr. Longbottom—and see if he’s had any luck with his toad.” At the door she paused, clearly trying to recall the formal manners from Pride and Prejudice.
“And Mr. Potter, if I am not being presumptuous, I would be gratified if you would call me Hermione.”
Harry’s smile this time was genuine.
“You are not being presumptuous at all, Hermione. And I would be equally pleased if you called me Harry.”
She nodded, pleased, and left the compartment.
Harry returned to his book, quietly satisfied with his first real friend at Hogwarts.
About ten minutes later the door flew open again.
Jim entered with the red-headed boy Harry had met twice before.
“Hey, there you are!” Jim exclaimed.
“I’ve been looking everywhere. This is Ron Weasley—he’ll be in our year. Ron, this is my brother Harry!”
“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Ron said enthusiastically. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“Likewise,” Harry replied blandly.
Definitely Gryffindor, he thought.
Aloud he added, “Actually, I think we’ve already met. We were getting fitted at Madam Malkin’s together.”
“Oh yeah! I remember. You should’ve said you were Jim’s brother!”
“Well, I’d just found out… never mind. It was a stressful day.”
Jim dropped into the seat beside Harry while Ron took the one opposite.
“Sorry about getting held up by the photographers.
It’s a pain.
But Ron introduced me to his brothers, and they showed me the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
Do you know anything about Quidditch, Harry?” “Not much.
It sounds like a mix of water polo, dodgeball, and capture-the-flag played on flying broomsticks at high speed.”
Ron and Jim stared at him blankly.
“I don’t know what any of those are,” Jim admitted.
“But don’t worry. Dad was an amazing Chaser. He got me my first broom when I was four. We’ll get you up to speed in no time.”
Harry, who had spent his own fourth birthday learning to cook bacon and eggs under threat of a frying pan, forced that familiar painful smile.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The compartment door opened once more.
A thin, blond boy with aristocratic features stepped in imperiously.
Two stocky boys who looked destined to become enforcers stood behind him in the corridor.