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As far as contingency plans, last chances, or even time travel itself went, this was most definitely not the optimal solution. Who else was there though? Who else could they trust implicitly, who would and could not be corrupted and stay true to themselves and their mission, their purpose? Who, but him, would be able to create a future — a future with bright chances and high hopes, with promises of happiness and safety, of life? A future so different, so distant from this bleak destroyed world they faced now?
Hogwarts was dying, her Ghosts weeping as a millennia old legacy crumbled and succumbed to humanity’s hatred.
The House Elves tried their best — those loyal, hardworking beings. But even their greatest efforts weren’t good enough. The magic in the very air around them was sick and twisted, the intentions of those who wielded it even more so. Still, the hatred spread, the venom and wish for pain and suffering, death. Like cancer, this sickness kept growing and growing and, no matter what, it kept coming back. Nothing could repress it, could make it retreat. Nothing was enough. Not for very long anyway.
There were few, so terribly few, who had still been spared by this terrible sickness. They had tried, had given their all, their last energy to stop its spread, its advancement, but it had been too little too late.
In time, even they would be consumed. There was nothing they could do about it.
As a last ditch effort, Hogwarts and her inhabitants had taken it upon themselves to right all the wrongs that had been committed. Millenia old magic, ghosts, paintings, elves, statues — they all took it upon themselves. They had lived their lives, seen a million more. It was inside their walls and hearts, with their comforting words and advise that children had grown up, ready to face the world. Sickness and death and wars were nothing new, nothing exciting, nothing worth loosing sleep over — it always happened. Again and again and again. The Living would never learn. But this?
Hogwarts’ strong protectors were undone by the very magic that gave them life.
Hogwarts herself succumbed to the hate of the very children she’d raised and kept safe.
Hogwarts’ House Elves fell by their wards’ sides — because of their beloved wards.
A phoenix cried and cried — no-one heard. No-one healed. Not one. Because not even a Phoenix was able to return a soul to its cooling body.
In the end— Nobody even cared. They didn’t notice.
At least not until the Protectors stopped protecting, and the House Elves popped away, and the Phoenix stopped crying, and Hogwarts stopped grieving. (No-one ever noticed the Ghosts. No-one noticed them leaving. Gone.)
When they finally awakened from their hate-induced haze, it was already too late.
The little healthy magic there had been was gone and it had done what so many others should have been doing from the beginning.
It set to do this right.
xXxXxXx
For more than a millennia, the grounds of Hogwarts — now drenched in blood and death — had been soaking in and treasuring every little memory people created there. All the secrets and rumours that had been whispered in dark corners and broad daylight. Students had lived there as though the world held no worries, not out there, not for them.
Hogwarts and everything she was held onto them — onto all the little things that were deemed unimportant to its participants but valued beyond believe by her and hers.
It did not take much to just push and pull and twist and — there, that was it. 1938. Once a far away future, then a dragging present, finally a distant past.
1938.
And the Sorting Hat sung.
(In the end, Hogwarts was but a castle, her paintings people long gone and summarily ignored. The Elves were invisible forces, the feeding hand getting bitten, her Protectors unmoving statues decorating the halls. And the Phoenix was bound, voiceless, while all magic and its tellings were too abstract for these ignorant wizards to listen to its tellings.
The Sorting Hat though? No-one ignored the Sorting Hat. There was no binding him, no silencing or doing away with him. Everyone delighted in his songs, following his damning words almost religiously — always to the extreme. And why wouldn’t they? He was the Sorting Hat, after all. He would sort it all out.)
(It wasn’t much — it really wasn’t — but maybe it could be enough.)
xXxXxXx
At his creation, the Sorting Hat had been naught but a tool to determine a child’s most prominent traits — whether they were loyal or reckless or reserved or outgoing or cunning. Whoever they were at their hearts, that was who the Sorting Hat looked at, identified, and sorted.
He was meant as a means to lighten the workload of the four Founders. If it determined the traits they could most relate to, those who shared a similar mindset to themselves, they were only directly responsible for a quarter of their apprentices, and they would be well equated to help them along their ways. By the same token, students got to share their home for years to come with people who shared their interests and values. A chance to find belonging and friends in uncertain times.
The Sorting Hat was meant as a symbol — of reassurance, of help and blooming friendships.
He was a joke, a confidant, a helping hand.
If only it had stayed that way.
If only the Sorting Hat hadn’t started to stray from his path. He did not even know when it had happened, when it had started. But one day, he had started to take the children’s wishes into consideration — impressed upon by their parents or books or environment.
He had failed his duty then, when he had listened and let himself be persuaded.
Not anymore. Not after what he’d seen could happen.
He was the Sorting Hat. He and he alone. No-one else. And now, returned to 1938, he would show everyone exactly what it meant to be him. To sort Hogwarts’ students as they were meant to be.
xXxXxXx
“Black, Dorea!”
‘What a devious little girl,’ the Sorting Hat thought as he riffled through her mind. He ignored her wishes and thoughts directed at him, memories of expectations her family had heaped upon her. Being considerate to such pressures and wishes, thoughts of him being able to be influenced — this was not who he was. Not anymore. He was the judge and jury and executioner, all in one. No-one else. Never again. These wizards and witches had shown just how unable they were when given the ability to make and handle their own decisions.
Never. Again.
And there, finally, hidden behind insecurities and expectations and masks, there was the real Dorea Black.
“You are strong and brave, young one. Never let anyone convince you otherwise,” he murmured. Then he opened his mouth and declared, for all to hear, “Slytherin!”
The Great Hall burst into applause as Dorea Black hopped off the stool happily to take her place beside her housemates.
“Black, Orion!”
‘My, what a curious boy, so inquisitive and polite, if a bit reserved. I know exactly where to put you, for you to reach the potential you have in you.’
“Ravenclaw!”
The Great Hall applauded as Orion Black slipped off the stool gracefully to take his place with the Ravens.
“Longbottom, Augusta!”
‘So fierce and headstrong. Alas, just as insecure as her grandson. She could be just as noble.’
“Gryffindor!”
The Great Hall cheered as Augusta Longbottom almost ran off with the Hat still on her head to take her place beside her housemates.
“Malfoy, Abraxas!”
‘So young and already believing himself better than others just because of his birth. So self assured and narcissistic. But his family — oh, how he loves them above all else. He would do anything for them and accounts friends almost that same privilege. Who would have thought that Abraxas would have such a bleeding heart behind all that ice cold exterior?’
“Hufflepuff!”
The Great Hall remained silent. Stunned. Abraxas Malfoy shook his head wildly, a sneer on his pale face as he thought about the embarrassment he would bring unto his family. Yet, pleading and begging and threatening the Sorting Hat did not work. The Hat remained silent. And so, Abraxas Malfoy hesitantly climbed off the stool to take his wrongful place as a badger.
“Riddle, Tom!”
‘It’s a shame to see such a bright, inquisitive mind already consumed by so much anger and fear. But, oh ho, the knowledge there is a place with people like him, a whole new world and potentially a family he did not know about, who might take him in as he had always wished for. A safe heaven, a beloved man with the same ability and his favourite companion as a symbol. It would be perfect. But no — they would take his desperate dreams and twist them beyond recognition. That wouldn’t do. Better be —’
“Ravenclaw!”
The Great Hall regained its bearings slowly and applauded the sorting of Tom Riddle to the blue-and-bronze House.
“Potter, Fleamont!”
‘A sharp mind, a mischievous one, too. Oh, already quite resourceful to remind people not to make fun of his name. He cherishes the name — as he cherishes his mother — but fears he won’t find friends because of it, yet still bears the determination to make them regardless… where to put you, where to put you… you are almost as hard to sort as your grandson. Ah!—’
“Slytherin!”
The Great Hall was silent once more if not for a few claps, as Fleamont Potter almost fell off the stool to incredulously stumble over to his new housemates.
At the end of the night, the consensus was unanimous — the Sorting Hat had finally, after a thousand years — lost its marbles.
To think it put a Malfoy in Hufflepuff and a Potter in Slytherin.
This could only end badly.
This would be the end of Hogwarts.
(This was only the beginning.)
xXxXxXx
Albus Dumbledore could do nothing but watch as Tom Riddle wormed his way into all his colleagues hearts’.
He’d tried to warn them, to tell them that the Riddle boy meant nothing but trouble, but almost no-one had listened to him. Those few that did had chastised him quite quickly for wanting to ostracise such a nice, dedicated young man.
How could they not understand?
True, it came as quite a surprise when Tom had been sorted into Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin. That, however, was the perfect cover. No-one would ever suspect a Ravenclaw when Slytherins were right there, darkening the world.
Nothing happened however. Not the whole school year. Nothing that could be traced back to Tom Riddle — just as Albus had feared. Then, the summer holidays neared and suddenly, like a switch had been flicked, Tom Riddles’ self-assured bearing started faltering.
It was a stroke of misfortune that Abus wasn’t there when Tom Riddle went to his Head of House with his plea, who then sent him to the Headmaster with a heavy heart, burdened with worry.
Albus had no way of sticking his nose in, to add his own two cents. How fortunate it was then, that the Sorting Hat had no such misfortune, even without a nose.
“It would do you good to remember, Armando, that Hogwarts has always been a sanctuary as much as it has been a school.”
Armando Dippet frowned. “But during the summer—“
“Is Hogwarts still Hogwarts,” the Hat interrupted calmly. Tom could only watch with big eyes as the Sorting Hat argued in his favour. With renewed hope, Tom amped up, actually telling the Headmaster of the going ons in the Muggle world, especially as a wizard in a Muggle orphanage during the Great Depression, the tensions with Germany, of what little Tom had heard from other Muggleborns from London and other bigger cities, the war that had just started.
Dippet looked horrified. Never, in all his time as a headmaster, had he ever heard about the horrors Muggles had managed to create since his boyhood. His mother had been a victim of the witch hunts. To know that Muggles were still capable of such hate — even after their belief in magic had waned dramatically — had him pull out a deck of parchments and start writing.
The Sorting Hat sat back smugly as, in the summer of 1939, and all following summers, Hogwarts remained open to all who needed it.
xXxXxXx
The next year’s sorting was as crazy as the last. The following was hardly better. (Maybe they were slowly getting used to the Hat’s newly developed craziness.)
Theodore Nott found himself sorted into Ravenclaw, Evan Rosier into Gryffindor.
Everyone breathed a small sigh of relief when Gael Smith got into Hufflepuff (as he should!), only to despair again when Alphard Black was welcomed into the same House.
xXxXxXx
Tom Riddle flourished in Ravenclaw.
Fleamont Potter made a name for himself in Slytherin.
Abraxas Malfoy found like minded people in Hufflepuff.
xXxXxXx
The opening of the Chamber of Secrets did not bring forth fear and death. No. This time, Tom Riddle shared his findings with friends he had made before going to the Headmaster and the Daily Prophet, gaining prestige for being Slytherin’s Heir as well as the one who found the legendary Chamber.
Tom had also made friends with the Basilisk. A few months later, his book about the real Founders came out — as people, rather than legends greater than life. It became an instant best seller and for the second time in his life, Tom did not fear his uncertain future. He would be okay.
xXxXxXx
Rubeus Hagrid had been sorted into Hufflepuff.
He happily shared the news of his pet Acromantula with his friends there. They were as enamoured as Rubeus was with Aragog. Still, they made him see that a dorm room in a school full of little children was not the right place to keep such a pet.
His stunned professors happily helped the half-giant find Aragog a new, proper home. All Rubeus got was a slap on the wrists, as well as a lecture about how dangerous such beings could be to wizards and witches.
Rubeus Hagrid graduated Hogwarts in the summer of 1948. He went on to become an enthusiastic, talented Magizoologist, working primarily with dragons and other such dangerous beings.
xXxXxXx
Alastor Moody became a Hufflepuff, just as Arthur Weasley would be later on.
Molly Prewett was a Gryffindor. Her brothers Gideon and Fabian Prewett were sorted into Slytherin and Ravenclaw respectively.
xXxXxXx
Walburga and Orion Black finished Hogwarts top of their classes. They got married and had two sons: Sirius and Regulus. Sirius was a Gryffindor through and through, while quiet Regulus came to call Hufflepuff his home.
Their parents did not punish them — the Sorting Hat did as the Sorting Hat wanted. It was neither of their faults.
xXxXxXx
That was an important point to make. Hate bred hate — it grew and grew until it festered, never to leave again. But how could hate grow — hate of a specific gender or race or blood status, when all those were next to you for years. When classes and dorm rooms were shared with those people had been taught to think of as different, as less.
The Muggleborn helping a pureblood with their homework could hardly be inferior or dumber just because of their blood.
How could Hufflepuffs be good for nothing when your sibling went there — your sibling who still remained the same — annoying and foolish and stupid and your sibling.
It was not their fault — they could not control the Sorting Hat. No-one could. Magic only knew what the Sorting Hat actually saw when it sat upon every student’s head when they entered Hogwarts for the very first time.
Hogwarts Houses did not make students evil, they did not define them, and they did not care about blood. Not even Slytherin. Never had. Not without the input of prejudiced, bigoted wizardkind.
Rivalries died with the passing of years. Discrimination as they had known it faltered in face of their non-existent proof.
All that, only with one tiny, little change.
The Sorting Hat smiled.
xXxXxXx
After graduation, Tom Riddle travelled the world — he sought knowledge like a pirate sought gold. Feverishly. Eventually he returned to the British Isles — his name famous in the right circles.
Tom Riddle had become famous for recovering Ravenclaw’s Lost Diadem and inventing a lot of new potions and spells.
He returned to Hogwarts, his name speaking for himself, and became the new DADA Professor, relieving a tired Galatea Merrythought.
xXxXxXx
Albus Dumbledore became Headmaster in the early 1960s. The Sorting Hat had been a constant source of frustration for some years by then.
While others had grown used to the Hat’s sudden turn about in 1938 and relatively quickly accepted it, Abus Dumbledore was not among them.
For years before becoming the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus had argued with the Hat, with Dippet and his colleagues. It was for naught. The Sorting Hat was stand fast in his new-found stubbornness bordering on insanity, having apparently grown a spine over night. His colleagues were too absorbed in their blind devotion to Hogwarts and Magic to question the Hat and his sudden wisdom.
Needless to say, Albus might have just as well been arguing with a wall.
Once, just once after he had become Headmaster, Albus had tried spelling the Sorting Hat — removing whatever spell must have befallen the ancient artefact all those years ago, while also returning him to his right senses. It wasn’t possible that dark wizards went into Gryffindor — the symbol of Light and everything good.
Albus was nothing like the Blacks, the Goyles. Like Grindelwald!
The Hat did not like it. The Portraits did not like it. The House Elves did not like it. The Ghosts did not like it. Hogwarts did not like it.
Albus Dumbledore resigned against his better wishes barely ten years later. For a reason Albus just couldn’t get behind, Hogwarts had turned against him and nothing he did gained him any lenience.
Minerva McGonagall took over for him, a proud Lioness. She had been a classmate of Tom Riddle and a rather good acquaintance of his.
Albus could only deflate in defeat when news reached him of Tom Riddle’s appointment as DADA Professor. Alas, he was Headmaster no longer and had no influence in the school left.
xXxXxXx
Remus Lupin was not the first Werewolf to become a student at Hogwarts, nor did Rubeus Hagrid remain the only Half-Giant with a proper Hogwarts education.
xXxXxXx
The importance of distinction between Muggleborn, Halfblood, and Pureblood waned more and more as no majority of either group found itself stuck together in one house, clearly divided. Like minds found like minds — blood forgotten.
xXxXxXx
Lily Evans became a proud Gryffindor, with her best friend Severus Snape in Slytherin. Their friendship did not suffer hardship thanks to their differences in houses. Severus did not grow resentful towards Muggles with the ability to remain away, safe, in Hogwarts.
xXxXxXx
James Potter was a Hufflepuff, Remus Lupin a Ravenclaw.
Lucius Malfoy, Gryffindor, married Narcissa Black, a Slytherin.
The children of two Ravenclaws were sorted into Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff.
No-one blinked an eye. Not anymore.
xXxXxXx
By the time 1991 rolled around, prejudices and expectations that had been as strong and unyielding as steel in 1938 and even stronger still in the previous, doomed timeline had been really forgotten in time — a figment of a future long gone.
Slytherins weren’t inertly evil, just as Gryffindors weren’t all good.
Hufflepuff was a respectable house and all students were welcome everywhere.
It was impossible to say who was Muggleborn, Halfblood, or Pureblood by the time they finished their schooling. Even if a last name of someone was not yet well known, their education was the same — their chances almost equal.
Family expectations to get into a certain house had been demolished decades ago. When Malfoys no longer ruled Slytherin and the Blacks were as dispersed in all houses as they were in the British Wizarding World. (They were everywhere. Everywhere.)
There was no war in 1980. No heroic vanquishment in 1981. No Boy-Who-Lived in 1991. No entire bloodlines erased.
Lord Voldemort had never existed and no-one else had managed to do what he would have. Not now. Not anymore.
Magic was flourishing. Portraits sung and Elves danced and Ghosts haunted and Protectors held guard and Hogwarts — Hogwarts glowed with life.
Every year, the Sorting Hat sung of unity and belonging, never once forgetting the lessons he had to learn the hard way — what straying from his path could lead to. What such a little, seemingly unimportant decision could create.
“Evans, Harry!”
“Slytherin!”
The Great Hall erupted in applause, as it did for every sorting.