Behind the high table at the top of the Great Hall, the professors had already taken their seats. Erwin scanned their faces, recognizing most from the books. There was the sallow, greasy-haired Snape, the half-blood prince with his perpetual sneer. Beside him sat Professor Quirrell, his head wrapped in a turban that concealed the parasitic Dark Lord lurking beneath.
The first-years buzzed with curiosity, their eyes darting around the enchanted hall. Even those from pure-blood families gaped like Muggles at a fireworks show. Hogwarts was a legend factory, after all—home to heroes and tragedies alike. These wide-eyed eleven-year-olds dreamed of carving their own names into its storied walls, whether as legends or footnotes. Hermione Granger, ever the know-it-all, fidgeted with barely contained excitement.
Erwin, though, fixed his gaze on the translucent ghosts drifting overhead, applauding the newcomers with ethereal claps. He'd always wondered about them in the books—were they a twisted form of immortality? And how did one become a ghost, anyway? If it were that simple, the castle should be crawling with spectral wizards from every era. Yet only poor Moaning Myrtle haunted the original tale, a glitchy remnant from their own time.
Lost in these musings—perhaps even plotting a way to trap one for study—Erwin felt a prickle on the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. He turned toward the staff table and locked eyes with the source: Snape. The potions master stared with cold intensity.
Erwin's stomach twisted. What was this? In the books, Snape fixated on Harry Potter from the start. Was he seeing a ghost of James in Erwin instead? Before he could puzzle it out, Professor McGonagall strode forward, parchment in hand, and placed a battered old hat on the stool before them.
Hermione leaned in, whispering, "Is that the Sorting Hat you mentioned?"
Erwin nodded. "That's the one."
"It doesn't look special," she murmured.
As if on cue, a rip near the brim stretched into a mouth, and a ragged voice burst forth in song:
"You might think I'm not as pretty,
But don't judge this book by its cover!
If you can find a hat that's brainier,
I'll eat myself right here and over!"
The first-years gawked as the hat crooned its ditty, a mix of surprise and delight rippling through the crowd. Erwin, however, grimaced. Cleanliness was his curse—severe OCD, the kind that made greasy fingerprints unbearable. That hat had perched on countless sweaty, unkempt heads over centuries. Layers of grime, oils, and who-knows-what else. His gorge rose at the thought. He swallowed hard, forcing down nausea.
The song ended, and McGonagall unrolled her parchment with a flourish. "When I call your name, come forward and sit. The Sorting Hat will place you in the house that best suits you."
"Hannah Abbott!"
Erwin stifled a smirk. Time travelers might butterfly away plot points, but some constants endured—like Hannah heading straight for Hufflepuff. The hat barely touched her frizzy hair before bellowing, "Hufflepuff!" Cheers erupted from the yellow-and-black table, warm welcomes rippling even from the other houses. Harmless badgers, after all—easy to root for.
McGonagall pressed on. "Draco Malfoy!"
The pale boy slithered forward, veering wide around Erwin with a flinch. Erwin bit back a chuckle. The hat no sooner grazed Malfoy's blond locks than it shouted, "Slytherin!" The green table exploded in serpentine hisses of approval. No shock there—the Malfoys were Slytherin royalty, as were most old-blood families. Save for one mutt-shifting exception.
The redhead behind him, Ron Weasley, would soon claim his Gryffindor birthright. But next came the main event.
"Harry Potter!"
Silence crashed over the hall like a thunderclap. Whispers died; forks clattered. The professors leaned forward—Dumbledore himself straightened in his chair, blue eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles.
Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. A name that echoed through wizarding Britain like a curse.
The hat deliberated longer this time, its brim twitching as if in debate. Erwin watched, intrigued. In the books, it had weighed Harry's virtues against Slytherin's cunning pull. But perhaps Dumbledore had meddled, whispering pleas for Gryffindor. The hat, infused with Godric's own will, might resist stuffing the lion's den with subpar cubs.
A dark thought crossed Erwin's mind: What if Harry's just not up to snuff? The books painted him as brave but dim—saved a hundred times by Dumbledore's invisible hand. Escaping the Dursleys' cupboard under the stairs should've lit a fire under him to study, to seize control. Instead, he coasted on plot armor. Without the protagonist halo, he'd be cannon fodder.
The hat hummed on, hesitating. Erwin glanced at Dumbledore. The headmaster's knuckles whitened, fist clenched on the table's edge. If it dragged much longer, sparks might fly—literally. Erwin could already picture the post-ceremony tongue-lashing in the headmaster's office.
Finally, the verdict: "Gryffindor!"
Pandemonium at the scarlet table. Students leaped up, roaring, "We've got Potter! We've got Potter!" Harry beamed, flushed with relief and the weight of expectations. Ron and the others had drilled it into him: Gryffindor was the pinnacle, the house of heroes. Hagrid's gruff praise, Dumbledore's subtle nudges—it all sealed the deal.
Erwin's smile was wry. Enjoy the glory, lions. When the house points start bleeding away—thanks to your golden boy's blunders—you might rethink the fanfare.
As the sorting continued, the hall thrummed with energy. Ghosts glided lower, offering spectral cheers. Snape's gaze lingered on Erwin a moment longer before flicking to Harry, as if deciding where to allocate his suspicion. Quirrell stammered faintly under his turban, unnoticed amid the din.
Erwin settled back, the hat's grease forgotten for now. Hogwarts' gears were turning, and he was smack in the middle—clean hands or not.