After sorting Harry Potter into Gryffindor, Professor McGonagall continued calling names. A few more first-years shuffled through quickly—unremarkable faces lost in the crowd.
Then she announced, "Hermione Granger!"
Erwin felt the bushy-haired girl beside him tense up like a coiled spring. In the echoing vastness of the Great Hall, it almost felt like some solemn rite. Hermione was practically vibrating with nerves.
She shot Erwin a wide-eyed glance.
"It's fine," he whispered. "Simple as anything. You've seen it done. Just relax."
His words seemed to steady her. The rigid set of her shoulders eased as she climbed the steps to the dais. Professor McGonagall placed the weathered Sorting Hat on her head.
"Hmm," the Hat murmured, its brim flopping over her eyes. "A mind like a library—such a thirst for knowledge! Ravenclaw would suit you perfectly. But there's fire in you too, bold and unyielding. Gryffindor calls just as strongly."
Hermione fidgeted, her gaze flickering uncertainly across the hall. She cleared her throat. "Er... could I try Ravenclaw?"
The Hat paused, as if caught off guard. "Ravenclaw? Not Gryffindor? You'd thrive there, surrounded by brave souls who'd match your spirit."
She stole a peek at the Gryffindor table—rowdy, a bit boisterous, not exactly the scholarly haven she'd imagined. Then her eyes drifted to Ravenclaw: poised figures, books tucked under arms, an air of quiet intellect. As a Muggle-born, she knew better than most how vital the right environment was for learning.
"No, really," she insisted. "I'd prefer Ravenclaw."
The Hat hesitated another beat. "Very well, if you're certain."
"Ravenclaw!" it bellowed.
Applause thundered from the Ravenclaw bench. Hermione beamed, whipping off the Hat and flashing Erwin a grateful nod. She practically skipped to join her new housemates, who enveloped her in cheers and welcoming pats.
A spark of triumph lit Erwin's eyes. His little test had worked. The story's momentum held firm—Fluffy's whereabouts still nagged at the plot's edges—but it wasn't ironclad. Change was possible. Relief washed over him. No traverser wanted to battle fate only to watch their plans unravel like a poorly knit sweater, every twist snapping back to the scripted path. He'd dreaded that trap himself, which was why he'd nudged Hermione's sorting.
More names echoed through the hall. One by one, the remaining first-years took their places. Soon, only Erwin stood waiting.
Always the protagonists for last, he thought wryly.
Professor McGonagall's gaze settled on him. "Erwin Cavendish!"
A murmur rippled across the four house tables. Pure-bloods might not know the name, but Muggle-borns lit up like fireworks.
"Cavendish? The Cavendish?"
"Who else? In London, folks might fake being the Queen, but never him!"
"Blimey, I can't believe he's here—as our classmate!"
"What's the big deal?" a puzzled pure-blood asked.
The Muggle-borns launched into hushed explanations, weaving tales of the Cavendish legacy: industrial titans, wartime heroes, a family whose influence stretched from foggy streets to Parliament. Erwin's exploits—prodigy inventor, scandal-dodging heir—sounded like something out of a legend.
The pure-bloods gaped, wide-eyed.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat sharply. "Silence!"
A stern glance from another professor helped quell the buzz.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy caught fragments of the chatter. Erwin was some Muggle-world powerhouse, apparently. Impressive, maybe, but to Draco? Mere Muggle nonsense. Wizards didn't need factories or headlines; their blood and magic set them apart. He smirked, dismissing it. Let the frogs croak in their pond.
Up on the dais, Erwin eyed the Sorting Hat with a grimace. It looked grubby, patched and frayed from centuries of sweaty heads.
"Oi, young wizard!" the Hat called cheerily. "What're you dawdling for? Plop on down and let me peek inside that clever skull of yours. I'll sort you right into your perfect house!"
Professor McGonagall frowned at his hesitation. "Mr. Cavendish? Everything all right? Just take a seat—it's straightforward, as you've observed."
Erwin shook his head. "No, Professor. It's not that. The Hat's just... filthy."
The hall went deathly quiet. Even the Hat froze.
Then its stitched mouth dropped open in outrage. "Filthy? Filthy? How dare you! I'm the pinnacle of enchanted artifacts, centuries old—and you call me filthy?"
Erwin ignored the outburst, drawing his wand with calm precision.
Professor McGonagall's eyes widened. "Mr. Cavendish, what on earth—?"
"A quick rinse," Erwin said mildly. "It'll do wonders."
With a subtle flick, he cast wordlessly. A gentle stream of clear water materialized, swirling up from nowhere to douse the Hat like a sudden shower.
Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, twinkling eyes alight with interest. The Hat sputtered and flailed under the deluge, its fabric darkening as grime sluiced away.
"Excellent silent casting!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed, a rare smile cracking her stern facade. "And a Scouring Charm, no less. You've quite impressed me, Mr. Cavendish."
Erwin inclined his head. "Just common sense, Professor."
No pristine mountain spring fueled the spell; he'd drawn from a one-time-use Aguamenti card he'd won in a bored train ride lottery. It felt tailor-made for this moment.
The Hat sagged, sodden and subdued, its brim dripping onto the stool. The embroidered face twitched in indignation—likely the first proper washing it'd had since Godric Gryffindor stuffed it full of spells.
Professor McGonagall lifted it gingerly, peering inside. Satisfied it hadn't shorted out, she exhaled. "Whenever you're ready, then."
Erwin sat, and the damp Hat plopped onto his head with a squelch.