Ch 9.2 Ending Maker: Fate Wizardry (Patreon)

Ending Maker: Fate Wizardry

Chapter Intro:

This fic’s premise is inspired by the webtoon titled Ending Maker/엔딩메이커 by Chwiryong and their illustrator chyan. Please check them out.

Story Starts

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Ch 9.2 - A Series of Head-Related 

Incidents and Indignities

Harry looked up towards the ceiling of the Great Hall, and his breath caught.

The enchantment rendered a perfect replica of the night sky—deep velvet darkness scattered with pinpricks of light, wisps of cloud drifting past a crescent moon. Below it hung thousands of candles suspended on invisible threads, from thick pillars to slender tapers, their flames flickering in an unfelt breeze. Wax dripped from their bases and vanished into nothing before reaching the students below.

He could admit it was beautiful. Enchanting, even.

The casualness of it struck him more than the spectacle itself. Back in their old reality, magi hoarded mysteries. Every application of magecraft demanded justification—research, development, advancement of the craft. Using the Art for something as frivolous as atmosphere would have been considered wasteful at best, heretical at worst. The Mage's Association would have suffered collective apoplexy at the thought of maintaining an elaborate working purely so dinner had a view.

Here, someone had looked at a ceiling and thought, 'Wouldn't it be lovely if students could see the stars whilst eating?'

And then they'd simply... done it.

Harry turned to find Hermione and Fleur wearing similar expressions of wonder. Hermione's gaze darted between the candles and the enchanted sky. Fleur's eyes reflected the floating flames, her lips slightly parted.

'We really are in a different world.' A conclusion he had reached several times since he and Hermione first passed through the Leaky Cauldron about a year back. Moments like this still made it land fresh.

Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, students arranged by house colours—red and gold, blue and bronze, yellow and black, green and silver. The tables were laid with golden plates and goblets, polished to mirror brightness. At the far end, on a raised platform, sat the High Table, where the professors watched the procession with varying degrees of interest.

Banners hung from the walls between tall windows, house crests rendered in rich fabric. The stone walls rose high before curving into arched supports, torches burning in iron brackets between portraits that shifted and murmured amongst themselves. Here and there among the students, ghosts shone misty silver, drifting lazily above the benches.

Professor McGonagall led the first-years up the centre aisle, and they halted in a line facing the other students, teachers at their backs. Hundreds of faces stared at them, pale in the candlelight.

Harry picked out the ones he knew from photographs and descriptions. Dumbledore sat centre at the High Table in midnight blue robes embroidered with silver moons, his half-moon spectacles catching the light as he surveyed the hall. To his right, an empty chair—McGonagall's, presumably. To his left sat Flitwick, perched on a stack of cushions to see over the table's edge, and beyond him a severe-looking woman with close-cropped grey hair.

Snape occupied a seat near the end. He had the look of a man who had marked the evening tedious in advance and was waiting to be proven right. Dark eyes swept over the first-years without settling on any particular face.

Harry ignored the rest of the staff for now.

The first-years had clustered near the front, a nervous herd of eighteen-year-olds trying not to look as overwhelmed as they felt. Draco stood near the head of the line, chin lifted, projecting a confidence that didn't quite reach his eyes. Cassiopeia stood beside him, posture easier than her brother's, her gaze sharp as it swept the hall. Neville clutched his robes with white-knuckled hands, face pale. Ron Weasley's ears had gone pink, though whether from nerves or the heat of so many bodies, Harry couldn't say.

Sally-Anne had positioned herself at Harry's left elbow, to Hermione's visible irritation. Hermione stood at his right, Fleur just beyond her, the three of them forming a loose formation the other first-years had chosen not to approach to closely.

A wooden stool sat before the High Table, and upon it rested a pointed wizard's hat—ancient, patched, frayed, stained with what might have been centuries of accumulated grime. A rip near the brim twitched.

Then the hat began to sing.

Harry listened with bemused interest as the sentient headwear delivered a cheerful musical introduction to the four houses—Gryffindor for the brave, Hufflepuff for the loyal, Ravenclaw for the wise, Slytherin for the ambitious. The rhymes were simple, the melody jaunty. When the song concluded, the hall erupted in applause, and the hat bowed to each table in turn before falling still.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, a roll of parchment in her hands. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

The list began. Abbott, Hannah—a pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails—stumbled forward and became the first Hufflepuff. Bones, Susan followed her to the same table. Boot, Terry went to Ravenclaw. Brown, Lavender became the first Gryffindor, prompting an explosion of cheers from the far left table, where the Weasley twins were catcalling enthusiastically.

The Sorting continued. Bulstrode, Millicent went to Slytherin. Corner, Michael to Ravenclaw.

"Davis, Tracey!"

A black-haired girl with light brown skin stepped forward. Before she sat, she turned towards her blonde friend. The Greengrass girl, if their intelligence was correct. Something unspoken passed between them.

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione and Fleur. They'd been watching for this.

The hat barely touched Tracey's head before the rip opened wide.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tracey stood as McGonagall removed the hat. She nodded towards the crowd—towards her blonde friend specifically—before heading to the applauding Slytherin table. No nervous shuffle for her; she went straight to the empty section of the Slytherin table.

"Delacour, Fleur!"

Fleur squeezed Hermione's hand briefly before striding forward. Her movement drew every eye in the hall—male students straightening in their seats, female students narrowing theirs. The allure, dampened though it was by practice and will, still radiated enough to set off a ripple of whispered commentary.

"Is she—"

"Look at her hair—"

"Veela, has to be—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Veela don't attend Hogwarts—"

They'd discussed this. The books suggested the hat could be influenced, that students might request placement if they felt strongly enough. Whether that held true in this reality remained to be seen, but they'd agreed to try. Despite the divergences they'd already caused—Sirius freed, Pettigrew captured, Horcruxes destroyed—they still wanted to mitigate certain factors. House placement was one of them.

Of course, Fleur wasn't supposed to be here at all. In the books, she arrived during the Triwizard Tournament as a Beauxbatons champion, not a Hogwarts student. Another divergence. Another variable.

The hat settled over Fleur's silvery-blonde hair, falling past her eyes. Her expression went blank—that particular regal poise and gravitas that was just natural.

Seconds stretched into minutes.

The hall's murmuring grew louder. Students shifted in their seats. At the High Table, Dumbledore's expression remained pleasant, but his fingers had steepled beneath his chin. Flitwick leaned forward with obvious academic interest. Snape's dark eyes had fixed on the proceedings, his earlier boredom replaced by something sharper.

"Hatstall," someone whispered behind Harry. "Definitely a hatstall."

Five minutes. Seven. Ten.

Harry could have sworn the hat's rip glanced his way. Then Hermione's.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The hall erupted. The Gryffindor table roared its approval, the Weasley twins leading a chant that might have been her name or might have been nonsense syllables. Polite, scattered applause came from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. From Slytherin, barely a sound—a few students clapping with the minimum effort courtesy required.

Fleur rose from the stool, her school robes shifting as the house colours bled into existence—red trim appearing at her collar and cuffs, the Gryffindor crest materialising on her chest. She walked towards the table without hurry.

Several upper-year boys scrambled to make room, practically shoving each other aside. One nearly toppled off the bench entirely.

Fleur smiled politely and sat beside Lavender Brown instead.

Lavender immediately offered her hand, eyes wide. Other girls leaned in to introduce themselves whilst the male half of the table continued staring, some with more discretion than others.

Even dampened, Fleur remained stunning. Harry couldn't blame them.

McGonagall continued down the list. Finch-Fletchley, Justin went to Hufflepuff. Finnigan, Seamus to Gryffindor. Goldstein, Anthony to Ravenclaw.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione gave Harry that particular grin—the one Rin wore when she was about to do something clever and wanted you to know it. She winked, then strode towards the stool with her chin held high.

Harry took the opportunity to study the blonde girl who had stood beside Tracey Davis. The Greengrass heir, according to goblin intelligence. The Davis and Greengrass families maintained close ties, old alliances that predated the recent war. Relevant to their arrangement with Arcturus, and to the mission Ragnok had outlined.

Reviving the House of Granger served multiple purposes. Political leverage. Economic opportunity. And, if Hermione played it correctly, a foothold in pureblood society that didn't depend on the Black family's patronage. And, of course, the knowledge they'd accumulated before the family dwindled into nothingness.

The hat dropped over Hermione's curls.

And stayed there.

Minutes passed. The hall's volume dropped to soft murmuring as everyone waited. Harry counted the seconds, watching Hermione's shoulders for any sign of tension.

Five minutes. Ten. Twelve.

Another hatstall. Whispers rippled through the students.

'What is she doing?'

Fifteen minutes. The hat shifted slightly, as though adjusting itself.

Harry coughed loudly into his hand.

The sound cut through the hall's murmuring, drawing attention. Several students turned to look at him. At the High Table, McGonagall's lips pressed thin.

Hermione's head tilted—just slightly, just enough that Harry knew she'd heard him.

Their eyes met across the distance. Harry raised one eyebrow, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

Hermione's cheeks darkened. Whatever conversation she'd been having with the hat, it had clearly gone off-topic.

The hat's rip opened.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The table erupted again. Fleur was already on her feet, clapping with rather more enthusiasm than her usual composure allowed. Hermione pulled the hat off, handed it to McGonagall, and walked towards the Gryffindor table with her chin still high—though her cheeks remained pink.

She slid onto the bench beside Fleur, who immediately leaned in to whisper something. Hermione's blush intensified. She shot Harry a look that promised retribution.

Harry smiled blandly and returned his attention to the Sorting.

"Greengrass, Daphne!"

The blonde girl stepped forward. Ice-blue eyes swept the hall once before she sat and allowed the hat to cover her head.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Quick. Decisive. She joined Tracey at the Slytherin table, and the two exchanged satisfied nods.

Harry filed the information away.

The Sorting continued. Longbottom, Neville fumbled his way to the stool and spent nearly four minutes under the hat before being declared Gryffindor. He walked to the table with visible relief, tripping over his own robes twice. MacDougal, Morag went to Ravenclaw.

Malfoy, Cassiopeia earned a lengthy pause—three minutes, perhaps four—before the hat announced Slytherin. She rose, handed the hat back, and took a seat at the green-and-silver table with a satisfied smile. Her brother's turn came directly after and lasted rather less time: the hat barely grazed Draco's hair before shouting its verdict, and he joined his sister wearing the expression of a man who considered the deliberation gap a personal victory.

Nott, Theodore. Slytherin. Parkinson, Pansy. Slytherin. Patil, Padma. Ravenclaw. Patil, Parvati. Gryffindor.

"Perks, Sally-Anne!"

"See you in Gryffindor," Sally-Anne whispered against his ear, and bounced forward, blonde curls swinging. She threw Harry a grin over her shoulder before settling onto the stool.

The hat considered for perhaps thirty seconds.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Sally-Anne pumped her fist as she stood, already scanning the Gryffindor table. Her gaze found Hermione, and something sharp passed between them. She made her way towards where Fleur and Hermione sat, sliding onto the bench directly across from them.

Harry watched Hermione's expression flicker through irritation, then finally resignation.

'Interesting.'

More names. More sortings. The crowd of first-years dwindled.

"Potter, Harry!"

Silence.

The word hadn't finished leaving McGonagall's lips before the hall went quiet. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Forks paused halfway to mouths. Even the ghosts stopped their drifting to turn translucent faces towards the remaining first-years.

Harry gave her a shrug and stepped forward.

He could feel every eye tracking his movement. Hundreds of gazes pressing against his back, his shoulders, the side of his face. Whispers started up immediately, trailing him up the aisle.

"—barely see the scar—"

"—thought he'd be wearing glasses—"

"—taller than I expected—"

"—is that really him?"

"—doesn't look like what the books described—"

Harry ignored them. He reached the stool, turned, and sat. Back straight. Hands on knees. The posture of a man awaiting judgement he'd already accepted.

McGonagall lowered the hat onto his head.

One heartbeat of silence.

"BLOODY FU—"

The Great Hall vanished.

No transition. No warning. One moment he sat on a wooden stool beneath floating candles, and the next—

Green grass stretched to every horizon. The sky above burned impossible blue, cloudless and vast. Metallic gears hung suspended in that endless expanse, catching light that had no source, turning with slow inevitability. The air smelled of iron and growing things, forge-smoke and summer rain.

And surrounding him, rising from the earth in every direction, stood swords.

Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Blades of every shape and size—longswords and katanas, rapiers and claymores, daggers and greatswords—thrust into the ground like grave markers in an endless cemetery. They stretched beyond sight, a forest of steel and legend, each one a story waiting to be told.

Harry's breath caught.

'Unlimited Blade Works.'

But not quite. The hill was wrong. The sky was wrong. And there, at the centre of it all, sat a figure on a simple wooden chair.

The Sorting Hat smiled at him with a face it shouldn't have.

"Well," it said. "This is certainly new. And I do apologise for the outburst—a thousand years of professional composure, gone in an instant. Though in my defence—" the face tilted, taking in the horizon of blades, "—why are there so many fucking swords in your head?"

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End

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