I Am Mortally Against Evil! (Please Read On)
The Great Hall's high stone walls rose toward the enchanted ceiling, where floating candles cast a warm orange glow across the room. Yet, despite the light, no warmth reached the people below. The entire hall—from the youngest first-years to the professors, and even the ghosts drifting overhead—was silent.
Owen was now, quite possibly, the first student in Hogwarts history to drive the Sorting Hat to the brink of madness.
His lengthy argument with the Hat had drawn every eye in the hall. The heads of all four Houses watched him; the staff at the High Table focused on him; even Albus Dumbledore's friendly smile had faded into something far more serious.
Dumbledore stared at Owen, fingers steepled. The Headmaster had heard countless strange remarks from children over the years—he'd even seen a Muggle-born student try to reach inside the Sorting Hat, assuming it worked like a magician's prop and contained a rabbit.
But what Owen said was different.
He wasn't just being cheeky.
He was challenging Hogwarts itself—as if the school were some shadowy institution that deliberately produced dark wizards.
"Mr. Sanchez," the Headmaster said calmly as he rose to his feet, "I must correct one of your assumptions."
"What you choose to become is entirely your own decision. Environment influences a person, yes—but it does not define them."
Dumbledore's deep voice echoed through the hall. Standing before the golden High Table chair, his purple robes reflected the candlelight, lending him an undeniable presence. Anyone else might have felt chilled under that gaze.
But Owen didn't flinch.
He knew Dumbledore too well.
During his "first playthrough," he had spent most of his time studying the greatest wizard of the age. He knew exactly where Dumbledore's boundaries lay as a Headmaster—what he would tolerate, and what he would not.
Even when Owen had dropped out in fifth year…
Even when he had walked among Death Eaters in sixth…
Dumbledore still hadn't raised a hand against him.
Was it because Dumbledore still believed he could be redeemed?
Or perhaps because the Dumbledore of that timeline had lived a richer, fuller life?
After all, in that timeline, Albus—born in the Fertile Soil village—was an upright, warm, gentle woman. A model of virtue.
"But—Headmaster," Owen said stubbornly, determined not to let the matter go, "I think you're wrong."
"Just as a potion ingredient that grows near a volcano can't survive freezing temperatures, and one that grows on a glacier can't endure heat—a person cannot simply ignore their surroundings. Environment shapes a person continuously and deeply."
"It's like someone who stays in a damp place too long ending up with bone problems. Wouldn't you agree?"
The blow landed.
Dumbledore's lips twitched ever so slightly.
Young man, he silently thought, you had better be speaking in general terms.
"No one remains in a damp place forever," Dumbledore replied quietly, narrowing his eyes.
"Unless they're forced to," Owen countered immediately.
Dumbledore sighed and gestured toward the trembling line of first-years still waiting to be sorted.
"Mr. Sanchez, I'm not sure what prejudice you hold against Hogwarts, but one thing is clear: everyone here is hungry. Minerva, please place the hat back on Mr. Sanchez's head."
Before Owen could protest, Professor McGonagall briskly set the Sorting Hat back onto his head.
A low crackling sound—like a fire just starting to burn—echoed faintly through the hall.
Every student craned their neck, staring. For the moment, Owen attracted more attention than even Harry Potter.
"All right, you troublesome brat," the Sorting Hat muttered in a weary, deflated voice. "Since you claim to know so much about Hogwarts—tell me, which House do you think you belong in?"
"Hmph—I'm always good, and I despise evil!" Owen replied firmly.
"Is that so?" The Hat let out a soft chuckle, as though it had just heard a particularly amusing joke.
"In that case… very well."
"Hufflepuff!"
The hat shouted the House name loud enough for the entire hall to hear.
Owen blinked as the Hat was lifted off his head. Under Professor McGonagall's stern stare, he trudged toward the Hufflepuff table.
Whispers immediately filled the hall.
Even the Weasley twins—who had debated earlier and confidently predicted Owen would end up in Gryffindor, because "no one's crazier—I mean braver—than that bloke"—fell silent.
Professor McGonagall, surprisingly, looked relieved… though she couldn't help glancing sympathetically at Professor Pomona Sprout.
"Hi! Hello! I'm Owen—Owen Sanchez," he greeted as he reached the table.
"H-hello. I'm Gabriel Truman, Hufflepuff prefect," said the round-faced boy with messy hair and glasses. His tone was reserved, even cold, though his inherently gentle character still showed through.
"A pleasure to meet you." Owen shook his hand energetically. "I've heard Hufflepuffs make the best friends. I'm honored to join."
"I… hope you adapt well," Gabriel replied uncertainly. He returned to his seat, still confused.
A student who dared to argue with the Sorting Hat? Surely Gryffindor or Ravenclaw would have made more sense.
Watching Gabriel's slightly slumped posture, Owen let a faint smile curl at the corner of his lips.
He didn't care about Houses.
He only cared about growing stronger.
He already possessed knowledge of charms, combat techniques, and ancient secrets. His plans wouldn't be hindered no matter where he ended up.
And besides—entering Hufflepuff was part of his plan.
A promise fulfilled.
A dream completed.
————
Meanwhile, the Sorting Ceremony continued as normal.
The other students—those destined to shape magical history—entered the same Houses they had in the original timeline.
As for Harry…
Because of Owen's meddling on the train, Draco hadn't picked a fight with him.
Ron hadn't even had the chance to complain about Slytherin.
Yet Harry still chose Gryffindor.
Owen suspected he simply wanted to join his new friends Ron and Hermione, who had already been sorted.
Nothing had changed.
With all the first-years sorted, the opening feast finally began.