See chapter one for warnings and summaries.

PREVIOUSLY: Loki decides to hide on Midguard, in Hogwarts, with his children. On the way of putting together the necessary provisions, Loki spies little Harry Potter getting ready for his first semester and kills DADA Professor Quirrell, by accident. He then takes Quirrell's place under the guise of Lori Aldricson, a female DADA professor. The children are then sorted at the welcoming feast. Hela argues with the hat to be place in Slytherin, but is sorted into Ravenclaw instead. The other children now await their sorting...

Having seen that nothing unusual has happened to Hela, at least, not by Fenris' standards anyway, he does not mind being next in line. Alphabetically, he should have been first and Hela was teasing him about it.

So, he may have inadvertently urged her to go first.

May have.

Mayhap.

Maybe.

Whatever.

Fenris eyes the small stool with some measure of distrust, but he settles his bulk easily on it, and waits while the old witch plops the hat on his head. He is pleasantly surprised to find that the object is sentient.

It makes him want to bark in laughter. How amusing!

Ah, another godling. The hat muses. And I suppose you have preferences as well? There is something mildly derisive in the hat's tone, but Fenris isn't really listening.

It speaks. Novel. I wonder if Joren knows…

The hat snorts. Well, then, let's see, there's not much to work with, you're all brawns and very little brains and-

I want to play Quidditch! Fenris announces, apropos of nothing. He is fairly quivering with excitement now that he has puzzled out what the hat is and that it will help him in achieving his goal.

The hat is momentarily speechless.

Hello? Fenris' cautious greeting is somewhat hesitant. He doesn't want to break the hat. He just wants to play—and play some more.

Quidditch? The hat sounds as if it is tasting the word along with Fenris.

Yes! It sounds like a most wonderful game and flying seems like such fun. I have never flown before, really. It is fun, isn't it? It looks like it, sometimes. I want to try. I want to try at least once. Fenris frowns. His magic is bright and happy, but as he was confined to that wretched island for years, there was little, if anything, that he could do with it. Flying had always been something he had dreamed of. And then to hear Hela's tales of a game played in mid-air on flying devices—flying brooms!—well, Fenris could hardly contain himself.

He trembled with pure, unadulterated excitement on the stool, the half-madcap grin on his face, spelling trouble for anyone that actively knew him. He'd found something to pour his ruthless energies into.

He would make a brilliant Quidditch player.

…hmmm. The hat hummed, after a long pause. You are a very different one, it said, at last. And I know just where to put one with your kind of zest and loyalty. There was something akin to a sigh, as the hat spoke. "…better be, Gryffindor!"

Fenris slid off the stool with a grin, allowing Minerva to take the hat from his head. He started forward, only to catch a hint of the deathly aura radiating from his sister and immediately detoured to her side, knowing that his presence would either calm or irritate her and both were better options than the murderous tendrils of energy invisibly sparking off of her.

She glowers at him as best as she can from her stiff, standing position, but after a moment, inches closer, as if by accident.

He pretends not to notice.

It is Joren's turn or at least, it should be, but he is tugging on Seth's sleeve and turning pleading milky-white-blue eyes up at his eldest brother. If he speaks, no one can quite hear what he is saying, but after some deliberation—and it is a scant few seconds—Seth is the one to venture forward.

He carries himself with a muted air of authority and perhaps, something akin to royalty. He does not demand nor does he expect, but he has no qualms with carrying himself as his birth of a god has demanded. His long ponytail swishes elegantly behind him, somehow coming off as tasteful personal preference, than a shaggy, unstylish crop.

With a pleasant smile to Minerva, Seth holds his head high as she drops the hat with a little more puzzlement than before. She has given up reading the names as it seems the children have no intentions of being sorted in alphabetical order.

Oh good heavens by Merlin's tawdry beard. The hat grumbled. There's more of you?

…I beg your pardon? Seth is polite and unruffled. He shifts, as if examining his clothes for invisible lint, as there is nothing visually wrong with his current appearance. It is oddly disconcerting in a way that absolutely should not be.

How lucky. One with manners. The hat continues on as if nothing has been said. And where should I put you?

You may put me wherever you feel I am best suited. Seth's smile remains perfectly and unwavering. I have no objections whatsoever.

…None?

None.

…and if I were to put you in…Slytherin?

Then that must be where I belong. Seth returned, calmly. Is it?

…No.

Ravenclaw then? I do so like to read as Hela does.

With your sister? That miserable creature was your sister?

That isn't very nice of you. Of course she's my sister and I care for her very much.

…a bit thick in the head, aren't you?

Gryffindor then? They strike me as being abnormally thick-headed. The words are said with little to no bite in them.

The hat is not sure what to make of it. No, one idiot in there is more than enough, you would only cause trouble there. The hat gives something of a huff. Having ruled out the other options, there is really only one choice left.

Ah, so I shall be gifted the leftovers? Seth's voice is deceptively light.

The hat suddenly seems to twist in new revelation. There is something lurking beneath the surface of this bright and calm façade. The hat is not sure that it wants to take that facet into account. The last time it did—well, the result was a skewed fellow by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle. It seems like it will be best to simply put this child where the magic and heart yearns to go, regardless of the tension in the room. Er, no. Of course not. Hufflepuff is a large and well-respected house. You will do it justice.

Shall I?

…indeed you shall. There is loyalty unrivaled within your veins. It is the cornerstone of Hufflepuff.

…and if I do not wish to be placed in-

You will like it there and you will be much appreciated by your fellow housemates.

There was a long pause. Then Seth gave a sigh. Very well. I shall agree. Hufflepuff it is on the grounds that you do not subject my younger brother to any of your inane babblings.

…Excuse me? The hat retorted, miffed.

Joren is different—more so than all of us—beware, Sir Hat. It would not be wise to make enemies out of such young, impressionable witches and wizards, yes?

The hat muttered to itself some more and then barked out "…Hufflepuff!"

And Seth slides of the stool, hands the hat to Minerva and goes to stand beside his siblings. There are whispers, mutterings and a few gasps. He ignores them all. There is no need to dwell on it.

He smiles fondly when Hela reaches for his sleeve and holds it tightly in one hand. Fenris claps him heartily on one shoulder, congratulating him with words that are half out loud and half elsewhere inside of his mind.

Joren, of course, is last. He approaches the stool in small, shuffling steps. He looks even smaller and tinier, as the robes seem to hang on him. He climbs onto the stool and kneels atop the flat seat, rather than sitting, as the rest of his siblings have done.

The strangely pale-blue eyes sweep out across the Great Hall, taking in everything and seemingly nothing as he turns that unnerving gaze on Minerva herself. The gaze is questioning and pleading almost at once.

It makes the older witch hesitate, before she plops the battered hat on his head, then snatches a hand after it, to hold it lightly and balance it on the small boy.

Joren closes his eyes in answer, seemingly resigned. His hands rest on the tops of his thighs and he waits.

They all wait.

…and you must be the last one.

No answer.

Thank, Merlin. One that isn't a chatterbox. The hat mused. Now then,…you really are a quiet one. Any preferences? I've been all but threatened to see to it that your well—are you listening and—that's quite a defense…you needn't use such a…I do not mean you any harm or…now wait a minute-!

Joren remains motionless, his eyes still closed, his hands perfectly pale on his thighs.

…I see. So that is the way you intend to play this? Very well then. I wash my fetters of this entire ordeal. The hat grumps. You belong in one place alone, if only for the truth that your mind is as impenetrable as the rest of you…no questions or objections?

Joren doesn't appear to have heard it.

The hat huffs. "…SLYTHERIN!" …may they eat you alive and may you be happy and healthy there...you are far too pale, child. Do not spend all your time in the dungeons…

The faintest of smiles flickered over Joren's face and he opened his eyes to see Seth standing before him, handing the hat off to Minerva, while Fenris took hold of his arm and helped him off the stool.

Ah, right. Most humans and mortals did not kneel atop stools. Joren made a mental note to remember that in the future—and promptly, of course forgot it—as Hela offered her arm. He took it, with a grand nod and they glided down from the little stage-like flat and towards their respective tables, beneath the watchful gaze of an emerald-eyed professor, with her wineglass held up in salutation.

Minerva watches the strange little foursome exit the sorting platform, breaking up to sit at the tables of their respective houses. She will fully admit that she didn't see that one coming, but the annoying little voice in the back of her mind is silenced when the realization settles in.

Fenris will be her problem to deal with, it seems. The elderly witch stifles a sigh as she rolls up the parchment and waves her hand at the stool and hat, to return to the headmaster's office. She does not want to think of this right now.

It will give her a headache.

The permanent kind.

Pomona Sprout felt her jaw drop in shock and surprise when the elegant young wizard was sorted into her friendly house. She was barely able to recover in time when Professor Sinestra thumped her generously on the shoulder, a glass raised in toast.

"Looks intelligent, that one." The astronomy professor praised. "you're lucky. Might be another Cedric, you know." She nods down to where a cheerful, friendly Hufflepuff is surrounded by his fellow housemates.

Cedric is the first one to start up the cheering and clapping for receiving another into their house. His fellow housemates immediately follow suit and Pomona is unbearably proud of them all for a few minutes, before she belatedly remembers to clap herself.

Seth Aldricson, as the name is known, doesn't immediately report to his table though. Instead, he takes up a position somewhat protective beside his other two siblings while the last one is sorted.

Filius Flitwick is left feeling rather thoughtful and confused as he stares at his newest house addition awaiting the sorting of her youngest sibling, it seems. The girl's mind may be sharp, if the extra information Albus has given him, says.

Her family may be an issue, as most children enter Hogwarts yearning for some kind of freedom from their parents, their homes and the thought of practicing magic that will aid them for the rest of their lives.

Hela, as her name is called, seems to have neither of this. Rather, she appears to be entirely unhappy with the prospect of joining the esteemed ranks of Ravenclaw, at least, if her refusal to join the house table is any indication.

The short professor is somewhat perturbed to see that he cannot gather a reading from her. Rather, Hela seems more preoccupied with her siblings than her own happenings and she has not once looked back to the Head Table, from the first time, where the profession realized the girl had sought the approval of her mother.

Here, he snuck a glance to the lady Lori, who sat a few chairs over, a glass of wine suspended in one hand, her eyes dark and brooding, her posture impeccable. There is something off there, Filius thinks, but he hasn't the time to ponder it. He'll have to worry of it later.

Much later.

There is a roar of applause and he turns to see that the next Aldricson child has been sorted.

Ha, the brawny, muscly one—to Gryffindor. How droll. Minerva shall have tales to tell. Filius drains his glass and smiles when it refills itself.

Perhaps this time he shall have a few tales of his own to share.

When the final Aldricson child is sorted, a certain, glowering, dark-haired Potions Master is left sitting is a rather strange sort of stupor.

Well, it isn't that Severus didn't know what to do, but rather, he wasn't sure what he ought to do. His first instinct is towards his precious snakes—of which a certain mystery child has just been added to—the next is that the hat is wrong.

Horribly, terribly, absolutely wrong.

Joren Aldricson is an odd, weird, and too-small specimen of a child.

Severus can already feel the headache coming on. He knows children—enough of them anyway—one does not hold the position of head of house for as long as he has, without learning a few things.

He knows his snakes.

They will swallow this strange little boy alive.

For a moment, he is puzzled as to whether his reaction is over a misfit joining the Slytherin ranks or whether a certain green-eyed Harry Potter hasn't.

This is a thought that Severus immediately dismisses.

With both parents from Gryffindor, he snorts, it is hardly impressive to see where the brat has ended up.

At any rate, he has no time nor thought to spare for Lily's child today. Not when he has a certain Joren Aldricson to tend to. He shall have to speak to his house tonight.

The entire house.

And hopefully, he can convince them not to torment the poor lad—much.

Slytherin has its own ways and Severus is as much of a slave to them as the rest. He heaves a sigh and wishes for something stronger in his dinner goblet. Curse Albus for making him suffer through yet another horrible Welcoming Feast.

Lori watches impassively as her children are sorted and then gather together, before breaking off to their respective tables. She cannot help but notice that Hela was the only one to seek outright, definite approval for her sorting, while the rest of her children's thoughts are jumbled chaos.

She doesn't worry of it, for she knows enough of them to understand that they all handle things differently. Hela has a little more on her shoulders than the rest, after all, Queen of the Dead is not a title to bear lightly.

I hate this already, Father. Hela continues to rant through their mental connection. Why couldn't you magic this to be something else?

Enough, Hel. Lori soothes as much as she can through the parental bond they share. You would not enjoy it as much if you knew it was not yours by default, would you? Surely if I know my own pride, I know yours.

…but Father-!

Mother. Lori corrects, absently. If you call me Father in public, I shall be forced to think quickly.

There is something that might be a laugh that filters back to Lori and she hides her smile inside her glass, taking another generous sip of wine. It is not the Asguardian mead she prefers, but seldom does she ever indulge in drink, so wine is more than enough for tonight.

Is Hufflepuff alright, Mother? Seth's interjection to the conversation is polite, reserved and expectant, as usual.

Hufflepuff is lovely, child. Lori pushes a gentle wave of warmth towards her eldest. It does suit him, sort of. His own chaotic roots are well hidden and buried, they will only show when he has need of them and she knows this is the different in years that he holds above his siblings. Do you like it?

I shall not hate it, if that is what you mean. Seth's response is bland and boring.

Lori smiles. You hate it.

…I will miss you.

I will meet you in your dreams. Lori returns. Focus now. Joren is almost—

Father, Father! I'm in Slytherin! The excitement in Joren's voice is masked by the completely indifferent look on his face and features as he allows his siblings to help him from the stool.

So I see, loveling, so I see. Lori congratulates. That is very well done.

…hmph… Hela's mental link clicks off.

Lori takes another swallow of the bitter wine. She can see the argument forming, but her children do not need her to play referee all the time. They will handle this in their own ways and without her interference, if she does not offer it.

She raises the glass in a silent, personal toast to them all.

This time, she will not interfere.

It is the fault of the realms themselves if they are not ready for her chaotic offspring.

A/N: Thanks for reading! (and the many kind comments and reads.) Sorry this chapter took so long to get out, but I hope it was worth the wait! We'll have everyone approaching their respective house tables in the next and some Harry/Fenris and Weasley interaction. :)

To find your review reply, copy and paste to get to my forum, replace with dots where needed.

www(heresadot)fanfiction(heresadot)net/topic/113711/69449980/1/

~Scion