AN: correction to my previous chapter: Hagrid started Hogwarts in 1940, ergo when Riddle started 3rd year.

I've decided to use what I can from the three Fantastic Beasts and where to find them, and partly because of that, there is going to be a very dense timeline in this fic:

1938: Riddle's first year & Beginning of open war (Wizard Global War)

1940: Hagrid's first year (which is the now in the story)

1941: Dumbledore destroys the blood pact between him: the actor is Jude Law in the movies of Fantastic Beasts, but I'm going to use a book version of him, so imagine a young version of Dumbledore from the first Harry Potter Movie.

1943: Chamber of Secrets: in the memory of Riddle, the actor of Dumbledore is Richard Harris, so as I've said, that's how I imagine him.

1945: Grindelwald-Dumbledore duel

It will be a nightmare to make everything work as I've envisioned it, but I'm going to try and involve the MC with the Great War and other stuff going around all over the world.

I find Harris work as Dumbledore to be my favourite, so I write with him in my mind, even so, I'll try to not linger too long on descriptions of the man, so everyone can picture who prefers into the role.

A Giant First Step

After my confusing but undoubtedly rewarding shopping at Ollivander's, I found myself walking behind Hagrid's diminutive father across Diagon Alley.

It was... wild. Each and every building was skewed in this or that direction, the signs sang loudly about the goods inside of the shops, and just behind a panel of glass, the shop-owners had clearly tried to outdo each other in presenting a magnificent piece of their craft. A shop was entirely dedicated to lenses, and there was a selection of monocules hung in the shop window, each rimmed with a different material that glittered under the bright sunlight of a typical July's afternoon. The apothecary had an actual cauldron waiting above the entrance, from there spilt out in lazy waves twirls of feathers that turned out to be water drops that glittered like diamonds in the light before falling back into the cauldron, and from there yet another unique manifestation of magic was born.

To be entirely truthful, given the competition that I could spy from my two meters and something of height, Ollivander was the only one that didn't need the showmanship.

Slughorn is teaching potions, isn't he? I eyed the apothecary without truly knowing what to think about the man. On one side, he was a consumed Slytherin, meaning that he didn't think anything bad of speaking about Horcrux-related shit with Riddle, on the other, he didn't seem to be particularly prejudiced about muggle-borns, which, given the time period I was, was nothing short of outstanding.

Despite having only Dumbledore, Grindelwald and Tom as examples of truly extraordinary mages, it didn't look like sexism was a thing in the magical community, at least from what little I had been able to witness. And maybe it made sense, why would a witch be any less powerful than a wizard? Bellatrix had proven herself the second in command of Voldemort for anything battle-related in canon, didn't she?

"C'mon, son, let's go home!" my... no, Hagrid's father exclaimed excitedly as he led me across the alley, even as I distractedly observed funny little witches from the country up for a day's shopping, venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in Transfiguration Today, wild-looking warlocks and what I imagined were raucous dwarfs, I kept trying to come to terms with my situation.

Surprisingly enough, the thought that I had been chosen by Potter's wand... - no, it was my wand now - didn't fill me with too much trepidation: Riddle could be anything from 3 to 2 years my elder, since I remembered him being a prefect at the time of the Chamber of Secrets. Didn't he call back the basilisk because of the possible closing of Hogwarts? That means he had yet at least a year to complete at school. I reasoned as I followed the diminutive figure of Hagrid's father.

A sigh escaped my lips, there were many things I needed to think about: I had already decided that I would do as I wanted, and to hell with ay potential future, but I needed concrete goals, something to measure my progress. My fingers grazed briefly the wand in my wide pocket, and I relished in the warmth that surged up my arm and down my back.

The only certainty that I had, for the time being, was that a wand had chosen me: I was capable of magic, which in the world of Harry Potter, had a wide range of possibilities.

I took a pinch of glittering powder out of the pot resting on the mantelpiece, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose high, swallowing me as I shouted: "Hagrid's House!" and I vanished in the blaze. It felt as though I was being sucked down a giant drain. In the blurry hurricane of green flames, I felt like I was being spun very fast, and the fire roaring in my ears was deafening. I dutifully kept my eyes open, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, and looking through the stream of fireplaces I managed to catch glimpses of the rooms beyond, even if they were gone too fast for me to properly understand what I was looking at. Eventually, the whirlwind of fire slowed down, and as soon as he recognized the diminutive form of Hagrid's father, I took a tentative step out of the fireplace.

I always wondered how exactly flooing worked. What if two people wanted to go to the same place at the same time? It still made sense that shouting 'Diagon Alley' one would floo through all the open fireplaces of the Alley, after all, Borgin & Burke had a fireplace since Harry ended up there.

Banishing my rambling thoughts, I looked around the room I had stepped into: it was circular with a diameter that could easily reach ten meters, while the ceiling sat at a height of roughly 4 meters. Well, more than a ceiling proper, it's the underside of the roof. I could tell from simply looking at it that it was made of dark slates, even if somewhat hidden by the dark wood beams from where selected few plants where hanging.

In the area immediately surrounding the fireplace, there was a couple of armchairs of ridiculous proportions: clearly, one of the two had been realized with the size that I would one day reach in mind, while the other was angled so that the one sitting in it would be able to see both the fireplace, the eventual guest in the bigger seating place, and the tall door that presumably lead outside.

On my left, illuminated by both the light of the fireplace (the flames had stopped burning green just as I finished flooing in) and the daylight entering from the thin slits that were the windows letting me glimpse the woods outside, there was an opening in the wall, and from the smells, I suspected that it led into a kitchen, and from there, I hoped in the rest of the house.

I know that canon Hagrid lived in a hut on the Hogwarts grounds, but he was unable to use magic, I hope his father managed to magic the building up a little. I frowned as I followed the bustling man into the kitchen, where he had already set a large bowl of stew upon the large table made of the same dark and somewhat worn wood that I thought composed the beams supporting the roof.

With my mind still trying to come to terms with the situation, I found myself nodding distractedly to the bumbling man chattering my ears off: "It's lucky that we had enough for your books and clothes!" he chuckled merrily, "But the joke's on the man of the second-hand books, the notes on those will likely help you! Are you excited? I sure was at my time, oh if only..."

The somewhat small man kept rembling good-naturedly while I ate my stew, noticing that even if it was July, it wasn't as hot as I would have suspected, and the warm stew was welcome in my stomach.

Without really thinking about it, my wand was lifted into my fingers as I marvelled once more at the feeling it gave off. It was unlike anything else I had ever felt: in the same way the hot stew could be felt warming up my oesophagus as it reached my stomach, my bones felt like they were smouldering when the wand was twirled in my fingers. I guess I should count myself lucky that I've still somewhat human proportions for now. What will I do when this body becomes 3,5 meters tall? My pinky will be bigger than the wand.

My eyes fell on the bustling man that returned to washing the bowls before tiredly walking towards the fireplace, where he lit a pipe and started smoking, his cheerful mood turning thoughtful as he kept reminiscing about his youth. At least he used magic in order to set the kitchen.

After a somewhat awkward (at least on my part) month, it finally came the time to go to Hogwarts.

I reached the platform 9 and 3/4 without issues and with time to spare. Apparently, the entirety of Magical Britain was bustling around, and the clothes were just one of the numerous reminders that I was in 1940. At my distracted eye, it looked like the numbers of muggle-raised and wizard-raised wizards and witches kind of matched, but that could simply be a wrong impression.

What hit me the hardest was the normal slang that kept leaving me grasping for straws. Sure, maybe it was because I was kind of eavesdropping only on pieces of conversation, but when a couple of muggles started to define a well-distinguished man as a 'cake eater', I was left fumbling for meaning.

I had insisted to arrive early, partly to avoid any unnecessary interaction with my 'father', who still had no idea I clearly wasn't the real Hagrid. I don't know what that says about his parental skills. Maybe Hagrid inherited his brains both from his father and his giant mother? My thoughts stopped immediately once I started wandering in dangerous territory: how the hell did a wizard get a giant pregnant?

Without thinking bout the practical aspect: why would someone want to have sex with a dumb as a brick 8 meters tall woman?

Once I settled down in an empty compartment, I unsheathed my wand, still enraptured by the feeling of being complete that it gave me. My palm caressed with wonder the handle that my father had added to the wand in 'order to have it fit me no matter how big I became'. Not gonna lie, that particular piece of magic, beyond making me feel somewhat guilty because I had taken the place of Rubeus Hagrid, did somewhat warm my cold Hagrid-impersonating heart and impress me at the same time.

I had never thought about a wand-handle that would grow to adapt to my size, and the simple gift from the only wizard that I had properly interacted with so far had sharply reminded me that I had absolutely no idea about what magic was actually capable of doing. Sure, I could figure out snippets and make up my theories from my metaknowledge and the books I had already read, but I suspected that hands-on practice was the only thing that was going to actually give me an idea of what was possible and what I had to figure out my own branch of magic in order to realize.

Because like hell I'm going to let anybody tell me what magic is possible or not. I thought with a corresponding burst of warmth running through my arm and into my wand, where it turned into the small golden flame that I had grown accustomed to. It had happened occasionally in my home during the month that I spent experimenting (immensely glad as I was that for some reason, the Ministry didn't seem to pick up on magic use where I lived, giving credence to the theory that the Ministry could only pick up magic in areas around underaged wizards, having no idea of who actually performed the spell).

I exchanged polite nods with the nondescript students that trickled in, while I was secretly amused by their furrowed expressions at my size, that clearly didn't match one of a first year.

"A potion accident when I was a child." I lied with a polite smile when someone questioned me on my height. I remembered Ron thinking that much when Hagrid's secret came out in The Goblet of Fire.

But my mind was focused on my next steps: was I going to be able to swindle the cap? would it keep my secret? would it be better for me to end in a particular house? All were questions that I had fruitlessly attempted to answer for the previous month (only after my excitement for magic had somewhat died down).

Now recapping the steps and rules for the Great Plan to Live Long and Happy:

1) Find a way to quietly kill Tom Riddle: maybe it would be best done in the muggle world

2) Study magic

3) Make my own magnificent magic, which may or may not include something randomly impossible like colonizing Venus.

This translated in the short term with something like absolutely abusing the Room of Requirement, both to learn Occlumency and figure out a way to duplicate the Marauders' Map, which sounded terribly important, as well as to research what kind of dangers lurked where the ordinary wizard dared not thread. Was the Fae real? The train was running towards the Scottish Highlands, so perhaps there was something interesting to find out? After all, House Helves had turned out to be a cheat code around most wizard-made magic, being stopped only by dementors, as stated by Kreacher in the Deathly Hallows. Did it mean that there was a relationship between those?

The train finally arrived at the Hogsmeade Station, where, towering among a gaggle of admittedly diminiìutive (at least to my eyes) first years, I followed a gnarly man that declared himself the Groundskeeper and finally claimed a boat for myself, given my outrageous size.

The evening was quiet and without wind upsetting the water, which looked like an endless table of polished ebony, gleaming under the starlit sky. The boats moved silently while the eleven years old around me endlessly chattered in careful whispers, everyone aware of the importance of the moment.

Once we surpassed a low stone bridge, I won't deny that my eyes turned wide like everybody else's, admiring with quiet marvel the imposing castle, lit by countless torches that shone through the windows.

From the sharp lines of the towers' tops to the smooth presence of the stone walls, Hogwarts seemed to stretch itself towards the unreachable moon, as if it was a rampant horse showing off its strength.

The boats smoothly pulled over the water and onto the gravelly beach that led towards a ramp of stairs, which stopped in front of a ridiculously tall double door made in what I thought was oak. Without further issue, the Groundskeeper lifted a circular, iron knocker, letting it fall three times before taking a small step back.

With a heavy shudder, accompanied by an important groan of the ancient wood, the doors opened inwards, as to invite us in. Given my height, I was free to see the wizard ready to welcome us: he was tall, wearing a conservative robe that matched the traditional wizard's hat resting over his greying hair, while his sharp blue eyes roamed over the crowd, stopping for an instant over my oversized form before he flashed everybody a warm smile.

"Welcome!" spoke Dumbledore, "Welcome to Hogwarts! I am Professor Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster of this fine institution. Soon, I'll walk you through those doors," he tilted his head towards another set of double doors that rested inconspicuously on one side of the circular room, "and I'll be calling your names in order to have you sorted."

My eyes droned over the young-looking Richard Harris while I ignored his brief description of the Houses and the House Point System, which even a child could easily divine. Admittedly, at 11 years of age, I am a child. I reproached myself quietly as a single man we finally followed Dumbledore.

Why did I remember him to be always dressed like a punch in the eye? I frowned as I stared at the back of the powerful wizard, my annoyingly cynical mind providing answers that depicted the man as a war relic that sought comfort in bright colours from the knowledge that he had been the one to defeat his own lover. I immediately banished the thoughts about the future appearance of Dumbledore from my mind as soon as I realized what I was thinking. Until I learned Occlumency, it wouldn't do to let my mind wander.

I stiffened minutely when we entered the Great Hall: four long tables littered by students wearing matching ties led to a larger one where several adults sat, looking over me and my peers. I immediately heard the baffling comments about my size, but quite frankly, I was busy staring upwards like any other child that had never witnessed a nightly sky shining just above a sea of floating candles.

Dumbledore walked towards the end of the Hall, where he climbed a few steps, eyeing meaningfully the infamous battered hat that rested over a wooden stool. A patch on the front of the hat opened like a mouth, powering up the illusion that the thing had an actual face, and he started to sing.

He sang of a castle raised from the ground, of peace offerings brought to the Deep Forest, of a Wild Lake calmed down, and of people coming together with a single, noble purpose. To create something revolutionary that would last across the ages: a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the Founders then choose their apprentices on the basis of what they valued most. Of Noble Gryffindor and Unrelenting Hufflepuff, of Inquisitive Ravenclaw and Ambitious Slytherin.

Soon enough, Dumbledore started calling forth students, and my eyes returned to the rest of the Hall, where the students eagerly awaited either the sorting of someone they knew, or the actual end of the sorting, that would announce the beginning of the Welcoming Feast.

I spotted a promisingly beautiful Maggie Smith seated at the Gryffindor table, and obviously, my eyes eventually found one Tom Riddle, who was seating with a polite expression on his face, looking at the Sorting, like everybody else.

My fingers found my wand as I considered my position. Dumbledore would take care of Grindelwald, but Tom was going to become a big ass problem eventually. It was lucky indeed that he had been topped before the year2000, otherwise someone was bound to mess up and break the Statute of Secrecy, given the neverending push of technology. Would it be more useful to be sorted randomly? Or to be sorted in Slytherin, where I could keep an eye on Tom, or at least from where I could gain his 'trust', enough to invite him over, where I could kill him quietly?

I grimaced as the answerless questions once more flooded my mind, and too soon, my name left Dumbledore' lips.

With a shallow sigh that nevertheless managed to ruffle the hair of the children closest to me, I lumbered forward, walking the steps and eyeing with mistrust the frail-looking stool that was supposed to support me. I eyed Dumbledore, who was looking at me with a shrewd glint in his eye. When he nodded indicating the stool, I decided to trust that he wouldn't wish to humiliate a child on his first night away from home, and I awkwardly sat.

The Hat was placed over my head, and I kept looking at the Hall since I had an adult size and the brim wasn't going to cover my eyes. Only then I thought that if I wanted to keep my secrets, a mind-reading Hat wasn't likely to be my best option.

Talent, and wish to test yourself! The Hat's voice sounded heavy in my head, making me startle momentarily.

Then I wondered if it was going to answer my unanswered questions. But if the Hat was capable of reading actual thoughts and relating them, which Pureblood would have sent their child to Hogwarts? Or wouldn't the Hat at least warn the Headmaster of the psychos in Slytherin?

Not only that, but to change the whole world! To create your own magic! To be ruthless in the pursuit of your dream!

Too late I realized that the decision about my House was already taken away from my hands.

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat shouted for all to hear, leaving me with a single thought in mind while my eyes briefly crossed a couple of dark ones from my House.

I fucked up.

AN

I had actually forgotten that Dumbledore is not headmaster, and so he's the one to welcome the firsties, very much like McGonagall will do in the future. And hear this: McGonagall's age has always been inconsistent in canon. Originally JK Rowling said that she was 70 between books 4–5 which would put her birth year at 1925, a year older than Tom Riddle. We are then given her Pottermore backstory which gives her a birth year 1935. In the new Fantastic Beasts movie she's already a teacher in the 1920s! For the sake of this fic I'm going to assume that her original birth year is the correct one. We're never shown scenes of them interacting in flashbacks, nor do either mention encountering each other during school. Still, as two highly brilliant students, I could imagine them being in the Slug Club together where they could've had a few conversations. They also may have served as prefects together. Other than this I doubt that they would have much to do with each other.

And yeah, someone that actually plans to use his life to set up a new world order cannot be anything but Slytherin.