Enmity Shall Bruise Thy Head

While still alive they did divide
Their favorites from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones
When they were dead and gone?
'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me
So I could choose instead!

— The Sorting Hat's Song, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

"We'll make the hat pick our students," Godric had said.

All well and good for him to say that, but when it came to working out the details, where was he? Where he always was: out in the courtyard, showing the older students swordplay and how their magic could be used to best enhance their fighting. Always true to form was Godric Gryffindor. As he usually did, he'd left figuring out how to actually make his idea work to Rowena.

Not that she minded, of course. The less involvement Godric had, the less likely he was to bungle things. She hoped against hope that the current Muggle unrest in the south might keep Godric occupied for the next decade or so. Things ran much more smoothly at the school when she, Helga, and Salazar could work and plan without Godric's well-meaning but often bothersome interference.

Why Godric even claimed the title of wizard was really beyond her. His interests lay with learning the latest in swordplay rather than the current spells. Then again, Rowena mused, he claimed the title of knight as well, when he had no interest whatsoever in any of the more genteel arts of chivalry. Heraldry, dancing, the fine art of making conversation ... These were all lost on Godric Sword-Ever-at-the-Ready Gryffindor.

She bemoaned the fact that they didn't have a real knight in residence at the castle—one who would throw down the gauntlet when Godric insulted her or Helga. Such a duel might teach the oaf a long-needed lesson in honouring women. And only a self-proclaimed warrior such as Godric Gryffindor would abandon owls in favour of falcons to deliver his correspondence. 'Twas no wonder people called him Godric the Gradual. The prospect of prey always distracted his falcons, and his letters were invariably late.

Rowena chuckled softly as she walked through the torch-lit corridors, her rustling skirts and her shuffling heels the only accompanying score to this mockery of a play. She knew the story. Oh, did she ever! Godric had the ideas, and then when those ideas needed implementing, he was off again, playing with his sword. As she rounded a corner and started up a winding staircase, she snorted quietly.

"Well, Sir 'I'm too busy playing war to be bothered with such trifling details,' I'll give you the best Sorting Hat you've ever seen!"

When she reached her destination, the sight she'd expected—the sight that always greeted her—was there again: Helga, bent over a tome, copying texts as any dutiful little scribe would do.

She smiled. "Helga, put that away. I need your help."

"Rowena, I'm working!" Helga whined in answer, again dipping her quill into her supply of ink.

"You're always working, Helga! And I promise I'll be putting you to work, too."

Helga shook her head and continued her illuminations. "I simply have too much to do right now. Come back in an hour."

Rowena withdrew her wand from her bodice and charmed Helga's quill to continue copying the text in her absence. With a squeal of surprise as her quill came to life, Helga turned to face Rowena and glared.

"There," Rowena said, smiling and placing her hands on her hips. "Now, you can fill the little pictures in the margins later."

Helga all but pouted. "Illumination is a very noble pastime I'll have you know, Rowena. I beseech you not to belittle my work by calling them 'little pictures,' if you please."

Rowena walked forward and patted Helga's arm consolingly. "I'm sorry, poppet. I know 'tis important, but you aren't a monk, after all. You may as well while away the hours doing embroidery for all this—" She stepped closer and gestured to the book. "—is improving your mind. You've entirely too many brains to waste them on menial labour."

"Hmph. You're the one who's always concerned with improving your mind, Rowena, not I. I see the value of good, hard work, even if 'tis what you consider menial. Idle hands are the devil's playthings, after all." She shrugged, turning back to the book. "Besides, 'tis not as if I can copy whole books without absorbing at least some of the information."

Rowena worked hard to repress a sigh. "Well, I've a task of great import, as well, or I wouldn't be troubling you. Besides, if we can pull this off, I think we'll finally earn some respect from those two popinjays."

That had done the trick. Helga turned back to face her, her eyebrows rising until they disappeared under her wimple. Then she smiled. "So...? Are you going to tell me, or just keep me in suspense until the cock crows?"

That's my girl, Rowena thought, smiling. She clasped her fingers in front of her and leaned forward a bit, dropping her volume to a secrets-of-the-court sort of tone. "Well, you know that idea Godric mentioned at the feast last night?"

Helga snorted and turned back to her desk, snatching up her quill, although that wasn't as impressive as it might have been, considering the quill was dancing all over the vellum and grabbing hold took her a couple of seconds. "Too much mead talking, if you ask me," she grumbled. Once again, Helga put the "huff" in Hufflepuff. "And just who does he think he is? Prancing around like the lord of the castle, giving us orders? We're not his squires or serving girls! We're Heads of Houses, too!"

Rowena only answered her with a sympathetic nod. This tirade had been a long time in coming. Helga wasn't easily rankled as a rule. In fact, she was as loyal as the day was long. But arrogant Godric—and Salazar sometimes, too—reminded her and Rowena once too often that they were merely women. Never mind that they were the two most powerful witches in the British Isles. They were beneath these two wizards who couldn't locate their arses with both hands, a map, a compass, and directions.

"Even a blind squirrel finds a nut on occasion, Helga."

Rowena grinned as her portly friend turned back toward her again and giggled, making her look at least a score younger. Alas, Helga then shook her head, as if still debating the idea.

"Why do you need my help? You're the clever one."

"While I do believe this idea of Godric's is unique in relation to all his other ideas by virtue of actually having merit—"

The other witch giggled again.

"—I know 'twill not be easy. Who better than Hardworking Helga to help me see this 'Sorting Hat' to fruition?"

After a long moment, Helga nodded and stood. Within minutes, they were arm in arm, heading for the castle's library. A sennight later, after bleary-eyed evenings of poring over books on experimental charms and enchanting objects, Rowena finally decided her original thought was the best approach: an adaptation of the preparation of a Pensieve, but for four minds instead of one. They'd need a great deal of mercury and a stone basin. The rest ... well, the rest was up to their energies and intentions.

In the stead of extracting memories from their heads, however, the four would think on the qualities they looked for in their students and then add those thoughts to the basin. When the swirling silver liquid was ready, they'd immerse the hat in the vortex, and—if all went according to Rowena's calculations—they'd have a hat capable of thinking, talking, and most importantly choosing.

When they'd completed the process, Salazar, sheathed in dark shadows, folded his arms over his chest. Ever the cynic, he asked, "How will we know if this has worked?"

Much to Rowena's surprise, the Hat answered before she had the chance. Helga, too, emitted a small gasp.

"You must be Slytherin," the Hat said, the first syllable accompanied by the sound of ripping material as the crown tore away from the brim. "I'll tell you how you'll know 'tis worked. I'm talking, am I not?" The rip then contorted into a wide grin.

They said when Saint Patrick had driven the snakes out of Ireland, he'd sent them to Scotland where they waited for Salazar Slytherin to enslave them. The truth was there had never been any snakes in Ireland to begin with, but Rowena wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if that hissing windbag had called all the snakes to himself as minions. He had dozens of them in the dungeon: adders, boas, pythons, all shapes, sizes, and colours of snakes. 'Twas rumoured he even had a giant anaconda in some secret chamber below the dungeon. Rowena had heard the hissing on occasion. She'd never quite worked up the nerve to investigate, though. One day, however, she might just have to tell Godric about her suspicions. That was just the sort of "quest" he'd enjoy.

Currently Salazar's pet green viper twined about his neck, the only spot of colour on his otherwise black-clad form. He showed only a fleeting second of surprise before his expression snapped shut. Nodding curtly to Rowena and Helga, he strode from the room. "Interesting toy, Rowena. We can try the Hat out at the next Sorting Ceremony," he called as he exited with a dismissive wave. "After I've already culled the herd, of course."

Rowena glared after him. With his ever-growing pureblooded scorn, she wasn't certain Salazar would even be at Hogwarts for the next Sorting. They might just have to run him off before then. Founding the school might have been his highly ambitious notion at the outset, but Rowena had designed the castle, Helga had overseen the work, and Godric had enlisted brave, strong men to build. What had Salazar done besides rest on his ... laurels ... in the dungeon? The other three had previously discussed the possibility of banishing him, of course, but the reality seemed to be growing nearer all the time. In fact, they had been discussing that very eventuality when Godric had come up with the idea for the Sorting Hat that now sat before them. And only just in time.

Godric merely goggled. "That's amazing!" he gasped breathlessly at last. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Rowena."

She bristled again. "I must say, Godric, that Helga was invaluable to me in this effort."

Now Godric waved dismissively. "Yes, yes. 'Tis a good thing I had the idea, eh?" He grinned, but neither lady returned his smile. "Mind if I try it out?" He rubbed his hands in anticipation, looking as though they had just presented him with a new sword.

Rowena sighed quietly and shook her head. "No, of course not. That's why we made it." Restraining herself from emphasising the "we" had been difficult, but somehow she'd managed.

When Godric had the brim over his head, at once the Hat said, "And you must be Gryffindor."

Rowena frowned. The Hat could have concluded that merely by process of elimination. After all, male and female minds functioned in distinct ways, and the Hat had already identified the other male from his words. More thorough testing would most certainly be necessary.

Luckily, when she and Helga tried the Hat on some of their students—the ones they themselves had had trouble placing—the Hat declared each student's present House without fail. Similar results came from tests on Godric and Salazar's students. When the ladies were satisfied the Hat worked properly, Helga began the task of making a record of the preparation, and Rowena proofed her work.

The Hat had been prepared just in time. Too many nights in the company of snakes had apparently driven Salazar quite mad. Soon after the witches had completed the procedural manuscript, Salazar and Godric had a mighty quarrel. Rowena and Helga took Godric's part in the argument and flanked him, wands drawn. They both also believed magic was for all who possessed the ability, not merely those who were not in danger of "polluting" the pure wizarding lines. In the end, Salazar had slinked off, but not before vowing one day to be avenged.

After that day, those who remained allowed the Sorting Hat to choose their students, and the Hat never once disappointed them. The procedural manuscript was placed in the library's restricted section—erected shortly after Salazar's departure. This was to ensure that if the Hat one day seemed in danger of losing its magic, another could be produced from the essences of the founders that remained.

For nearly a thousand years, the manuscript lay untouched in a quiet corner of the library—until a fourth year student with an Invisibility Cloak chanced upon the book, thinking this spell was just what he and his friends needed to solve their little cartography problem.

THE END.