What if Harrry Potter were written by Ta-Nehisi Coates?

“Look—” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy. Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer.

It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead.

Harry had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on the dark leaves. Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound made him freeze where he stood.

 A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered. . . . Then, out of the shadows, a black hooded figure came crawling across the ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and Fang stood transfixed.

The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the animal’s side, and began to drink its blood. “AAAAAAAAAAARGH!” Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted—so did Fang.

The hooded figure raised its head and looked right at Harry—unicorn blood was dribbling down its front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry—he couldn’t move for fear.

It was a black face. Covered in gore. Bits of flesh mixed with spittle on his chin. Dead soulless eyes looked at Harry.

“All that is white must die. They are the evil that will destroy this realm. Now is the time for the true Kings and Queens to claim their rightful place!”

Harry shuddered in fear but he still had to ask “Why did you have to kill such a beautiful creature?”

“Only black lives matter you cretin. Soon you will all feel our wrath.”

Harry couldn’t face such evil alone. He turned and fled after the others.

What if literary masterpieces were written by different authors

What if Mickey Spillane had written Jane Eyre.

I shook the rain from my hat and walked into the room. Nobody said a word. They stepped back politely and I could feel their eyes on me. Mr. Rochester was standing by the door to the bedroom trying to steady Jane. The girl’s body was racking with dry sobs. I walked over and put my arms around her.

“Take it easy, kid,” I told her. “Come on over here and lie down.” I led her to a damask settee that was against the far wall and sat her down. She was in pretty bad shape. One of the constables put a pillow down for her and she stretched out.

Rochester motioned me over to him and pointed to the bedroom. “In there, Mike,” he said.

In there. The words hit me hard. In there was my best friend lying on the floor dead. The body. Now I could call it that. Yesterday it was Bertha Mason, the woman that shared the same bed with me through two years of bliss as star crossed lovers. Bertha, the woman who said she’d give her right arm for me and did when she stopped a dagger thrust from a disgruntled Queen’s fusilier in the Owls Head tavern one drink sodden night.

Rochester didn’t say a word. He seemed strangely unemotional looking at the body of his dead wife. He let me uncover the body and feel the cold face. For the first time in my life I felt like crying. “Where did she get it, Rochester?”

“In the chest. Better not look at it. The killer carved the nipples off  and gave it to her hard.”

I threw back the sheet anyway and a curse caught in my throat. Bertha was in her nightshift, her one intact hand still clutching her disfigured breast in agony. The blade went in clean, but it carved out left a hole big enough to cram a fist into.

I had to find out who had killed her. Both her husband and the governess were my main suspects. Justice will be done. No matter who had to suffer. Someone would pay.

What if literary masterpieces were written by different authors

What if Valley of the Dolls were written by Mary Shelley.

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

It sat upright and gathered its legs beneath its twisted torso. The creature which I had created from the parts of many corpses trembled into existence. The heavy breasts of the murdered tavern wench heaved as the long blond hair of the decapitated footman lay matted on its head. The dead soulless eyes of the widow Guttfriend raised up and gazed upon me. 

It lived.

And it wanted dick.

What if literary masterpieces were written by different authors,

What if CS Lewis wrote Anne of the Green Gables

 "But what does it all mean?" asked Anne when they were somewhat calmer.

"It means," said Aslan, "that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of Time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor's stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards."

"What must I do Aslan?" asked Anne. "I cannot believe that Miss Marilla is a witch. She is spare in her degree of kindness but not evil that I can see."

"You must flee young one. You place is not here on this farm of death. Flee while you can. Go into the wardrobe and go to where your true destiny awaits."

What if literary masterpieces were written by different authors

First she studied her husband's flower arrangement. He had chosen the blossom of a single white wild rose and put a single pearl of water on the green leaf, and set it on red stones. Autumn is coming, he was suggesting with the flower, talking through the flower, do not weep for the time of fall, the time of dying when the earth begins to sleep; enjoy the time of beginning again and experience the glorious cool of the autumn air on this summer evening...soon the tear will vanish and the rose, only the stones will remain — soon you and I will vanish and only the stones will remain.

His love of her and his love of nature could not be denied. When he begged her to walk with him in the garden she could not refuse.

“Come my darling” he said. “Come walk with me as we walk arm in arm under the cherry blossoms.” “Where will we travel to my husband?”

“Tokyo.”

What if literary masterpieces were written by different authors?

What if HP Lovecraft had written "Pride and Prejudice."

Occupied in observing Cthulhu's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend and half brother. Hastur the Unspeakable had at first scarcely allowed her to be edible; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only  as perhaps a bit of fodder for his insatiable appetite. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good morsel in her lank frame with no meat in her hips or breast, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly succulent by the beautiful expression of her tender sprouting limbs. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and appetizing like a fresh baked scone; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their white sugary essence. Of this she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her sufficiently toothsome to devour in praise of the Elder Gods.