Snape's expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the boy who had just sat down among the Slytherins.
The Sorting Hat's shriek of "Slytherin! Born Slytherin!" still echoed in his ears. The more Snape turned it over, the more uneasy he felt.
Could it be… a reincarnation?
He had never seen a Sorting end so quickly. Not even the most ambitious, blood-proud Slytherin heirs were chosen in the blink of an eye. This was something else. Something deeper.
The Sorting Hat had judged Tom Riddle's character, and it had not hesitated for a second.
That fact alone chilled Snape more than any prophecy.
---
Dumbledore's Speech
Snape leaned closer, meaning to whisper to Dumbledore. But the Headmaster only smiled faintly, eyes twinkling, and rose to address the school.
"Welcome, welcome, old friends and new, to another year at Hogwarts."
He raised his arms wide. Then, with a sudden grin, he declared:
"What I want to say is: Idiots! Crybabies! Scum! Screw it! Thank you all!"
He bowed deeply and sat back down.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then thunderous applause burst from every table. Even Tom found his hands clapping in spite of himself.
In the study space, Andros spluttered. "What does that mean?"
Tom smirked. "It means that when someone finally stops talking and lets people eat, it deserves applause."
---
Feast of the North
The plates before them shimmered and filled with food. Platters of roasted lamb, golden chips, steaming mashed potatoes drowning in butter, garlic bread still warm from the oven. Bowls of creamy mushroom soup and flaky pies stuffed with seasoned lamb appeared as if summoned by a chef's wand.
The aroma filled the hall, and every first-year leaned forward with wide eyes.
Tom wasted no time. He grabbed ribs and chicken wings, ladled soup into his bowl, and dug in. Snacks with Daphne on the train had done little; now his stomach roared like a Hungarian Horntail.
Hogwarts food had a reputation. British cuisine was mocked as "dark cooking," but here—here it was hearty Scottish fare, stewed meats and rich broths that stuck to the ribs. A touch of French flair lingered in the creamy soups. It was far better than the plain meals of the Lewisham Children's Home.
---
"Being Short Is an Advantage"
Andros was still fuming. "Shortness? Advantage? What nonsense is this? That old man's speech made no sense!"
Tom snorted into his soup. "You've never had to sit through a headmaster droning on for an hour and a half. Believe me—being short is always an advantage."
He remembered long ceremonies in his past life: principals, presidents, all stretching their speeches for the sake of tomorrow's newspaper headlines. Words weren't for the audience; they were bait for politicians' careers.
Andros grumbled but subsided. At last he admitted, "Mad as he is, your Headmaster is strong. I can feel it. Wizards know their equals. Voldemort felt the same way once."
That caught Tom's attention. He straightened abruptly, ribs still in hand. Daphne, seated beside him, thought he had choked and quickly pressed a glass of pumpkin juice into his hand.
Tom accepted it gratefully. "And between you and him? Who's stronger?"
The King of the Century chuckled in his mind. "Strength of spells means little. Dueling is more than raw power. But know this—I would never lose to him in a fair fight."
Confidence radiated through every word. This was Andros, undefeated in his time.
---
Whispers at the Table
As desserts appeared—trifles, puddings, custards piled high—the whispering began.
A second-year had leaned in earlier, eager to ask Tom about the Sorting. But when he learned Tom was a Muggle-born, his expression chilled. He turned his back without another word.
It didn't stop there. Soon the entire table was buzzing with rumor: Tom Riddle. Muggle-born. Sorted instantly into Slytherin.
Glances followed him from every direction. Some eyes glittered with suspicion, others with disdain. None with welcome.
Tom tore into a treacle tart unconcerned. He had lived as an orphan—stares and whispers were old companions.
Daphne, however, bristled. She leaned close, voice urgent. "Slytherin values bloodlines, Tom. But if you're strong enough, no one can deny you. Remember that."
Her earnestness made him chuckle softly. "Don't worry. I've been an orphan all my life. This is nothing."
But his calm only made her eyes misty. She blinked quickly, refusing to let tears fall.
---
Rules, Songs, and Mischief
When every plate was licked clean, the food vanished as if it had never been. Dumbledore rose once more, this time to outline the rules.
Certain corridors were forbidden. The Forbidden Forest was named with particular emphasis. His gaze swept the Gryffindor table, lingering three-quarters of the time on a pair of identical redheaded boys.
The Weasley twins beamed back and winked.
Dumbledore's beard twitched with suppressed laughter. McGonagall's glare could have cracked stone.
And then came the school song.
Golden ribbons of letters curled through the air, forming the lyrics. Students sang in whatever tune they liked—some fast, some slow, some deliberately off-key. By the end, the hall was a cacophony.
Dumbledore dabbed his eyes dramatically. "Ah, music," he sighed, "a magic beyond all we do here."
Finally, he dismissed them. "Off to bed with you, young ones. Tomorrow, lessons begin."
He strode out toward the high tower, humming cheerfully.
Snape rose silently and followed, his black robes billowing like storm clouds.
---