Bang!
The sound of flesh striking wood echoed like thunder.
"How can this be possible?!"
Snape slammed his palm flat against the desk, fury sparking in his black eyes.
"He beat up his roommates on the very first day! What does Riddle think he's doing?"
Rosier, seizing his moment, immediately poured oil on the fire.
"Professor, this Riddle is too lawless! He treats Hogwarts like some common Muggle school. He ignores rules and doesn't respect you at all!"
But the words had barely left his mouth when Snape's gaze turned icy. The weight of it crushed Rosier into silence. His voice died instantly, like a cicada in the first frost.
"Whether he respects me or not is not for you to decide, Rosier. It is for me to judge."
Rosier swallowed hard.
Snape straightened, robes swishing with menace. "I know about your… affairs. Leave it to me. I will deal with it. Dismissed."
The three boys exchanged triumphant looks. To them, it sounded like victory. They bowed their heads obediently, murmured their "Yes, Professor," and left the office, grins plastered on their faces.
In their minds, they could already picture Riddle being punished—humiliated, maybe even expelled.
But when the door closed, Snape's expression did not soften.
---
Snape's Resolve
He had seen arrogant students before. Slytherin House practically cultivated them.
But this? This was different.
Even Tom's predecessor—Voldemort himself—had not been so bold on his first day. Voldemort had seduced, manipulated, and charmed before conquering. He had not started with whips and beatings.
Riddle, however, had walked into Slytherin, thrashed three roommates, and wielded a whip like a medieval knight.
Dumbledore's warnings from yesterday echoed in his mind. Snape had brushed them off, but now—already—trouble had erupted.
This boy was not a "problem student." He was a ticking curse bomb.
"This cannot go unchecked," Snape thought grimly.
If Dumbledore handled it, the old man would play the benevolent saint again, leaving Snape to clean up the mess. No. This time, he would deal with Riddle.
"Today, he will learn whose territory Slytherin truly is."
---
Hogwarts' Trickster Stairs
Elsewhere, Tom and Daphne were dealing with another enemy: Hogwarts itself.
The castle boasted 142 staircases, most of them with a perverse sense of humor.
Some rotated at fixed times, some shifted if you stomped three times, and others moved according to the rhythm of footsteps. One wrong move, and you could find yourself two floors higher—or worse, plummeting into a trick step.
The good news? If you learned their patterns, shortcuts abounded. A single staircase could whisk you from the dungeons to the top floor in minutes.
The bad news? First-years like Tom and Daphne knew nothing of these secret rules. So they were reduced to trial and error—mostly error.
That morning, one misplaced kick sent them spiraling from the third floor all the way to the seventh. Groaning, they had to creep back down carefully, too afraid to "offend" the staircases further.
By the time they stumbled into the Transfiguration classroom, it was seconds before class began.
"One day," Tom muttered darkly, "when I've mastered this castle, I'll make these stairs even more unbearable. Let everyone suffer like me."
---
The Cat on the Desk
The classroom looked ordinary enough—desks lined in neat rows, sunlight spilling in from tall windows.
On the professor's desk, however, a tabby cat sat calmly, eyes rimmed by darker markings, tail flicking lazily. It stared at the students with unnerving focus.
Tom glanced at it once, then ignored it. He knew the truth. That cat was no mere pet.
But why spoil the surprise?
"Riddle, over here!"
Hermione waved frantically, pointing to the empty seat beside her.
Tom shrugged and walked over, Daphne trailing reluctantly behind. She made a small pout before plopping down next to him.
Hermione wasted no time. "So, how do you find Slytherin?"
Tom's answer was maddeningly casual. "It's fine. The students are… very enthusiastic."
Hermione frowned. "But the books said Slytherins are hostile to Muggle-borns and half-bloods. Aren't you worried?"
Tom feigned innocence. "Really? I haven't noticed. My roommates are very friendly."
Hermione squinted, unconvinced. But before she could press, she proudly slapped the hefty Transfiguration textbook on her desk.
"I finished this for the third time last night. What about you?"
Daphne couldn't help herself. "If magic could be mastered just by reading, Muggles would've taken over the wizarding world by now."
Hermione's head snapped around, eyes blazing.
"I have magical talent. That means books work for me. Can you purebloods learn anything by just lying around doing nothing?"
Daphne's lips curved in disdain. "At least we're not desperate like you. Magic has been with us since birth. You, bumpkin, are just greedy for what you never had."
The jab was low, whispered almost inaudibly—but Hermione's sharp ears caught it.
And just like that, the two launched into a verbal duel. Words clashed, sparks flew.
Tom sat trapped between them, expression blank, as though his ears were the true victims of the war.
"Merlin save me," he thought.
---
The Bell Approaches
Finally, Tom glanced at the clock. "Eight fifty-five."
Hermione froze, realizing class would begin any second. Huffing, she closed her book.
Daphne also turned away, smugly victorious. She leaned toward Tom instead, whispering trivial chatter to fill the silence.
A few minutes later, the bell rang. Still no professor.
Then—crash! Two boys stumbled in, panting heavily.
"Great! We made it!" Harry Potter leaned on his knees, face flushed with relief. Ronald Weasley stumbled in after him, gasping for breath.
"Stupid staircase," Ron muttered. "Nearly killed me. But hey—good news! We're not late. In fact, the professor's the one who's late. Shouldn't have run so fast—I can barely breathe!"
He said it loud. Far too loud. The entire class heard.
Tom turned his head slowly, pity in his eyes.
"I may have whipped my roommates yesterday, but this… this is real courage. Ron Weasley has just declared war on Professor McGonagall herself."
---
The Cat Revealed
Before Ron could savor his survival, the tabby cat on the desk leapt gracefully into the air.
And mid-leap—it transformed.
The classroom gasped as fur and whiskers melted away, revealing robes, spectacles, and the stern figure of Professor Minerva McGonagall.
She landed on her feet, wand in hand, eyes sharp as daggers.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen."
Ron's jaw fell open. His freckles stood out against his suddenly pale face.
Professor McGonagall's gaze lingered on him for a beat—long enough to turn his stomach to ice. Then she addressed the class at large.
"I am glad no one is late for the very first lesson. I trust you will keep this habit. At the very least—" her eyes flicked back to Ron, "—I will never be late."
A bead of sweat trickled down Ron's temple.
"Oh no," he whispered, voice cracking. "She heard everything. I'm doomed."
Beside him, Harry inched his chair just slightly away from his new best friend, as though physical distance could protect him from the incoming wrath.
---