The giant oak doors slowly creaked open before them.
Professor McGonagall—the stern witch who always wore her hair in a tight bun—stood at the entrance, her sharp eyes surveying the line of first-years.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said crisply. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly. But before you take your seats, you will be sorted into your houses."
Her voice carried easily across the stone chamber. After briefly introducing the four houses and their noble histories, she instructed the students to straighten their robes and compose themselves.
Behind Tamara, Ron whispered something about Slytherin producing the most Dark Wizards.
Harry's brows furrowed instantly, his expression twisting with open distaste.
Tamara let out a faint, cold laugh.
How ignorant.
It seemed the so-called savior had very strong opinions for someone so tragically uninformed.
Professor McGonagall led them through the entrance hall and toward a pair of magnificent double doors. From within came the buzzing murmur of hundreds of voices.
The doors swung open.
The Great Hall unfolded before them in dazzling splendor.
Floating candles drifted beneath a bewitched ceiling that reflected the night sky beyond—countless stars glittering above as if the heavens themselves had been invited indoors. Four long house tables stretched across the hall, gleaming with golden plates and goblets. At the far end stood the High Table, where the professors were already seated.
Tamara's gaze moved immediately to the center.
Albus Dumbledore.
The old wizard sat in an ornate golden chair, fingers steepled before him, his half-moon spectacles catching the candlelight. His blue eyes twinkled as he observed the incoming first-years with unmistakable interest.
Tamara's stomach tightened.
She withdrew her gaze at once, lowering her eyes carefully.
Legilimency.
She currently had no Occlumency to shield her thoughts. One careless moment of eye contact might expose fragments of memory she could not afford to reveal.
Instead, she tilted her head upward, studying the enchanted ceiling as though fascinated.
Professor McGonagall placed a small four-legged stool before the High Table. Upon it sat a tattered, patched, and undeniably filthy pointed wizard's hat.
Tamara wrinkled her nose.
Of all Hogwarts traditions, this was the most intolerable. For centuries, students had placed that unwashed relic upon their heads without complaint.
The hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and it began to sing.
The Sorting Hat's voice echoed through the hall, recounting the familiar tale of the Four Founders and their virtues. Tamara tuned it out automatically. She had no patience for sentimental history lessons.
Instead, she calculated.
The hat possessed awareness. It could peer into minds, dissect thoughts, and uncover secrets buried deep within the soul.
Aside from Dumbledore, it was the single most dangerous object in this castle.
If it screamed her true identity—
"I will silence it before that happens," she thought coldly.
The song ended, and the hall burst into applause.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a parchment scroll.
"Hannah Abbott!"
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails hurried forward, placed the hat upon her head, and moments later—
"Hufflepuff!"
Applause followed.
One by one, names were called.
Tamara observed with detached indifference.
Then—
"Harry Potter!"
A sharp hiss of whispers rippled through the hall.
"Potter? Did she say Potter?"
"The Harry Potter?"
The small black-haired boy approached the stool under hundreds of curious gazes. He sat.
And waited.
Seconds passed.
Then a full minute.
Tamara narrowed her eyes slightly.
Interesting.
The savior who carried a fragment of her soul was not a pure Gryffindor, it seemed. The hat hesitated.
Finally—
"Gryffindor!"
The Gryffindor table erupted. The Weasley twins leapt to their feet shouting, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"
Harry looked visibly relieved as he joined them.
More names followed.
Insignificant.
Then—
"Tamara Riddle."
Professor McGonagall paused.
Just slightly.
Her eyes flicked from the parchment to the girl stepping forward. For a fleeting second, recognition stirred—an old memory from fifty years ago.
Riddle.
The hall fell silent.
Not only because of the surname.
But because of her.
Tamara ascended the steps with measured grace. Her dark green robes swayed softly around her ankles. In the candlelight, her pale face appeared almost ethereal—sharp, refined, and unsettlingly composed.
Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on her head.
The oversized brim slipped down, covering her eyes.
Darkness swallowed her vision.
The scent of aged leather filled her senses.
She waited for the whispering voice only the wearer could hear.
Instead—
A scream exploded inside her mind.
"AAAAAAHHHHH—!!!"
The force of it was staggering.
If the Sorting Hat had legs, it would have leapt from her head and fled the hall.
"Merlin's beard! What is this?!" the hat shrieked in sheer horror.
"This soul… this familiar, nauseating darkness—"
"It's you?!"
The recognition was immediate.
After all, it had sorted Tom Riddle into Slytherin decades ago. It knew that signature. That cold, tyrannical imprint upon the soul.
"Be quiet," Tamara commanded coldly within her mind.
"If you dare announce that aloud, I will tear you apart and throw you into the Black Lake to feed the squid."
"You're alive?" the hat wailed incoherently. "How did you become like this? No—this must be reported! Dumbledore must know! Hogwarts cannot harbor a Dark Lord—"
Before it could act—
Another force intervened.
[Ding! Host identity exposure crisis detected.]
[Virtue System forced intervention: Soul Aura fully activated.]
[Special Effect: Holy Light Illumination activated.]
In the hat's perception, the abyss shifted.
Beside the soul blacker than ink—heavy with cruelty, ambition, and violence—a brilliant golden radiance erupted.
Pure.
Blinding.
Sacred.
It was the Virtue Aura the system had forcibly imposed upon her.
"My eyes! I don't even have eyes, and yet I'm going blind!" the hat cried in anguish.
Before it stood a contradiction beyond reason.
On one side: a bottomless abyss of darkness.
On the other: a heavenly brilliance filled with compassion and self-sacrifice.
Half Lord Voldemort.
Half Mother Teresa.
The fragmentation was overwhelming.
"This is impossible…" the hat trembled. "Extreme evil and extreme goodness—how can they coexist within a single soul?"
"What are you?" it whispered in horror. "A saint? Or a demon?"
"I am a student awaiting your decision," Tamara replied coolly, suppressing the headache splitting through her mind.
"Hurry. Place me in Slytherin."
"Slytherin?" The hat faltered. "Yes, you possess ambition. Cunning. Resourcefulness. The blood of Salazar himself…"
It hesitated again.
"But this light… this overwhelming desire to redeem and protect…"
"Hufflepuff!" it declared suddenly. "You belong in Hufflepuff! Such selfless dedication to others—"
"What did you just say?"
Tamara nearly rose from the stool.
Hufflepuff?
The greatest humiliation imaginable.
"If you utter that house aloud," she threatened softly, "I will conjure Fiendfyre and reduce you to ash. Even with Dumbledore sitting there, I can destroy you in three seconds."
She shifted tactics.
Her tone softened, layered with calculated persuasion amplified by the system's hypocritical influence.
"Consider carefully," she murmured inwardly. "Only in Slytherin can I reform future Dark Wizards. Would that not serve the greater good?"
The hat trembled violently.
The students below exchanged confused glances. Tamara had been sitting there nearly three minutes—longer than anyone except Harry. The hat twitched and quivered as though suffering some existential crisis.
Inside, the ancient artifact waged war against itself.
Finally—
"Fine… fine…" it muttered weakly.
"You carry Salazar's blood. Your talent is… terrifying."
It sounded exhausted.
"Go, then… and plague them."
Gathering the last of its strength, the Sorting Hat opened its brim wide and shouted to the hall in a hoarse, strained voice:
"SLYTHERIN!!!"
The Slytherin table erupted into applause.
Tamara removed the hat gracefully and descended the steps without looking back.
At the High Table, Dumbledore's eyes gleamed thoughtfully.
And somewhere deep within the ancient hat's stitching, a thousand-year-old consciousness questioned whether it had just sorted a savior—
—or invited catastrophe.
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