Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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"We. Need. To. Talk."

Snape was replaying the scene from earlier over and over. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt.

That Tom Riddle kid… Could he be some sort of magical reincarnation of Voldemort?

The Sorting Hat's speed doesn't necessarily reflect a wizard's strength or potential, but it does reveal parts of a young wizard's personality and mindset.

And Snape had never seen anyone get sorted into Slytherin that fast. Maybe if Salazar Slytherin himself rose from the grave, then it would make sense.

So what did that mean?

It meant Tom Riddle was the perfect fit for Slytherin—so much so that even as head of the House, Snape didn't see that as a good thing.

"..."

But Dumbledore didn't seem concerned at all. Looking at Blaise Zabini, who had found his house, the Headmaster stood up with a bright smile.

"Welcome, welcome! Both new and returning students—welcome back to Hogwarts for a brand-new year!"

"I'd just like to say: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you all!"

With that, Dumbledore gave a small bow and sat right back down.

The hall exploded in thunderous applause—Tom clapped along too.

"What the hell did he just say?"

Inside the learning space, Andros looked completely lost. "I didn't get a word of that, why's everyone clapping?"

Tom shrugged, amused. "Honestly? Just ending the speech earns applause in my book."

As he spoke, the once-empty golden plates in front of them magically filled with food.

Roast lamb, lamb chops, crispy fries, mashed potatoes, rich meat gravy, creamy mushroom soup, garlic bread, savory mutton pies—all steaming and fragrant, practically calling out to the young witches and wizards.

Tom didn't hold back. He reached for some ribs and chicken wings, then ladled a full bowl of mushroom soup and dug in. Sure, he and Andros had devoured most of the snacks Daphne bought on the train, but everyone knows snacks never truly fill you up. When hunger hits, it hits.

People always say British food is awful—just deep-fried nonsense and bland mystery meat—but Hogwarts' meals were closer to traditional Scottish comfort food: heavy on herbs, butter, and slow-cooked broths.

They even mixed in some French dishes. That creamy mushroom soup? A total French classic.

The food was actually pretty tasty—way better than anything Tom had back at the orphanage.

Meanwhile, Andros was still stuck on something.

"Wasn't his speech super short and kind of hard to follow?"

Tom snorted mid-bite. "Clearly, you've never been trapped in a room listening to some pompous idiot ramble for an hour and a half."

Don't be fooled into thinking long-winded speeches were rare—hell no.

Every time Tom won some award, out came a headmaster or chairman, ready to drone on forever.

The speeches weren't really for the crowd. They were aimed at the journalists present—sound bites meant to land in the paper the next day and score political points for future elections.

Back in the '90s, before social media took over, newspapers were everything to British politicians. That was gospel truth.

"Fair enough," Andros muttered. "Still, your headmaster seems kind of nuts. But… I can tell he's really powerful."

There's a certain intuition strong people have around each other—like how even when Voldemort felt he had no rivals left, he still feared Dumbledore, despite the fact they'd never actually fought. That fear came from sensing danger… a real threat.

"So, who was stronger—you or him?" Tom asked, suddenly intrigued.

Power comparisons never got old.

"Wizard duels aren't just about how much magic you have or how flashy your spells are," Andros said calmly. "But I can tell you this—we are kinda on the same level. And if it came down to a proper duel, there's no way I'd lose to anyone."

That was the confidence of someone who'd once ruled the wizarding world—and never tasted defeat.

Tom gave a small nod and left it at that. He didn't feel like chatting more.

By the second half of the feast, most students were full, casually nibbling on dessert and chatting with friends.

At one point, a second-year boy leaned over, curious about what Tom and the Sorting Hat had talked about. But the moment he found out Tom was Muggle-born, his face changed. Without a word, he turned away and ignored him.

Word of Tom's background spread quickly along the Slytherin table. Soon, all kinds of stares were aimed at him—none of them friendly.

Tom didn't seem bothered, but Daphne looked visibly worried.

She had a bad feeling about Tom ending up in Slytherin. Still, she leaned in and whispered, "Slytherins care a lot about blood, but as long as you're strong, you can do whatever you want."

Seeing an eleven-year-old girl trying to comfort him made Tom chuckle.

"I'm an orphan. This stuff? I've been dealing with it all my life. I'll be fine."

Instead of easing her worries, Daphne's eyes grew glassy with unshed tears. She looked like she was about to cry.

Panicking a bit, Tom quickly changed the subject, talking about what life at Hogwarts might be like.

Finally, the plates cleared themselves with a shimmer, once again gleaming and spotless.

Dumbledore stood up again and went over some new rules—especially emphasizing how dangerous breaking them could be. Three-quarters of the time, his gaze was locked on the Gryffindor table… more specifically, a pair of identical twins.

The twins didn't look the least bit guilty. In fact, they winked and made goofy faces at Dumbledore, which actually made the old man chuckle.

Only after Professor McGonagall shot them a warning glare did Dumbledore ask everyone to rise and sing the Hogwarts school song.

Golden ribbons floated in the air, spelling out the lyrics. When the final note faded, Dumbledore wiped at the corners of his eyes and told the students to head back to their dorms and rest.

He, meanwhile, made his way to the top of the castle.

Snape quietly followed him.

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