The moment the first-years stepped into the entrance hall, they could already hear the roar of voices spilling out from the large doors on the right. The older students were seated and waiting for the opening feast like it was the greatest event of the year.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front with the posture of someone who had never once slouched in her entire life.
"I am Minerva McGonagall," she said crisply. "Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, and Head of Gryffindor House."
She let those titles hang in the air long enough for the children to straighten their backs and swallow nervously. Then she continued, voice still calm, still precise.
"I will explain what will happen next. Before the feast begins, we will conduct the Sorting Ceremony. You will be assigned to one of the four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. This is an important ceremony. For the next seven years, you will attend lessons with your Housemates and live with them as well."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Your behavior will also affect your House's standing. Those who violate school rules will have points deducted from their House."
McGonagall's eyes suddenly turned sharp enough to slice parchment.
"I will state this clearly. Although I am Head of Gryffindor House, if I catch anyone breaking school rules, I will not cover for them. On the contrary, I will punish them twice as severely."
A collective shiver ran through the group.
Several children who had been quietly dreaming of Gryffindor immediately reconsidered their life choices.
That Head of House looked terrifying.
And more than that, the words "Sorting Ceremony" made the entire crowd tense.
Children from wizarding families had heard the tradition their whole lives. Their parents and siblings always described the Sorting like a trial by fire. The ones from Muggle backgrounds knew nothing at all, which was somehow worse. The unknown had a way of turning into a monster in your head.
Someone at the back looked like they'd just imagined a future where the hat rejected them, where all four Houses refused them, where everyone stared and whispered and laughed. Their nose went red. Their eyes watered.
Tom noticed Daphne beside him moving her lips, whispering something over and over under her breath, like a spell. Whatever it was, she was saying it too quietly to hear.
McGonagall watched a line of children who looked like they were about to attend their own funeral.
The corners of her mouth lifted, just slightly. A brief spark of amusement flickered in her eyes.
But she was, at heart, a responsible professor who genuinely cared about her students. Seeing them so frightened, she actually softened her tone.
"Do not overthink it. The moment you received your acceptance letters, you became students of this school. The Sorting is simply a way of placing you into the most suitable House. Do not burden yourselves with unnecessary fear."
She paused, then added something that sounded almost gentle.
"Think of Hogwarts as your home. And a home does not abandon its children."
That helped.
The tightness in the air loosened. Shoulders dropped. Some of the kids actually breathed again.
Unfortunately, the world always contained at least one person who heard a comforting sentence and immediately used it as a weapon.
A blond boy not far from Tom suddenly lit up with inspiration. He raised his hand like a student who had discovered a loophole in reality.
"Professor McGonagall," he said, voice bright, "you just said the school is our home?"
"Indeed," McGonagall replied, very seriously. "It is."
The boy's expression transformed instantly into the smug confidence of someone who thought he'd outsmarted the universe.
"Then what are we waiting for?" he demanded. "I'm starving. Can't we eat first and do the Sorting after?"
McGonagall's face changed too.
It didn't soften. It hardened.
"It is not your home in that sense," she snapped. "Rules do not change because one student is hungry. After you have been Sorted, I will deduct five points from your House."
The boy's jaw dropped.
"Wow! Professor, you lied to me!"
Tom stared at the scene with the blank calm of a person watching a car crash in slow motion.
So that was the famous Hogwarts experience. First day, first minute, and someone had already volunteered for public execution.
…
They were led into a smaller chamber beside the Great Hall. The doors were closed, muffling the noise inside, but the excitement still leaked through the cracks like heat from an oven.
The Sorting began.
A stool was placed at the front. On it sat a battered, ancient hat that looked like it had survived several wars, a kitchen fire, and at least one wild animal attack.
One by one, names were called.
"Hannah Abbott!"
A rosy-cheeked girl with two blond braids walked forward, looking like she was trying not to trip over her own feet. She put on the hat.
There was a brief pause.
Then the hat shouted, loud and confident: "HUFFLEPUFF!"
The table to the right erupted in cheers and applause. People waved her over, patting the bench beside them, making room. Even the Fat Friar beamed and tipped his head as if greeting royalty.
Hannah half-ran, half-stumbled toward her new House, face flushed with relief.
Tom smiled faintly and sent her silent congratulations.
Good. The "hat stall king" had arrived.
With Hannah Abbott in the mix, the world's major plot points probably wouldn't drift too far off-course. Tom's precious advantage, knowing what was coming, would stay usable most of the time.
He let out a quiet little sigh. "Good girl…"
It was almost inaudible.
But Daphne, who had been paying attention to him far more than she wanted to admit, heard it anyway.
Daphne's eyes widened.
What?
Tom's taste was that weird?
That Abbott girl looked like a countryside kid who'd wandered into a castle by accident!
Daphne stared at Hannah's retreating back, then turned and stared at Tom, who was watching the Sorting with a calm, thoughtful expression.
Her mind drifted into a brief, confused daze.
Meanwhile, Tom was also half lost in thought, though for a very different reason.
He couldn't help wondering where the hat would put him.
Slytherin was, in his mind, impossible. He was Muggle-born, as far as anyone knew, and even if that weren't true, he wasn't exactly eager to stroll into the most suspicious House with the most suspicious name in the world.
That left three options.
More than anything, Tom wanted to avoid Gryffindor.
If he ended up too close to Harry Potter, he'd essentially be standing under Dumbledore's nose. And with the "Tom Riddle" name buff, he would get attention he didn't want.
Tom wasn't planning to become a villain. But he also had no desire to live under constant surveillance, every word and movement interpreted like a clue to a crime.
And Daphne's mother wasn't wrong. Gryffindor was basically a synonym for trouble. The House of heroic idiots who ran toward danger like it owed them money.
Tom wanted to study quietly and become the top student. That environment was the opposite of what he needed.
Of the remaining Houses, Ravenclaw was his first choice. It suited his goals perfectly.
But Hufflepuff wasn't bad either.
No one could honestly resist the idea of living right next to the kitchens, with food available at all hours, served by people who knew exactly how to make you comfortable.
The Sorting continued.
More names.
More cheers.
More shuffling feet and nervous laughter.
Then a familiar name rang out.
"Daphne Greengrass!"
Daphne jolted as if she'd been struck by a spell. Her face went pale, then red, then pale again. She walked forward in a stiff little trot, like her legs had forgotten how to be legs.
She sat on the stool.
McGonagall lowered the hat onto her head.
Daphne froze.
The room held its breath.
A long pause stretched.
Too long for comfort.
About a full minute passed before the hat announced, finally, with a decisive shout: "SLYTHERIN!"
The Slytherin table burst into applause.
Not polite clapping. Not the sparse, half-hearted applause some previous students had gotten.
This was loud. Warm. Welcoming, in its own selective way.
Pure-blood respect.
The Greengrass family was part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A family like that entering Slytherin was like a noble crest being hung in a hall. People wanted to be seen applauding.
Daphne hurried to her table, her shoulders relaxing just a little once she reached it. She turned her head, searching for Tom for half a second, then quickly looked away again as if she hadn't done it at all.
The Sorting moved on.
A few more students.
Then the atmosphere shifted like a storm rolling in.
"Harry Potter!"
Almost the entire hall went silent.
Even the older students seemed to lean forward. This wasn't just a name. It was a story everyone had grown up hearing.
Harry went up.
The hat went on.
The pause felt heavy.
Then the hat yelled: "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table exploded.
That was the loudest cheer of the night so far, like a stadium. Two identical red-haired twins nearly climbed onto the table in excitement.
Across the hall, Slytherin became unnaturally quiet.
Not a single cheer.
Just watching.
Some faces wore expressions Tom couldn't read. Some mouths moved as if whispering comments, insults, or maybe prayers. The silence there had teeth.
It was in that charged, strange atmosphere that Professor McGonagall looked down at her list again.
Her expression tightened.
For most students, "Tom Riddle" was just another ordinary name. Only Hermione and Daphne were really paying attention to him at this point. Everyone else was still caught up in Harry Potter's Sorting.
But at the staff table, the reaction was completely different.
For many of the professors, those two words hit like a bolt of lightning.
McGonagall's voice came out steady, but there was something weightier behind it now as she read the next name.
"Tom Riddle."
A beat of silence.
Tom rose, adjusted his robe, and started walking toward the stool.
And as he did, he could feel it.
The invisible shift.
The way the air in the Great Hall subtly tightened.
The way adult eyes sharpened.
The way certain faces at the staff table went still, as if the entire room had just remembered a name that should not have returned.
Tom sat.
The ancient hat was lowered toward his head.
And somewhere behind him, he heard a soft intake of breath, like the castle itself was holding its voice.
What, exactly, would the Sorting Hat see when it looked into Tom Riddle's mind?