Bang.
Snape's palm slammed down on the desk so hard the inkwell jumped. The sound cracked through his office like a whip, sharp enough to make even the air flinch.
"This is absurd," he snapped, voice cold enough to frost glass. "Fighting classmates on the very first day. What exactly does he think he's doing?"
Rosier seized the moment like a starving man grabbing bread.
"Professor, this Riddle is completely out of control," he said, pouring filth into the story with the enthusiasm of someone cleaning a stain by smearing it everywhere. "He probably thinks the wizarding world is like his Muggle school. No rules, no respect. Honestly, he clearly does not take you seriously at all."
Snape's eyes slid toward him.Just one look.
Rosier's throat tightened. The rest of his sentence died in his mouth as if someone had crushed it.
Snape spoke slowly, each word precise, each syllable a warning. "Rosier. Whether he takes me seriously is not for you to judge. It is for me to decide."
Rosier swallowed. "Yes, Professor."
Snape's fingers tapped the desk once, then stopped. "I understand your situation. I will handle it. You may leave."
"Yes, Professor!"
The three boys nearly floated out of the office. Their footsteps were light, their faces bright, like they had already watched Tom being dragged out of Hogwarts by his collar.
In their minds, the scene was vivid.
Snape's fury. Tom's punishment. The satisfaction of seeing that arrogant Muggleborn finally get crushed under the weight of Slytherin rules.
They did not notice that Snape's expression did not soften even after the door shut.
It actually darkened.
He had seen arrogant students. He had even taught arrogant students.
But someone who started this early?
Someone who, on the first night of school, handled three dorm mates like it was a routine chore and then used a whip shaped spell to "teach manners"?
Even Tom Riddle of the past, the real one, had not been that brazen on day one.
And Dumbledore's warning from last night, which Snape had dismissed with a curl of the lip, now echoed in his mind like an annoying prophecy.
A return strike, fast and accurate.
This was not an ordinary troublemaker.
This required a heavy hand.
Snape's eyes flickered with thought. For a moment, he seemed to weigh two choices. Report it upward, let the Headmaster play the gentle saint, give a lecture about understanding and second chances, then quietly sweep everything into the same dusty drawer labeled "complicated children."
Or handle it himself.
Snape's mouth thinned.
He had no interest in letting that old man step in and ruin a perfectly good lesson.
Today, he would give Tom Riddle a memory sharp enough to last.
Today, Tom would learn who controlled Slytherin.
…
Hogwarts had more stairs than a sane person should ever accept.
One hundred and forty plus staircases, according to the older students, and most of them were not content with staying in one place like normal stairs. Many moved. Shifted. Rotated. Slid to entirely different landings as if the castle itself had moods and enjoyed watching children suffer.
The good news was that the movement was not totally random. Some stairs changed position on a schedule. Some responded to footsteps. Some could be tricked into moving if you stomped three times in a row, like you were negotiating with a stubborn animal.
Sometimes, if you got lucky, a staircase would carry you straight from the first floor to the upper levels, saving you ten minutes of walking.
The bad news was that as brand new students, Tom and Daphne knew none of this.
So they did what all beginners did.
They experimented by getting punished.
They had left early on purpose, determined not to be late for their first lesson. Tom did not care how easy the timetable looked on paper, being late in a place like this was the fastest way to become famous for the wrong reasons.
And yet.
At one point, Tom had lightly kicked a step out of irritation.
Just one small kick, not even serious.
The staircase immediately took it personally.
A section between the third and fourth floor shifted under their feet and, with the smooth confidence of a trap that had done this a thousand times, carried them all the way to the top floor.
Tom and Daphne stared at the unfamiliar corridor.
Then they stared at each other.
Then they started walking back down, one slow step at a time, as gentle as people approaching an old beast that might bite if startled.
Tom silently promised himself that one day, when he understood every hidden rule of this ridiculous castle, he would change them. Not to make things easier.
To make them worse.
If he suffered, everyone could suffer.
By the time they reached the classroom, it was almost time. Tom's robes were neat, but his patience had been scraped thin. Daphne tried to hide her annoyance behind proper pure blood composure, but her cheeks were slightly flushed from the unexpected workout.
They entered together.
On the teacher's desk sat a tabby cat.
It looked ordinary at first glance, except the markings around its eyes were darker, like it wore permanent, skeptical eyeliner. The cat sat still, watching the chatting students with the calm authority of someone who already owned the room.
Tom glanced at it once.
He did not greet it.
He did not point it out.
He did not feel the urge to perform for anyone.
He simply walked toward the seats, because anyone with a functioning brain could guess what that cat was.
"Riddle, over here!"
Hermione Granger's hand shot up like she was answering an exam question. She pointed at the empty seat beside her with the same intensity she used for everything.
Tom walked over. Daphne followed behind him, lips puffed slightly, expression clearly saying, I do not approve of this seating choice, but I will endure it for you.
The moment they sat down, Hermione leaned in, eyes bright.
"How do you feel about Slytherin?" she asked, unable to hold it in even one second.
Tom gave a neutral shrug. "It's fine. Everyone's very enthusiastic."
Hermione blinked. "Really? But the books say they tend to dislike Half bloods and Muggleborns."
Tom's face did not change. "Do they? I have not noticed. My dorm mates are very friendly."
Daphne's mouth twitched, like she was choking on laughter and outrage at the same time.
Hermione hesitated, then decided not to dig further. She patted her textbook with pride.
"I finished reading it for the third time last night," she announced. "What about you?"
Daphne could not hold back anymore.
"If magic was something you could learn just by reading," Daphne said sweetly, "then there would not be so many Muggles in the world, would there?"
Hermione turned toward her, eyebrows lifting. "If I have magical talent, then reading teaches me knowledge. Are you saying pure bloods can learn magic by lying in bed?"
Daphne's eyes narrowed. "At least we are not greedy about it. Magic has been with us since birth, so we are used to it. Hmph."
She added something under her breath at the end, so quiet it was clearly meant for Tom's ears not to catch. But the tone was unmistakable.
Hermione caught it anyway.
The two girls snapped into a real argument, the kind where every sentence was an attack and neither of them wasted time defending. They traded jabs, sharper and faster, both convinced they were the righteous one.
Tom sat in the middle, expression flat, feeling like his ears were the battlefield.
He let them go for a bit.
Then he spoke, calmly.
"It's eight fifty five."
Hermione froze, realized what that meant, and shut her mouth with a huff. Professors could enter at any second, and Hermione Granger was not about to be caught bickering like a child on the first day.
Daphne also turned away, chin raised in victory, and leaned closer to Tom, switching back into polite conversation as if she had not been ready to duel a minute ago.
A few more minutes passed.
The bell rang.
Professor McGonagall still had not appeared.
Instead, two boys rushed in, panting.
Harry Potter bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard, then broke into a relieved smile. "We made it. We did not miss it."
Ron Weasley stumbled in beside him, red hair damp with sweat, face flushed. He looked around quickly, did not see McGonagall, and his grin grew wider.
"These stairs are insane," Ron muttered, then laughed, louder than he should have. "We ran like mad and she is not even here. So we did not arrive late, she did. If I knew, I would have taken it slower. I can barely breathe."
He did not lower his voice.
He did not even try.
Even the teacher's desk could probably hear him.
Tom turned his head slightly and looked at Ron with something close to pity.
Tom had whipped dorm mates on his first night and thought he was making bold choices.
Ron Weasley was a true hero.
First class of the year, and he was already gossiping about the professor like he was in a safe corner of the world.
Tom almost wanted to applaud.
Then, right on time, the tabby cat moved.
It sprang off the desk in one smooth leap.
Mid air, the cat's body stretched and twisted in a way that made several students gasp. Fur became fabric. Paws became hands. The shape of an animal folded itself neatly into the tall, stern form of Professor Minerva McGonagall.
She landed lightly, as if turning from cat to human was as ordinary as standing up from a chair.
The room exploded into silence.
Ron's mouth dropped open. His face went pale, like someone had drained all the blood from his body.
McGonagall glanced at him.
Just a glance.
Then her gaze swept across the class.
"Good morning, students," she said, voice crisp. "I am pleased to see that no one is late for our first lesson. I hope you will maintain that standard."
Her eyes paused for the slightest moment, just long enough for Ron to feel it like a knife.
Then she continued, calm and merciless. "At least I do not intend to be late."
Ron let out a tiny sound, barely louder than a mosquito. "She heard me…"
Harry shifted his body on the bench, inching away from Ron with slow, careful movements, like distancing himself from a cursed object.
Tom's lips pressed together.
He could already imagine what McGonagall would do next.
A public warning?
A deduction?
A demonstration?
Ron was not just in trouble. He was about to become an example.
And as McGonagall lifted her wand, eyes sharp and unamused, the entire classroom seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see exactly how painful the first lesson of the year was going to be.