Dumbledore and Snape's Debate
High above the castle, in the circular office filled with whirring trinkets and dozing portraits, Dumbledore poured a steaming cup of honey water. He slid it across the desk toward his guest.
Snape took it, sipped once out of sheer politeness, then set the cup down with a thud. His eyes were cold.
"Are you sure this isn't one of the Dark Lord's tricks? Some form of reincarnation? Possession? A soul ritual?"
Dumbledore's laugh burst out before he could stop himself. He leaned back in his chair, twinkle bright behind his crescent glasses.
"Severus, it wasn't until tonight that I realized you had such a fine sense of humor. Truly, you should share more jokes like this. I suspect it would soften your reputation among the staff."
Snape's expression only darkened. If he had the power, he would have wiped that infuriating smile from the old man's face. Instead he muttered:
"I would not be surprised by anything wizards like you two attempt."
Dumbledore only shook his head. "You underestimate yourself, my boy, and you overestimate Voldemort. Yes, he created magics no one had ever seen. Yes, he may even fool me on occasion. But Hogwarts itself? The castle never admits the same soul twice."
Snape stiffened. He knew well the castle's enchantments, its subtle awareness of every magical child in Britain. If Tom Riddle was truly that Tom Riddle, the school would have barred him outright.
Dumbledore's tone softened. "Still, keep an eye on him. I confess, I did not expect the Hat to place him in Slytherin. And Slytherin… can be unkind to those who do not fit."
Snape's lip curled. "Survival of the fittest. Even I cannot interfere in Slytherin's pecking order."
Dumbledore's smile thinned. "You misunderstand me, Severus. I fear it is the others who will find themselves in trouble."
Snape blinked.
"Riddle may not be Voldemort," Dumbledore continued, "but he is like him in one respect: when pushed, he will protect himself with force. If there are… incidents, I only hope he is merciful."
Snape's silence spoke volumes.
---
Back in the Dungeons
Tom followed the new first-years into the damp, echoing common room. Emerald lanterns swayed on chains, throwing greenish light across the stone. From there, the boys were divided into dormitories: twelve first-years, four per room.
Malfoy, predictably, had been given a chamber with Crabbe, Goyle, and Selwyn.
Tom found himself in another: Blaise Zabini, Casale Nott, and Theodore Rosier.
The door shut behind them. Tom barely had time to glance at his bed before the sneering began.
"Tch. Just my luck to share with a Mudblood." Zabini flung his robes onto a trunk. "Hey, Riddle—make my bed. Use my sheets. Not those rags the school gave us."
"Fetch me water while you're at it," Rosier added lazily.
"And polish my shoes," Nott smirked.
The three laughed together, smug in their inherited superiority.
Tom sighed. He had expected this—Slytherin House practically ran on arrogance and bloodline. He simply hadn't expected it so quickly.
---
Whips and Lessons
Without hesitation, Tom drew his wand.
"Concussion Impact!"
The shockwave blasted through the room. Zabini, Nott, and Rosier flew backward, crashing into the stone wall with satisfying thuds.
Before they could rise, Tom flicked his wand again. Three quills leapt from a desk, twisting into ropes that coiled around their limbs, binding them tight.
The wand elongated, softened, snapped into a whip.
Crack!
Zabini screamed first, the lash painting fire across his back. Rosier and Nott shouted as the whip kissed their skin again and again. In moments they were nothing more than spinning tops, whirling helplessly across the floor.
When each had received a dozen strokes, Tom finally lowered his wand.
He studied them coolly. "I heard Slytherins were cunning, ambitious, shrewd. Yet you three—so quick to provoke without knowing a thing about me. Idiots."
Zabini sobbed, "I'll tell my mother! She'll have you expelled!"
Rosier thrashed weakly. "Put me down, Riddle! Stop!"
Nott broke first. "I was wrong! Please, don't hit me again!"
They were only children—spoiled, raised on their parents' doctrine of blood superiority. Belief was easy. Pain was persuasive.
Tom's whip had spoken far louder than words.
---
Ten Consecutive Draws
At last he released the spell. The ropes fell away. Zabini, Rosier, and Nott collapsed to their knees before him, trembling.
Tom paced slowly, wand still in hand.
"From this moment, I give the orders in this dormitory. Disobey, and you'll find yourself whipped again—or hanging naked from the castle gates. Do you understand?"
Their heads bobbed frantically.
"Rosier. Nott. Your families love their precious reputations. Imagine how they'll react if I dangle you outside for everyone to see."
Both boys blanched, nodding even harder.
"And Zabini…" Tom's smile was sharp. "You mentioned your mother ten times at dinner. Would you like her to hear that her darling boy was thrashed senseless on his first night?"
Zabini shook his head violently, eyes wide with terror.
Tom lowered his wand at last. "Good. Then remember: we are Slytherin. Winners. If any of you can defeat me—by trick, duel, or sheer luck—you take my place. You can repay me a thousandfold."
He leaned in, eyes glittering. "But if you fail… you'll pay the price."
"Understood!" they chorused, voices cracking, terrified to sound anything less than energetic.
Hatred burned in their eyes, buried deep. Someday, they promised themselves, they would have their revenge.
But for tonight, Tom Riddle had won.
---
In the Study Space
Andros had watched the entire affair through Tom's eyes. Now his booming laughter filled the boy's mind.
"You've barely stepped foot in this House and already you've claimed it by force. Salazar himself would applaud you! This… this is truly Slytherin!"
Tom tossed his wand onto his bedside table and lay back on the mattress.
"Don't get the wrong idea, Andros. I'm not here to play Dark Lord. I just don't like being told what to do."
The ancient wizard chuckled. "Call it what you like. But tonight, those three learned a lesson: the whip teaches faster than words."
Tom closed his eyes, already drifting toward sleep, the faintest smile on his lips.
Ten consecutive draws, and victory sealed.
---