The castle doors opened with a slow, echoing creak.
Tom stepped into the entrance hall alongside the other first-years.
The space was enormous - cold stone, high ceilings, and flaming torches casting tall shadows.
His eyes swept over every detail: polished suits of armor, moving portraits, ancient walls humming faintly with magic.
They were ushered into a smaller side chamber by a tall, thin witch with a strict mouth and silver-streaked hair.
She introduced herself as Professor McGonagall - Head of First-Year Orientation.
"You will be sorted into your Houses shortly," she said crisply.
"Your House will be your home at Hogwarts - your dormitory, your classes, your Quidditch team. And yes, your competition. You earn and lose points together. Take that seriously."
A few students shifted nervously.
Tom did not move. He was not nervous - he was calculating. Watching.
When they were finally led into the Great Hall, gasps filled the air.
The ceiling stretched above them like the night sky itself - enchanted to mirror the sky outside, full of stars and swirling mist.
Candles floated in mid-air. Four long tables stretched across the hall, packed with older students in robes of different colors.
At the far end sat a raised platform, where the teachers watched in silence.
And in the center stood a ragged, ancient hat, placed on a stool. The Sorting Hat.
It looked like nothing special. But when the room fell silent, the hat twitched.
And then... it spoke.
"A thousand years I've sorted minds, In shadow, flame, and storm. So step right up and take your place- let House and heart be sworn."
Whispers rippled across the room. Names were called. One by one, students stepped forward, sat, and the Hat made its decision.
"Hufflepuff!" "Ravenclaw!" "Gryffindor!" echoed across the hall.
Then- "Lucius Malfoy." Lucius strode confidently to the stool.
The hat was barely on his head when it shouted, "Slytherin!".
Lucius gave a self-satisfied nod and walked off to the green-and-silver table.
Several more names passed. Then: "Tom Riddle." A hush fell.
Tom moved slowly to the stool. He sat.
The hat dropped over his head, and the hall disappeared.
"Ahh... interesting. Very interesting." Tom stiffened.
He was alone with a voice only he could hear.
"Power. Potential. Hunger. Mmm... you're not quite like the others."
"So much ambition... but buried pain too. And secrets.
You've seen more darkness than most your age."
"You would do well in Slytherin, yes. Very well indeed.
But... there's more to you, isn't there? Loyalty, perhaps. Or... the need to be seen. To be wanted."
Tom said nothing, but a single thought formed: I want to matter.
The Hat paused. "A curious mind... and clever. But something dangerous in you too. Very well. It must be..." A long pause.
Then the Hat roared:
"SLYTHERIN!"
Tom rose from the stool. The room erupted in applause - mostly from the Slytherin table.
But not everyone clapped. Some students leaned in, whispering.
Others eyed him with confusion, or suspicion.
As he walked toward the Slytherin table, he could feel the eyes on him.
Not admiration. Not yet. Something colder.
They already expect the worst from me. And deep down, a voice he didn't recognize - his own - whispered: Then perhaps I should give it to them
"James Potter."
The Sorting Hat barely touched James's head before it bellowed: "GRYFFINDOR!"
James grinned and pumped his fist as he leapt off the stool, striding boldly to the Gryffindor table where cheers erupted.
He looked over at the Slytherin table for a moment, his eyes briefly meeting Tom's.
Tom did not react. However, he noted the boy's confidence. The instant admiration.
The ease with which he belonged. A spark of something - envy? - flickered in his chest.
He smothered it quickly. No one truly belongs here yet. Not until they have earned it.
Once the last name was called and the Sorting Hat was carried away, a hush fell across the Great Hall.
Tom's eyes drifted up toward the staff table-and froze.
There, standing slowly was the only familiar face in the entire room: Professor Dumbledore.
His expression was calm, almost kind, and his gaze swept gently across the hall-until it paused. Just for a second. On Tom.
Their eyes met. And something loosened in Tom's chest.
It was the first time since arriving that he felt the faintest flicker of relief.
The castle was vast, ancient, and unknowable—but that gaze... that one steady, knowing look... told Tom he was not entirely alone.
Dumbledore said nothing, but the message was there. You are meant to be here.
Tom looked down quickly, hiding whatever had passed through him.
Then Dumbledore began to speak a tall figure stood from the center of the staff table — an old man with half-moon spectacles, a long silver beard, and eyes that twinkled even beneath the candlelight.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," he said warmly, his voice carrying through the Hall with gentle command.
"For those of you who do not yet know me, I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of this school."
A murmur of recognition swept through the room.
"I shall keep it brief — for I know your stomachs are likely louder than my voice. But I offer you three things: Respect the castle. Respect your fellow students. Above all, keep your curiosity tempered with caution. Hogwarts rewards both brilliance and restraint."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the four long tables. "Now, let the feast... begin!"
The golden plates in front of them, once empty, now brimmed with food — roast meats, vegetables, pies, bread rolls, and glistening pitchers of pumpkin juice and butterbeer.
Gasps of delight and clattering cutlery filled the room.
Tom blinked at the sudden transformation, and then looked down at the feast.
He did not reach for anything immediately. He just observed — the students, their laughter, and the way they passed food without thinking.
At the Gryffindor table, James Potter was already piling roast beef onto his plate and laughing with a group of boys.
Tom's eyes lingered for a moment, and then turned back to his own table.
Lucius Malfoy had taken a seat two places down from him and was now in deep conversation with an older Slytherin student.
A roll appeared beside Tom's plate. He glanced up.
A girl with sharp brown eyes and dark braids gave a small nod and turned away.
Tom picked up the roll slowly. Maybe this place would not devour him immediately. Nevertheless, he was not about to let his guard down either.
Once the feast ended, the Head of Slytherin House, a sharp-eyed wizard with thinning black hair and a long, dark cloak named Professor Horace Slughorn, rose from the staff table.
"Slytherins, with me," he announced, his voice smooth and genial, yet commanding.
The table stood in unison. Tom followed the crowd through the Great Hall's side doors and into the winding, torch-lit corridors of the castle.
Shadows danced along the walls, and the deeper they went, the colder the air became.
Professor Slughorn led them down a narrow stone stairway and into the dungeons.
Tom noted how each step felt like a descent into some forgotten underground world. a narrow stone stairway and into the dungeons.
Tom noted how each step felt like a descent into some forgotten underground world.
Finally, they reached a bare stretch of wall. Slughorn paused, turned, and said, "Remember this spot. You'll learn the password later, but for tonight..."
She tapped the stones with her wand and whispered something too soft to hear.
The wall melted away to reveal an arched doorway, glowing faintly green at the edges.
They stepped through. The Slytherin common room was like stepping into another world.
It was grand and shadowy; with greenish lamps, casting light across sleek black stalls.
Dark leather chairs and high-backed couches surrounded a long fireplace.
The ceiling was low but arched, carved with serpent patterns. There were windows — not to the outside, but beneath the lake, where water rippled past the glass.
The occasional shadow of a giant squid floated overhead. Tom's breath caught for just a moment. Not from fear. From awe. This was not a place of warmth.
It was a place of power. Professor Slughorn gave a short speech about rules and curfews, and then gestured toward a corridor.
"Boys' dormitories down the left tunnel. Find your trunks. Beds are assigned by name.
Get some rest — classes begin early." As the others filtered away.
Tom paused for a brief second, his eyes sweeping the room. Cold. Green. Beautiful. He was home.
Even if no one here knew it yet. The boys' dormitory was dimly lit and silent except for the occasional creak of the old stalls.
Green curtains hung from each of the five four-poster beds, trimmed with silver thread.
Tom found his trunk already at the foot of the bed farthest from the door. As he entered, he noticed another boy already sitting on the edge of the bed to the left of his — thin, pale, with black hair that hung in front of his eyes.
He looked up briefly, and then quickly looked down again. Tom hesitated, and then nodded once.
"I'm Tom."
The boy nodded back, barely above a whisper. "Severus."
Tom sat on his bed, undoing the buckles of his trunk. The silence stretched.
"You've been to Diagon Alley before?" Tom asked quietly, not looking over.
Severus gave a small shrug. "A few times."
Another pause.
"Have you used a wand yet?"
Severus nodded faintly but did not speak. He did not seem scared — just guarded.
Tom did not push. He understood that kind of silence.
They both returned to unpacking, the only sounds now the soft rustle of robes and the occasional snap of a latch.
For the first time in a long time, Tom was not completely alone.
Somehow, that was enough — for now.
The morning sun spilled through the underwater glass of the Slytherin dormitory, casting rippling light onto the stone floor.
Tom dressed in silence, his mind already racing ahead.
Their first class was Charms, held in one of the upper towers.
The room was circular, with desks arranged in a wide arc.
Professor Ignatius Wicks, a hawk-nosed man with deep-set eyes and an impatient sneer, stood waiting.
He wasted no time. "Wands out," he snapped as soon as they were seated.
"We begin with basic levitation. Anyone who cannot perform it by week's end will be reassigned to Remedial Training."
Tom gripped his wand. His chest tightened. He had no idea what to expect.
Professor Wicks barked instructions and flicked his wand with sharp, precise movements.
"Feather. Flick. Swish. No flair. This isn't theater."
James Potter's feather rose on his second try.
He leaned back smugly.
"Well done, Mr. Potter," Wicks said with a raised brow.
"A rare Gryffindor who listens." James beamed.
Tom tried. Swish. Flick. Nothing.
Again. Still nothing.
Wicks loomed behind him. "You there—Riddle, is it? Have you ever seen a wand before this term?"
Tom froze. He did not answer.
"I thought not," Wicks muttered. "No background. No instinct. A student like you will either fall behind quickly... or not be here long at all."
A few students snickered.
Tom stared at the feather. His hand trembled slightly.
Across the room, Lily Evans raised her hand. "Wingardium Leviosa," she said clearly.
Her feather rose gently into the air, floating like a leaf.
Wicks gave a small nod. "Acceptable, Miss Evans. Speak with purpose next time."
Tom glanced at her. She did not look smug like James—just focused. Calm.
For the rest of the class, Tom stayed quiet. He did not try again. But inside, something burned.
He hated not knowing. And he vowed that he would never feel that way again.
After class, the students spilled out into the corridor, still buzzing with chatter and excitement.
Tom walked more slowly, his mind a storm of quiet humiliation.
James Potter swaggered past with Sirius Black and a few others trailing behind him, laughing.
Tom ignored them. Ahead, by the landing near the staircase, stood Lily Evans.
She was alone, adjusting her bag over one shoulder and slipping her wand into her sleeve.
Tom hesitated — then walked toward her. "Evans," he said quietly.
She turned, her expression shifting from curiosity to polite surprise. For a second, her gaze caught his — and paused.
Her eyes, a soft hazel, widened slightly. Only for a moment. She said nothing about the green in his. "Yes?"
"You did well. In class. With the feather." Tom said.
She offered a faint smile. "Thanks. You too—well... you kept trying."
Tom gave a slight nod. "I've never used a wand before."
"Really?" she asked, surprised. "That was your first time?"
He nodded again. "Then you're braver than you think," she said. "Most people hide when they don't know something."
Tom looked at her, unsure how to respond.
He expected judgment. Instead, he got... understanding.
"I don't like not knowing," he said finally.
"Then you'll fit in here," she replied. "That's what Hogwarts is for."
Their eyes met once more. Hers warm, unreadable.
His — darker, but searching. "See you around, Riddle." She turned and walked away.
Tom stood there a moment longer, the corridor emptying around him. That had not gone how he expected.
Moreover, he was not sure if that made him relieved... or uneasy.
Tom was not five steps down the corridor when Lucius Malfoy appeared around the corner, flustered and focused like a man on a mission.
"There you are!" Lucius called. "I've been searching all over the castle." Tom turned.
"Why?" Tom asked.
Lucius marched up to him, lowering his voice.
"Does my hair look cursed to you?"
Tom blinked. "What?"
Lucius pointed to his platinum-blond hair with exaggerated urgency.
"It's frizzing. Look at the edges. It is not supposed to bend like this. I think someone hexed it — probably one of those Ravenclaw girls.
They were whispering behind me during the feast."
Tom stared at him. Lucius looked genuinely distressed.
"Malfoy hair does not bounce. There's bounce, Riddle. Bounce!" Lucius said
Tom slowly raised an eyebrow. "...You found me for that?"
Lucius crossed his arms. "Presentation is influence. You wouldn't get it — your hair looks like you brushed it with a lightning bolt."
Tom said nothing.
Lucius huffed. "Anyway, I'm seeing Slughorn about it after lunch. Thought you should know in case you hear anything. Malfoys do not have bad hair. It's family reputation."
With a dramatic turn of his cloak, he swept off down the corridor.
Tom watched him go.
And, for a fleeting moment, almost smiled.
The corridor was quiet now. The last student's footsteps faded around the corner, leaving behind only torchlight and stone.
Tom lingered in the archway, staring at the classroom door as if trying to understand what had just happened — what he had failed to do.
"You always hang back after class," came a voice from behind, "or just when you fail spells?"
Tom turned slowly. James Potter leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his tone casual — too casual.
"You seemed fine when people were watching," Tom said evenly. "Do you practice in mirrors?"
James raised an eyebrow. "At least I practice."
A pause. Neither boy moved.
"You've done this before," Tom said.
"A little," James shrugged. "My parents showed me things. Yours didn't?"
"I didn't know them."
That landed harder than James expected. He shifted slightly, the cockiness dimming just a fraction.
"Didn't mean it like—"
"You don't need to mean it," Tom interrupted. "You just say things."
Another silence.
Then James stepped forward. "You've got a funny way of staring at people, you know. Like you're trying to read their thoughts."
"Maybe I am," Tom said.
"And what do you read when you look at me?"
"That you want to be liked more than you want to be right."
James's jaw tensed. "And you want to matter so badly, you'll probably forget who you are trying to prove it."
Tom's voice was quiet. "What I am doesn't define me. What I do will."
"What you do is who you are," James said flatly.
They stood there, neither blinking.
Then James gave a short, cold smile. "See you in class, Riddle."
Tom did not answer.
He did not need to.
Tom lingered in the quiet for a long moment after James walked away. The torches flickered against the stalls, casting long shadows.
What is his deal? Tom thought.
James Potter was not just loud — he was sharp. Sharper than Tom had expected. He had friends already, confidence like armor, and a way of getting under the skin that was too precise to be unintentional.
Who is he when no one is watching?
Tom did not know. And that unsettled him.
Most people were easy to read. James was not. He acted as if he had nothing to prove, yet every move he made screamed for attention. For approval.
Tom pressed his hand to the stall, steadying himself.
He plays the hero. The golden boy.
But something told Tom there was more to him — and he intended to find it.
Not to be friends.
To understand the competition.
That night, back in the Slytherin dormitory, Tom sat at the edge of his bed long after the others had drawn their curtains. A candle flickered beside him, casting shadows over the greenstone walls. The dorm was silent — only the gentle gurgle of the lake outside filled the space.
He stared at the blank page of a small leather-bound notebook he had brought with him. No words yet. Just thoughts.
James Potter.
He was not like the bullies Tom knew from the orphanage. He did not mock to wound — he mocked to dominate. Charisma, confidence, crowd control. Tom saw how the other boys orbited him already. James was used to winning people without even trying.
Tom had to try. Every day.
A soft rustle came from the bed beside his.
Severus.
Tom did not speak, but Severus's voice came low, tired, and almost inaudible:
"He likes attention. That's all."
Tom glanced toward the curtain. "Potter?"
A faint pause. "He's not worth losing sleep over."
Tom did not respond, but his eyes dropped to the blank notebook again.
Maybe not.
However, something told him Potter would not go away quietly.
And Tom wasn't sure yet if that bothered him... or thrilled him.
The next morning, their second class was Potions, taught in the deepest part of the dungeons.
The dungeon classroom smelled faintly of boiled roots and old ash — the telltale scent of Potions. Large cauldrons lined the room, and rows of shelves held murky jars filled with floating things Tom could not name.
Professor Horace Slughorn stood at the front, arms behind his back, eyes sharp behind round spectacles. He looked far too amused to take anyone's nonsense.
"Potions is an art," he said, voice as crisp as dried nettles. "A subtle science. Misread the ingredients or stir at the wrong pace, and your results will be... unpredictable."
James Potter leaned back in his seat with a grin, wand tapping the desk as though he were waiting for something more exciting.
Tom sat alone, two rows behind. He watched. Learned.
The lesson began with a simple Drowsiness Draft. Lily Evans was paired with another Gryffindor girl, and her cauldron steamed steadily — calm, lavender, precise.
James, however, was adding ingredients with too much flair. At one point, he winked at Sirius across the room while dropping a whole sprig of valerian root instead of grinding it.
Continue in the next page