Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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Students began filing into the Great Hall, chattering in anticipation of the Sorting Ceremony and the lavish feast to follow.

Countless candles floated high above, casting a warm glow across the spotless golden plates. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling shimmered with a spread of glittering stars.

"Tom!" Zabini spotted him across the table and grinned, waving. "Haven't seen you all summer. Really missed you, man."

"Same here," Nott quickly chimed in.

Rosier stammered out a greeting, his gaze at Tom tinged with both respect and unease.

And it wasn't just him. His cousin, Steven Rosier —a sixth-year Slytherin— kept sneaking glances over as well.

Only yesterday, the two of them had been summoned by the patriarch of the British Rosier family—their grandfather—who gave them an order as clear as day: {At school, you follow Tom Riddle's lead. If he says go left and you even think about going right, you'll face family discipline when you get home.}

Neither of them understood what had gotten into the old man. Especially Steven, who couldn't quite see why he should cozy up to someone younger, no matter how talented, when Tom wasn't even pure-blood. In the wizarding world, he had no real roots—wouldn't it be smarter to just stay low?

Then Theodore Rosier —Tom's roommate—got to witness, for the first time, what "family discipline" actually meant.

Their grandfather didn't so much as start with a warning. He went straight to twenty lashes, continuing until Steven blacked out.

After that little event, Steven was a changed man—polite, agreeable, and completely on board. Only then did the old Rosier bother to explain that the order came from France.

The British and French branches of the Rosier family might look separate on paper, but in reality they'd always worked together—and the relationship was clearly one of master and subordinate.

In numbers, in influence, in raw power, the French branch crushed the British one without breaking a sweat.

And now that most of the British Rosier middle generation were rotting in Azkaban, the only reason they still had any standing at all was because their French kin occasionally tossed them scraps. Refusal wasn't even on the table.

And besides… the old man had his suspicions about exactly who in France had given the order. Those suspicions all pointed to something very interesting about Tom's identity.

Not that the younger Rosiers needed to know any of that. Whoever the master was, there was one person they all had to watch out for—Dumbledore. The less the boys knew, the less they could spill.

Which was why the Rosier cousins were acting so strangely now. Steven couldn't even look at Tom without feeling phantom pains.

...

On the other side

Taking advantage of Daphne's absence, Zabini leaned closer and started asking Tom about a few tricky potion-brewing problems he'd run into over the summer.

Slytherin might have its share of idiots, but most students here learned to be sharp. At the very least, they knew what they wanted.

Zabini knew his strength was potions—and he had a powerful roommate to learn from. So he'd mapped out his career path early, with full support from the "Black Widow" aka his mum.

Tom was just as happy to share what he knew—he even wanted Zabini to get better. He had a plan: make sure anyone who followed him benefited from it. It was a simple, tried-and-true tactic. Voldemort himself had used his vast knowledge of the Dark Arts to draw powerful allies to his side.

Antonin Dolohov, for example, had joined the Death Eaters purely for access to crueler, darker magic—and ended up killing Lupin.

As Tom answered Zabini's questions, the other Slytherins stayed quiet so they wouldn't disturb them.

When Daphne returned, Zabini cut the conversation short immediately.

Questions could wait—but crossing the first lady of their little circle? That was asking for trouble.

"How's Professor McGonagall taking it?" Tom asked, noticing the faint flush in Daphne's cheeks from hurrying back.

"She's fine. Just told Astoria to wait with the other first-years for the Sorting, then sent me back…" Daphne trailed off, her expression sinking. "But I still haven't finished my Transfiguration homework. Guess I'm pulling another all-nighter tonight."

"Two more bottles of energy potion, Tom. Otherwise I won't make it."

"If it's that bad, maybe have your roommate help with a bit of it."

Pansy and two other girls nearby looked like they were about to cry. They hadn't finished their homework either.

---

Over at the Gryffindor table, several Weasleys sat with grim faces. They'd seen Harry and Ron in that flying car on the train ride here. Now they weren't just worried about their friends—they were terrified for their dad.

Arthur Weasley, head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, whose own sons had taken an illegally modified car for a joyride. Losing his job would be the best-case scenario; if things went badly, he could even end up in Azkaban.

If that happened, it would be like the sky falling on the Weasley family.

Their only hope was that no Muggles had noticed the car, and no chaos had been caused.

Unfortunately, the Daily Prophet had already put out a special edition on the incident. Six or seven Muggles had filed police reports, and the Ministry's emergency team was running itself ragged trying to clean up the mess.

...

A few minutes later, the professors began to arrive.

This year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, swept in wearing a blinding aquamarine robe and took a seat at the staff table. The hall erupted into chatter.

Lockhart beamed, waving at each table in turn, and calling out, "Thank you for your support! Line up for autographs after the feast!" as if this were his personal fan meet-and-greet.

And the worst part? Plenty of people actually bought into it.

It wasn't until Professor McGonagall marched in, face like stone, carrying the Sorting Hat and its stool, that the room fell silent.

She was livid.

In past years, students usually managed to cause trouble after term began. Now, apparently, they'd decided to set a new record and bring her a disaster before the first class had even started.

Driving a car across Britain—what were they thinking?

All she wanted now was to get the Sorting over with and go find Harry and Ron, so she could personally demonstrate what the lioness's wrath meant.

Even Tom felt a twinge of nerves seeing her like this.

He didn't really fear Dumbledore anymore—old Dumbles was easy to read, endlessly patient, and hard to truly anger unless you did something extreme.

But McGonagall? Her authority as Deputy Headmistress was another matter entirely. If she was scolding you, you'd done something wrong—and she only did it for your own good.

Any student with half a conscience couldn't help but feel guilty.

"Bourbon Anthony!"

A brown-haired boy with tight curls stumbled forward at the call, jamming the Sorting Hat onto his head until it nearly swallowed him whole.

The hat was quiet for a full minute before finally announcing, "Hufflepuff!"

The little badgers erupted into cheers, welcoming the very first new member of the year. Watching the warm reception made Tom a little jealous—last year, at this exact moment, he'd daydreamed about joining Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw and making loads of friends.

But reality had other plans. That damned hat, blind to his pure and innocent heart, had tossed him straight into the snake pit.

Well, fine. If he had to live with snakes, he'd just turn them into his pets.

"Romany Lai Castor!"

"Norfolk Phelps!"

Professor McGonagall read the names one after another. When over half the first-years had already gone, it was finally Astoria's turn.

Daphne instantly sat up straight, tense with anticipation.

She was clearly hoping Astoria would be placed in Slytherin—much easier to keep an eye on her that way.

The Sorting Hat didn't bother with theatrics this time. Within seconds of touching Astoria's head, it declared loudly: "Slytherin!"

Tom was the first to clap, and the rest of the house quickly followed.

Everyone knew about his friendly terms with the Greengrass family—if he didn't clap now, people would start whispering about where his loyalties lay.

What a difference a year made. Back at his own Sorting, the applause he'd gotten could generously be described as pitiful. Now he was the one leading it. Maybe someday he should write a book.

"Uh..."

Astoria's cheeks were pink as she removed the hat, giving Professor McGonagall a polite little bow before heading straight toward Daphne, who was waving her over.

Daphne swept her doll-like sister into a hug, face glowing with joy. "This is perfect, Astoria! Now we'll be together every day."

"...Sis." Being hugged in public like this left Astoria more than a little embarrassed.

Tom chuckled and turned back to the Sorting. Watching it felt a bit like opening mystery boxes—you could never predict where a first-year would end up, except for a few familiar surnames.

Outside the slightly ajar doors, Harry and Ron—after a long, exhausting, but magical detour—had finally made it back. They crouched to peer through the gap, taking in the scene.

Harry spotted a gray-haired first-year being Sorted, then glanced toward the staff table, noting Dumbledore's calm face, Lockhart's beaming smile, and Hagrid's massive frame.

One chair was empty.

"Wait…" Harry whispered to Ron. "There's a seat missing at the staff table. That's Snape's spot. Where's he gone?"

"Maybe he's sick," Ron said hopefully.

Harry grinned at the thought. "Or maybe he's finally quit—stormed off after not getting the DADA job again."

"I doubt it," Ron said, dashing Harry's hopes. "No way he'd give up a cushy job like that—or the chance to make your life miserable." Then his tone turned gleeful. "Maybe he botched a potion. Didn't you read the Daily Prophet?

There was that family in France—the Étienne family—who all dropped dead from a brewing accident."

"Or maybe…"

The voice came from directly behind them—low, cold, with a trace of mocking amusement.

"Maybe he went to check the school rules. Just to see how many times driving a car to school gets you expelled."

Harry and Ron froze. They didn't need to turn around to know whose smile was now lurking above them.

When they did turn, their expressions were so miserable it could've been bottled as a potion for Snape's personal enjoyment.

"Come along, boys. Take one last good look at the castle."

Both of them felt ice trickle down their spines. They had to cling to each other just to keep up as Snape led them toward the dungeons.

Snape, meanwhile, walked with an uncharacteristically light step—actually humming some tune under his breath.

---

Back in the Great Hall

Tom glanced briefly toward the doors, then returned to watching the Sorting.

Sure enough, Rolf Scamander was placed in Hufflepuff. The name Scamander caused quite the stir, especially at the Hufflepuff table. When the hat shouted the result, they reacted like it was New Year's Eve—pounding the table in delight.

The very last name was Ginny Weasley.

Tom studied her with a thoughtful eye. She didn't stand out much now—certainly not like Daphne or Astoria, who'd been pretty since they were toddlers—but Ginny had potential. Tom was sure that when she was older, she'd be a real beauty.

Honestly, the movie casting did her dirty.

His gaze drifted toward the Ravenclaw table, where a long-haired Asian girl with bright, deep eyes was smiling faintly as she whispered with a friend.

As if sensing his look, she glanced up, meeting his eyes directly, and gave him a polite nod.

Tom just looked away, casual as if it were an accidental glance.

"Dig in, everyone."

At Dumbledore's signal, the empty platters filled instantly with steaming, mouthwatering food. Even Tom, spoiled by years of fine dining, had to admit the sheer abundance made it more appetizing.

He'd only gotten through two crispy fried fish when Snape swept back in, bending to murmur something to Dumbledore. A few quick words to McGonagall and Sprout later, the three of them left the hall looking grim.

"Bet they've gone to deal with Potter," Malfoy muttered with satisfaction, eyes fixed on the staff table.

No one responded—his two ever-hungry cronies were too busy stuffing their faces.

Then—

A sharp, clear cry rang out above the noise.

It was the call of a Phoenix, turning every head upward.

(Hint: Thunderbirds and Phoenixes are distant relatives)

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