There are no secrets in the magical world. Everything leaves traces.
Even Horcruxes—dark magic so well hidden they were thought unbreakable—were uncovered, one clue at a time, by Dumbledore's relentless search.
And so the name Tom Riddle had never faded. Sixty years ago, it shone at Hogwarts like a rising star. Thirty years ago, it became a taboo so feared that people dared not speak it aloud.
The professors at the staff table remembered all too well.
---
Teachers' Unease
Dumbledore himself had been Transfiguration Professor during the first Tom Riddle's school years. Flitwick had already been teaching Charms. Sprout and McGonagall had not yet joined, but through their ties with Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, they knew the history.
And then there was Snape. Once the Dark Lord's right hand, now his bitterest enemy. He knew the name Tom Riddle better than anyone alive. His black eyes burned with hatred—not for this boy on the stool, but for the shadow of the man behind the name.
Hagrid shook most of all. His massive hands trembled, his face pale. He remembered Tom Riddle as the clever boy who had once spoken kindly to him, before everything turned dark.
And Quirrell… Quirrell's reaction was sharpest of all. He had sat hunched, avoiding Snape's scrutiny, until the name was called. Then his head snapped up. His eyes locked on Tom with an intensity that betrayed far too much.
The students noticed the tension. The Great Hall, moments earlier filled with cheers, fell into a hush.
---
A Quiet Exchange
"Severus."
Only Snape heard the low voice. Dumbledore's lips barely moved.
"There are many who share names. A name is nothing but a vessel for memory. Do not let old shadows poison your judgment of a child."
Snape's mouth twisted into a sneer. He gave no reply. He had not forgotten that Dumbledore himself had greeted this boy personally over the summer. Why? Not even Harry Potter had received such an honor.
The conclusion was obvious. Only one name could have forced Dumbledore to move: Tom Riddle.
---
The Hall Falls Silent
"Riddle," McGonagall said, her voice steady though her lips tightened. "Put on the Hat."
Tom walked to the stool, calm on the outside, though inside his heart beat like a drum.
And then—
Before the Sorting Hat even touched his head, it screeched as if strangled:
"Slytherin! Born Slytherin!"
The Great Hall froze.
McGonagall's eyes widened. Snape's jaw clenched. Dumbledore's expression became unreadable, as if carved from stone.
Tom himself nearly fell off the stool. What the hell?
---
Tom's Outrage
He wasn't a pure-blood. He wasn't even half-blood. He had no grand ambition to conquer the world.
How could this ridiculous hat send him to Slytherin?
In the study space, Andros doubled over laughing. "Hah! I knew you had a plan for Gryffindor, maybe even Ravenclaw, but never this. Fate has a sense of humor!"
Tom clenched his jaw. He would not take this lying down. In full view of everyone, he yanked the Sorting Hat properly down over his ears.
"All right, Hat. Talk to me."
---
Inside the Hat
"Well, well," came the sly whisper. "The Sorting is done. What do you want, child?"
"You barely touched me! You must've been reacting to Potter, not me. He's the Savior, last heir of the Potters, pure-blood enough for Slytherin. Admit it—you got confused."
"Of course not," the Hat huffed. "Don't insult my craftsmanship. I've never misjudged a student. You, Riddle—you are Slytherin."
Tom's hands twitched. This stupid hat…
"I'm nothing like Slytherin. I want Ravenclaw."
"The ambition to become the strongest. The stubborn refusal to yield. Ancient magic flowing in your veins—purer than Salazar's own. If he lived today, he would kneel to take you as his heir."
Tom's eye twitched. Kneel? What kind of nonsense—
"The Sorting Hat honors student preference," Tom argued. "I demand Ravenclaw."
"I reject your request," the Hat said cheerfully. "Don't waste my time. Plenty of children still waiting."
"Then Hufflepuff!" Tom tried desperately. "I'm Muggle-born, I like friends, I'm kind-hearted, I—"
Silence. Then, softly, the Hat replied, "Child, you can have nothing else, but you must know yourself. Face who you are."
Tom seethed. You smelly bit of patchwork felt, I'll sew your mouth shut one day.
The Hat caught the thought and bellowed with satisfaction:
"SLYTHERIN! SLYTHERIN! TOM RIDDLE BELONGS TO SLYTHERIN!"
---
Aftermath
Before Tom could retort, McGonagall whisked the Hat off his head.
"Mr. Riddle, the Sorting Ceremony is concluded. If you have concerns, speak later."
Tom forced a smile uglier than tears, bowed stiffly, and trudged toward the Slytherin table.
At first, no one clapped. The audience had been too bewildered by his bizarre act of shoving the Hat back on.
"Maybe he just wanted to savor the moment?" someone whispered.
Then Daphne, eyes shining, began to clap. Her smile was radiant, her voice bright. Others joined hesitantly, until at last the Slytherin table gave him a respectable welcome.
Tom slumped beside her.
"I never thought you'd be in Slytherin," Daphne whispered, excitement bubbling in her tone. "This is wonderful—we'll share every class!"
Tom gave a hollow chuckle. "Yeah. Wonderful."
---
Epilogue of the Ceremony
The last names were called. Blaise Zabini strode up, sat, and was sent swiftly to Slytherin.
Tom watched him with mild interest. Ah. So this was the boy who believed McGonagall's speech about school being home. Poor soul.
The Sorting ended, applause rippled through the hall, and the feast shimmered into existence on golden plates.
But Tom hardly noticed.
In his mind echoed the Hat's words.
"Born Slytherin. Know yourself."
And Tom Riddle, who thought he knew exactly who he was, found himself suddenly unsure.
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