Snape replayed the scene in his head again and again, and the more he replayed it, the more wrong it felt.
Tom Riddle.
Surely it could not be that the Dark Lord had used some twisted magic to reincarnate, to crawl back into the world by stealing a new body.
The Sorting Hat's speed did not determine a wizard's ceiling, but it absolutely revealed something about a child's nature, their instincts, their wants. A hesitation meant doubt or conflict. A long deliberation meant complexity. A snap decision meant the hat had found a perfect fit.
Snape had never seen anyone sorted into Slytherin that quickly.
Not once.
If Salazar Slytherin himself rose from the grave and put on that hat, it might not have been any faster.
And what did that mean?
It meant Tom Riddle suited Slytherin too well. It meant his ambition, cunning, and hunger for advancement aligned so perfectly that even Snape, the Head of House, did not consider it a compliment.
Because some kinds of "perfect" were only perfect for disaster.
Snape's thoughts were still circling when Dumbledore, apparently unconcerned, waited until Blaise Zabini had taken his seat and then rose with a broad, pleased smile.
"Welcome, welcome, new students and old students alike, to Hogwarts, and to the beginning of a new school year."
He paused, as though warming up to deliver a grand speech.
Then he said cheerfully, "What I have to say is this. Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak. Thank you."
With that, Dumbledore gave a small, polite bow and sat down again, as if he had just delivered a masterpiece.
The Great Hall erupted into thunderous applause. Tom clapped along with everyone else, because when a whole room applauds the headmaster, you either applaud too or you look like you are trying to start a war.
Inside the Learning Space, Andros stared with a blank expression.
"What did he even say?" he asked, completely bewildered. "I did not understand a single thing. Why are they applauding?"
Tom lifted a rib with a fork and shrugged. "Because he ended his speech with five words. That alone deserves applause."
The moment he finished speaking, the empty plates in front of him filled as if the castle itself had been waiting for permission.
Roasted lamb. Lamb chops. Fried chips. Mashed potatoes. A rich meat gravy meant for dipping. Cream of mushroom soup. Garlic bread as a proper staple. Lamb pies. More dishes than a child should reasonably be allowed to see without crying tears of joy.
Warm steam rose in gentle waves, carrying aromas that practically hooked their fingers into a student's stomach and tugged.
Tom did not hesitate. He grabbed a few ribs and a couple of chicken wings from the nearest platter, poured himself a full bowl of creamy mushroom soup, and began eating with the focused intensity of someone who had earned every bite.
Daphne had bought snacks. They had already demolished most of them. But everyone knew the truth.
Snacks did not fill you up. Snacks only reminded you how hungry you were.
People always joked that Britain was a culinary wasteland, that everything was dark magic disguised as dinner. Hogwarts, however, was the exception, at least when it was not serving fish and chips. Strictly speaking, most of the food was closer to hearty Scottish home cooking, meat stewed with spices and butter, lifted by broth and patience.
There were also French dishes tucked in between, like the creamy mushroom soup, a classic from a cuisine that took pride in comfort disguised as elegance.
As long as nobody tried to get "creative," and the ingredients were fresh, the result could not be bad. It was certainly better than anything Tom had eaten in the orphanage.
Andros was still thinking, still chewing on the earlier point like it was a difficult spell.
"So short is a virtue?"
Tom found time to sneer between bites. "You have never met an idiot who talks nonsense for an hour and a half."
Do not think endless speeches were unique to some far eastern superpower. Britain had its own proud tradition of people talking until the audience's soul left their bodies. Every time Tom won an award in the Muggle world, some principal or chairman would climb onto a stage and ramble for ages.
The speech was never for the crowd.
It was for the journalists.
A neat quote, a flattering headline, a small square of ink in the next day's paper. It was the kind of thing politicians collected like currency, saving it for later when they tried to climb higher.
In the early nineties, before new media swallowed everything, the newspaper was the lifeblood of British public life. If you did not exist on paper, you did not exist at all.
"All right," Andros said at last, sounding resigned. "Your headmaster feels a bit unhinged, but he is strong. I can sense it."
Power recognized power. It was an instinct older than pride. Voldemort, back in his prime, had been undefeated in open conflict, yet he still feared Dumbledore despite the fact that Dumbledore had never struck him directly.
Not because of legend.
Because the danger was real.
Tom looked up, interested. A topic like this never got old. The sudden motion made Daphne think he had eaten too fast. She quickly handed him a cup of orange juice.
Tom thanked her and took a sip.
"Compared to you when you were alive," he asked Andros, "who's stronger?"
Andros did not answer lightly.
"A wizard's combat cannot be measured by raw magic or by how loud a spell sounds," he said. "It is never just power. It is experience, timing, intent, and the ability to control a battlefield."
He paused, and there was something like pride in his voice, the calm certainty of someone who had never lost when it mattered.
"I can only say he and I exist on the same tier. If we faced each other in a proper duel, one on one, by the rules, I would not lose to anyone."
That was the confidence of a King of the Century. The aura built from a lifetime of victory.
Tom nodded. He did not press further.
As the feast continued, the hall softened into the comfortable noise of satisfied people. Most students were full now, picking at desserts while chatting, trading stories, laughing, and finally breathing out the tension of the Sorting.
A second year boy had been curious earlier, leaning closer to ask what Tom and the Sorting Hat had said afterward. But the moment he learned Tom was born of Muggles, the boy's expression changed instantly. He turned away as if Tom had suddenly become contagious.
The information traveled fast after that.
Tom's background spread along the Slytherin table like spilled ink. Eyes started to land on him from every direction, sharp and weighing, full of different emotions.
Not a single one of them felt warm.
Tom himself did not care much. He had seen enough of that kind of look to stop counting.
Daphne, however, looked troubled.
She leaned close and whispered, trying to sound reassuring. "Slytherin values blood, but if you are strong, then whatever you do becomes right."
A girl of eleven trying to comfort him.
Tom could not help smiling.
"I'm an orphan," he said softly. "I got used to things like this a long time ago. It won't be a problem."
That did not make Daphne relax. If anything, it made her eyes sting. Her lashes fluttered like she was fighting tears.
Tom panicked internally.
If she cried here, he would have no idea what to do with his hands, his face, his words. He was good at surviving. He was not good at comforting.
So he changed the subject quickly, steering the conversation toward the future, toward classes, toward exploring the castle, toward anything that was not the painful truth sitting quietly between them.
Eventually, the remaining scraps vanished from plates as if wiped away by invisible hands, leaving them gleaming and clean once more.
Dumbledore rose again.
This time he spoke of new rules, of forbidden corridors, of dangers that were not theoretical. And as he talked, his gaze spent three quarters of its time fixed on the Gryffindor table, more specifically on two red haired twins who looked entirely too entertained by the idea of "rules."
They did not seem intimidated at all.
They pulled faces at him, making exaggerated expressions, and Dumbledore, impossibly, laughed.
Only when Professor McGonagall gave him a look sharp enough to cut stone did he finally cough and regain some dignity.
He invited everyone to stand.
They sang the Hogwarts school song together, voices clashing and wandering because nobody ever sang it the same way. Golden ribbons twisted in the air, forming letters of lyrics that floated above them like magic made visible.
When the final syllable faded, Dumbledore dabbed at his eyes as if moved to tears, then dismissed the students to their dormitories.
And then he turned, and began walking toward the highest floor of the castle.
Snape followed after him, silent as a shadow, his mind still turning over one question that refused to die.
If that boy was not the Dark Lord, then why did he feel like one of the most dangerous students Hogwarts had seen in years?