Thursday, September 1st, 1938
When the imposing door opened, a draft of cold air swept through the drenched and freezing crowd of children standing outside, making them violently stiffen. To their astonishment, the draught slowly gathered into a mist above their heads, forming the tall, transparent figure of a lady.
"Welcome!" she giggled, whirling around.
For a dead girl— because that’s what Tom guessed she was— she looked young. He didn’t find himself able to tear his eyes away from her. She made him overly aware of every beat of his heart. The group of trembling children passed him by, shuffling in the tall and imposing room. The magnificence of the Great Hall took every first year's breath away, except for the now disturbed one at the end of the line.
The whispering chatter of the older kids intermingled with the sound of sharp inhales and steps on the stone floor. Most children raised their heads, trying to catch a glimpse of anything that could betray the presence of a ceiling. Up, it looked just like the dark thundering sky they'd just got away from. Yet, the drops of rain didn't reach them here, nor did the wind blow out the hundreds of floating candles. In all logic, it had to be an illusion of some sort, but it surely was one hell of a magic one, for it positively blew the little crowd away.
Tom knew this was not a place to think about in terms of logic, but he tried not to dwell on the magic of it all. He was too proud to admit feeling things such as admiration, or perhaps even a bit of fright.
They walked a straight line, passing by the four long tables. Some kid kept sniffing loudly, and Tom was trying very hard not to cringe. God, he really hated crying children.
"I bet that one s’a future Hufflepuff," some boy sneered. "That's where all the babies end up." Hir hair was blond, so pale it matched his skin. It all made the dark circles under his eyes look very prominent. Tom realised he smirked just like a typical Wool’s bully— seemed like they were just regular kids too.
He didn't seem to be addressing anyone in particular, but still, a few students snickered. The boy who'd sniffed turned to him with a defying glare.
"I’m cold and my nose is running. I’m not crying, dipstick. And by the way, Hufflepuff isn't for the babies. But if you wanna take bets, I assume you'll be a Slytherin, because that’s where all the jerks end up."
"What a pathetic attempt of insult," the other scoffed, "Slytherin is the only house noble enough for respectable wizards and families. I doubt you’ll get the honour, Prewett. At least I hope not, because it’s literally the only pure house left in this sorry excuse of a school."
The annoying boy whispered that last sentence just slightly less loudly. Afterwards, it felt like the air had grown even colder— if that was possible.
"Then you should've gone to another school, Rosier. No ne really wants you here anyway," Prewett stated coldly.
The two boys stared daggers at each other. The tension between all the first-years suddenly grew thick and palpable— it felt as something was about to snap. Just as the silence became unbearable, a raspy voice filled the hall, slicing through the stillness. Tom blinked when he realised it was a hat. And it was singing.
"Occurring as a first thought, you might well believe
It’s just a hat alone, with no tricks up its sleeve
But Wizards and Witches, come lend me both Your ear,
For once every year, my tale you’ll always hear.
A long time ago, I was still just tangled thread,
Perched upon a great wizard’s noble and high head
But he was not alone, his comrades made them four
Who dreamed of a school like none had seen before.
A school of witchcraft and wizardry they made,
Hogwarts, it was called, but few tensions soon swayed
For they wished to share the treasure of knowledge
And thus needed to choose who’d receive the homage
«I wish to teach the ones who thirst to understand,
Who seek out knowledge with a willing heart and hand.»
Affirmed Ravenclaw, the sharpest mind of her time
For whom wit and brain, were greatness’ clearest sign.
«I value the most courage, honour, and bold deeds,»
Said Gryffindor, with his big heart that never bleeds
«Bravery is the key to truth and loyalty
A shield for all even in darkest destiny.»
Then Slytherin, the most selective of the four,
Declared, «Ambition opens every door.
I want an elite, heritage undiluted
So cunning they plan each goal they have computed.»
But Hufflepuff spoke, with a generous heart
“Why must we divide what no one should tear apart?
All those who are loyal, patient, and sincere
Deserve to be taught and welcomed with cheer.”
Face to face at last, a decision was made
They would part the students four separate ways
Then magic, I inherited this noble task
To sort you all, before I rest as just a mask.
I might just be a hat, but not just thread and brim
Within me lives time, and its voice never dims,
Dark whispers arise, old rules are being redrawn
Of “greater good” rising before the next dawn.
As here you are safe, the world starts to divide
So choose who you are, and not which house to hide.
And as I sort you, do remember this, be wise
The world is in flux, and behind truth may lie lies."
As the whole hall erupted in applause for a shabby singing hat, Tom's first thought was that he did end up in a madhouse after all.
A teacher he recognised as Dumbledore (looking away as soon as he did), called a small girl that looked nervous up the plateform. The teacher put the hat on her head where it, humiliatingly enough, fell over her eyes. This was getting interesting.
But… nothing happened.
Minutes of pure silence can feel like a long time when one's expecting something foreign to occur, and it sure as hell did for Tom.
"Hufflepuff!" It screamed, at last.
One of the four table started applauding while Dumbledore removed the weird thing from the poor girl's head. She smiled hesitantly, before joining the cheering students. Rosier scoffed, and the next boy was called.
Tom didn't understand it. Sometimes it took a few seconds for students to get sorted, sometimes whole minutes, and always in a complete silence. What was it that was happening between the stupid raspy hat and the first-years?
He made a mental note of where everyone was sorted. One by one, every one of Rosier’s friends (or at least, the ones who had snickered to his jokes about Hufflepuff) got into Slytherin. Every kid that looked nervous and weird ended up in said Hufflepuff.
Tom fixed his gaze on the table to the far right. That was where he wanted to be. The hat had spoken of cunning wizards with ambition, an elite with undiluted heritage. It was the world elite who'd strike something in him. There were no circumstances under which Tom would belong anywhere else than with the best of the best. The first three requirements didn’t scare him— he had courage, he had cunning, he knew how to lead. But that last one? “Undiluted heritage”? That one itched beneath his skin like a rash. Tom was born at Wool's penniless and parentless, and he'd keep living his whole childhood without any possession or relative whatsoever. He was an orphan; by its very nature, he simply didn't have an heritage.
"Tom Riddle!"
Yet at the sound of his name, Tom Marvolo Riddle was forced to admit that in all fairness, he did. He'd inherited two names from his own father, one from his mother's one, and a sick ability to do magic. Though, as far as he was concerned, everyone in the room also had a name and a predisposition to witchcraft, so he wasn't naive enough to think that made him special in any way.
He sat down.
"Slytherin!"
The hat screamed the house name before he’d even properly touched Tom’s head. Startled, he almost scoffed— what a joke. He stood up smugly, feeling very satisfied. As Tom took a look at his future classmates, in the middle of the initial delight, it hit him.
The silence.
Tom could almost hear the floating candles burn.
Because he didn't know what to do, the freshly sorted wizard turned to Dumbledore. He'd successfully ignored the teacher for the whole evening. But as he stood there, facing the school he'd once ask him to join— confronted with the students' lack of cheering, their whispering, and the blend of dark and pitying looks— Tom looked at him. Dumbledore’s gaze met his, but wasn’t transpiring any emotion whatsoever. How he hated those blue eyes, they made him almost sick with disgust, their stoic expression reflecting into Tom’s own until it was too much for him to bear.
The teacher hadn't prepared him at all, had he? He hadn't deigned explain to him even for a minute how things worked here, and still, he knew Tom hadn't grown up in the same world as them all.
He should've warned him. Tell him that despite being with his own kind, he'd still be as out of place as everywhere.
Tom held his head high, keeping his face blank and unreadable, and he walked to the Slytherin table. It seemed like he was special after all. Not how he wished to be, in all honesty.
As Tom sat, the Slytherins around him shifted, putting as much space between him and them as they could. His fist slightly clenched. Really, they were pitiful.
All he could hear, over and over again, was the whispered word 'mudblood'.
He didn't know how they'd guessed. He hadn't talked to anyone. And anyway, Tom was not one to let transpire the slightest clue that he had no idea what something seemingly obvious was about, nor to let himself show any trace of confusion. They had no way to know he grew up in a seedy non-magical orphanage. Yet, they somehow did, as most of the students' look suggested explicitly enough that he did not belong in their house. That's what it meant wasn't it? Mudblood. Undiluted heritage.
Rosier, who'd just been sorted, sat in front of him. He was looking at Tom like he was the most disgusting thing he'd ever witness in his life. Tom stared back defiantly, daring him to do something. He’d fight those pricks back if he had to.
Rosier opened his mouth, but closed it just as fast when yet another wave of applause echoed in the hall— the last student of the Hogwarts class of 1938 had just been sorted.
"Alright, alright." An old man with a stern look but a slight smile rose from his seat. He called for silence and the noisy students slowly stopped talking.
"Dear students, dear teachers, welcome, or welcome back in Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am Headmaster Dippet. I know you all must be very hungry but rest assured, I will not be long. I trust you all thoroughly read the school’s rules that were sent to you by owl earlier this summer," he winked. "If not, you’re welcome to ask our dear Mister Filch for a copy." The laughter was sparse.
"As you may have noticed when you entered the school, the security this year have been reinforced. Dear students, rest assured, you are safe as long as you are in Hogwarts."
He marked a pause, and some students exchanged glances. As he prepared to continue, his expression grew even sterner, and he strengthened his back, as if to make himself appear bigger.
"Let me be clear : no discrimination or bullying will be tolerated," he stated firmly. "If you ever find yourself victim or witness or this situation, please refer to a teacher or a prefect. Dear students, be good, learn some magic, and hopefully enjoy yourselves— but most importantly, enjoy this delicious meal."
It seemed that the speech had slightly shifted the mood in the room. Some students exchanged troubled looks, others (mainly Slytherins) scoffed, but everyone seemed to have the same knowing expression as they politely applauded. Everyone but Tom, obviously, who, although he'd caught on the discourse's weird tone, was clueless about the meaning of it all. Irritating to say the least. Who would he even ask about it? Certainly not his classmates whose looks had darkened even more since the end of the speech.
Out of nowhere, meals appeared on the table. They looked delicious. At least, that was a positive highlight. Tom immediately helped himself with a bit of everything. He couldn't help it; Wool's food was, most of the times, disgusting. If he wasn’t always starving, he wouldn’t eat there at all. The London orphanage lacked so much money and in comparison, Hogwarts looked like a private posh school. It probably was, Tom thought as he stole glances at the students sat at his table. All of their uniforms were ironed and they all looked neat and proper, with obvious decorum and manners. They held their forks a certain way, backs straight, and none of them talked with a mouth full. It made his blood boil, because he despised arrogant attitudes on others. How dare they made him feel inferior, the thought was crawling under his skin like a bug.
As Tom was mindlessly scratching his arm, Rosier broke the silence that had settled between the Slytherin first-years down the row.
"This school is definitely lost." He didn’t hold Tom’s gaze as he said it but still, that was personal and he wasn’t hiding it.
"Just go to Durmstrang already," a boy named Avery said somehow coldly. "That’s what Carrow did. ‘Said his father wouldn’t let him anyway near Dumbledore. But you? Your mother has had a big wanted sign hanging over her head every since what happened in Paris. You were bold showing up here."
At the mention of Paris, both Rosier and a tall boy next to Avery tensed. He had brown curly hair and Tom recalled his name was Lestrange. He was clenching his teeth.
"I don’t have any reason to hide. I’m proud of where my family stands. Or are you just that much of a muggle-lover?" Rosier responded aggressively.
"Oh please," Avery scoffed, "I am not. But I’m not stupid enough to broadcast it in a school with people like Dumbledore."
Rosier scoffed too. "You see that’s the irony; my family being one of the only who’s honorable enough to express their opinion publicly should be praised, not shamed. I can’t believe I have to study with a bunch of cowards."
"You’re a little prat!" Avery hissed. "And a fucking stupid one, just like your mother."
"Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!" Rosier leaned over the table toward the other boy, pointing his wand at him. Lestrange quickly grabbed his shoulder and forced him back down.
"Calm down. Both of you," he muttered. "This is stupid, we shouldn’t drag any unwanted attention towards us. Especially you, Rosier. Don’t you get it? Any wrong move and they’ll make an example of you. We all are in ennemies territory here, and we’re all on the same team," he hissed between his teeth.
"Are we, Lestrange?" Rosier frowned, smirking.
"Yes, we are, get that into your thick skull." Lestrange narrowed his eyes, red rising up his otherwise pale cheeks.
"That’s not what your whore of an aunt believed though, is it?"
Lestrange fisted the other boy’s shirt, but just as it seemed as if it was really going to get down, a big hand firmly grabbed the boy’s shoulder.
"Come now, my dear. That is not the kind of manners I know your father taught you."
The grown-up man was chubby and had big red cheeks. Despite the situation, he was smiling. "And what is happening here?"
No one responded, they just looked at their plates and mumbled. His smile got even bigger. While it did look warn, it also had some undertones Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on.
"I am professor Slughorn, your Head of House. Lestrange, I’d love to have a chat with you, Perhaps around a cup fo tea, if you’d come to my office after dinner. I am a dear friend of your father."
"Of course, professor."
The teacher looked happy. He nodded and walked up the table to talk to some older students.
Lestrange’s smug smile made Tom want to scoff.
From the look everyone gave him, he guessed too late that perhaps he had loudly scoffed.
"Something wrong, mudblood?"
That word again.
"Not at all," he replied in a calm tone, holding the other boy’s gaze. But his fork hovered above the plate, unmoving, his grip so tight his knuckles had gone pale. A few snickers rose. Someone muttered, “What did he say?”.
Lestrange looked away first. The sound of cutlery and chatter had resumed around them, but it felt muted. Tom could only hear the blood banging in his ears. He reached for a piece of roast, as if nothing had happened. The meat was tender and rich. Unlike anything he’d ever had.
He didn’t watch them as they laughed and whispered, shifting just slightly away from him as if their blood might catch something. He knew the kind. Those nobs were born here, in this world— raised in it, shaped by it. Their names carried weight, history, alliances. Tom’s carried nothing. Not yet.
The young wizard sat straighter, refusing to shrink. They spoke of lineage, of honour, of blood, and they clung to those things like they were shields. As if those things were earned. They weren’t. They were handed down like silver spoons at a family dinner; pretty, polished, but useless.
Having no legacy only meant he was free to create one; they would keep their names, he would build his. And when they’ll finally say it, it wouldn’t be out of pride, or kinship. It would be something closer to fear. Something closer to silence.