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 is 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. Then, 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 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."
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?"
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's hair does not bounce. There's bounce, Riddle. Bounce!"
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 the family's reputation."
With a dramatic turn of his cloak, he swept off down the corridor.
Tom watched him go.
And, for a fleeting moment, he 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 are 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.
Tom noticed, Slughorn also, and so did Lily.
She looked up just in time to see James stirring in the wrong direction.
"James—!" she hissed.
Too late.
A sharp pop! Echoed through the dungeon. James's cauldron let out a violent hiss — then exploded into a billow of bright purple steam and goo that rained down on him, splattering half the front row.
The class burst into laughter. Even Slughorn cracked the faintest smile.
"Mr. Potter," she said dryly, flicking purple paste off his robes with his wand, "try not to impress the ceiling next time."
James coughed, blinking through the mist. "Point taken."
Lily rolled her eyes and muttered, "Idiot."
But when James glanced her way, she offered the smallest smirk.
Just enough to say she noticed.
Tom watched all of it — the chaos, the attention, the recovery.
Once again, he understood why Potter thrived.
Because even when he failed, he made it look like a game.
After class, the corridor outside the Potions dungeon was quiet — until Tom heard laughter.
It wasn't the harmless kind.
Rounding the corner, he spotted James Potter and a few of his friends — Sirius Black among them — standing in a half-circle around a hunched figure near the wall.
Severus.
His robes were being magically hoisted up around his knees while Sirius shouted, "Careful, Snivellus, your legs might blind someone!"
Snape had his wand out, but clearly wasn't fast enough against the group. One spell knocked it from his hand, and it clattered across the floor.
James raised his wand again. "Let's see if he twitches when he's upside-down—"
"Enough."
The voice cut through the air like a blade.
James turned — surprised.
Tom Riddle stood still, but his wand was already in his hand. Not raised. Not threatening.
Yet.
"You've had your fun," Tom said quietly.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think Slytherins cared about each other."
"I don't," Tom said flatly. "But I don't like wasted magic."
James stared at him. A flicker of challenge in his eyes — then a small smirk.
"Right," James said, lowering his wand. "Didn't know you were collecting strays."
He turned and walked off, Sirius trailing behind, still laughing.
Tom approached Severus, who was now straightening his robes, red-faced but silent.
Tom handed him the wand without a word.
Severus took it. Their eyes met — briefly.
"…Thanks," Severus muttered.
Tom only nodded.
He looked at Severus again — really looked.
"Are you alright?"
Severus nodded stiffly, brushing dirt off his robes. "I've had worse."
Tom did not move. "How long has that been happening?"
Severus hesitated, and then muttered, "Since the train. James and Sirus... think I'm fun to mess with."
Tom tilted his head slightly. "You never hexed them back?"
Severus gave a bitter half-smile. "Not yet. I'm better with potions."
Tom handed him the wand properly this time. "Then maybe it's time you learn."
Severus looked at him — and for the first time, not with suspicion, but something closer to trust.
The corridor was still.
Severus had slipped away without a word, his footsteps swallowed by the stone.
Tom remained, his hand lowering slowly from where his wand had been — the only sound now the faint dripping of water from the dungeon ceiling.
Then a weight shifted in the air.
He turned.
At the far end of the hall, half-shrouded in darkness, stood Professor Dumbledore.
No movement. No sound. Just presence.
His robes did not sway. His hands were folded calmly. However, his eyes — pale, sharp, almost colorless in the torchlight — were fixed on Tom.
Watching.
Studying.
Measuring.
Tom straightened, instinct tightening in his chest. He did not blink.
Neither did Dumbledore.
Seconds passed, cold and slow.
Then, without a word, Dumbledore turned and disappeared into shadow — robes brushing soundlessly across the stone.
Tom stood frozen.
Not afraid.
But not untouched.
A strange chill lingered where the man's eyes had been.
He did not follow.
He did not speak.
But as he walked back toward the common room, one thought clung to him like a mist:
He saw everything.
And he said nothing.
Tom stood alone in the dungeon corridor long after Dumbledore vanished into the dark. The cold stone pressed against his back, but it wasn't the chill that unsettled him — it was the silence.
Why didn't Dumbledore intervene?
He watched. Measured. But did nothing.
Was he testing me?
Judging me?
Waiting for something worse?
Tom's fingers curled around his wand. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he wasn't afraid of who was watching him.
He was afraid of what they expected.
Later that night, Tom didn't sleep.
While his roommates breathed slow and deep behind their curtains, he sat at his desk in the dormitory, candlelight flickering against the dark walls. The notebook lay open.
This time, he wrote.
They all play games. James plays the hero. Dumbledore plays the wise man. Lucius plays the prince. But I see through it.
Even Lily Evans — kind, curious, careful. But careful isn't harmless. She's not afraid of me. That makes her dangerous.
And Dumbledore... I don't know yet. But I will.
I need to learn faster. Not just spells — people. How they move, how they think, what they fear. I'm not going to be the shadow in the room anymore.
He paused.
Then, slower:
No one else will decide what I become.
The next morning, as sunlight filtered through the green-tinted lake windows, the atmosphere in Slytherin House was tense.
News had spread — not just about the scuffle between James and Severus, but who had ended it.
Tom Riddle.
The boy with green eyes. The boy no one really understood.
Some whispered. Some stared. A few older students even nodded at him in the hallway — small acknowledgments, subtle signs that he had gained… something.
Respect? Fear? Influence?
It didn't matter.
It was more than he had yesterday.
Lucius caught up to him on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, panting slightly.
"Did you hex Potter?" he asked, wide-eyed.
"No," Tom said simply.
"But you were there?"
"I stopped him."
Lucius fell quiet, clearly waiting for more — an explanation, maybe a justification. He didn't get one.
After a moment, he chuckled. "You know, you're not like the others. Even the professors don't know what to do with you."
Tom said nothing.
Lucius leaned in. "I think that's why they'll start to respect you."
Tom finally turned to him. "I don't care about being respected."
Lucius smiled. "Then you're lying to yourself."
And for once… Tom didn't argue.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was perched on the third floor, a long chamber lined with dusty glass cabinets filled with sinister-looking relics: a cracked crystal ball still swirling with smoke, a pair of cursed shackles, and a withered basilisk fang mounted behind protective wards.
Tom entered quietly and took a seat near the middle. Lucius sat behind him. Severus took the end of the row.
The rest of the class shuffled in, buzzing with rumors — about the incident in the dungeons, about the strange boy with the green eyes, about James Potter's exploding cauldron earlier that day.
None of it mattered now.
Because Professor Merrythought had entered.
She was older than any of the other professors Tom had seen. Her grey hair was tied in a high knot, and her wrinkled face was surprisingly sharp — not frail, but keen, like a dagger too long kept in its sheath.
Her eyes swept over the class.
"Wands away," she said, her voice firm. "Today we're not practicing spells. We're learning names."
There was a pause.
"Names," she repeated. "Because some names are curses in themselves."
She turned to the blackboard, and with a flick of her wand, a word scrawled itself in sharp white chalk:
THE GAUNTS
Tom's breath hitched.
Merrythought didn't look at anyone in particular — but for a split second, Tom swore she glanced at him.
"Tell me," she said, walking slowly across the front of the class. "Who here has heard of the Gaunt family?"
No one raised their hand.
Even Lucius looked puzzled.
"The Gaunts," Merrythought continued, "were one of the oldest pure-blood families in wizarding history — descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself. They could speak Parseltongue. Some say they were once noble."
She paused.
"But their pride rotted into madness. Centuries of inbreeding, obsession with blood purity, and dark magic drove them to ruin. They isolated themselves from the world, hoarding relics and curses like trophies."
She tapped the board again. A second line appeared:
"Blood above all else." — Gaunt Family Motto
Tom stared at the writing, his hands tightening beneath the desk.
"They were cruel," Merrythought said simply. "They tortured Muggles for fun. They hexed entire villages into silence. They believed their bloodline made them untouchable. And they were wrong."
She turned.
"The Ministry dismantled their estate in Little Hangleton after several... incidents. Some Gaunts were arrested. Others disappeared. The line, as far as anyone knows, is extinct."
A few students murmured. James Potter leaned sideways to whisper something to Sirius. Tom didn't catch the words — but he caught the glance they threw his way.
He said nothing.
He didn't blink.
He just stared at the name on the board.
Gaunts…
Merrythought's voice softened now — not with sympathy, but gravity.
"Let this be your first lesson in defense: Darkness doesn't always come wearing fangs or breathing fire. Sometimes it comes as a name — a history — a bloodline. And sometimes... it comes from within."
Tom's heart beat louder than he liked.
From within.
He felt it then — the eyes on him. Not many. Just a few. As if they'd caught the way his jaw clenched, the stillness of his hands.
He looked straight ahead.
"You may speak freely," Merrythought said, scanning the class. "Thoughts?"
A girl from Ravenclaw raised her hand. "Professor... do you think some people are just born dark? Because of their family?"
Tom didn't turn, but his ears rang.
Merrythought gave a long look before answering.
"I think some people are born with shadows," she said. "But only they decide what becomes of them."
Professor Merrythought continued to pace slowly before the board.
"Now, there was one feature," she said, "that the Gaunts were said to share — something that made them unmistakable, even before they spoke a word."
She paused dramatically.
"They all had... vivid green eyes."
Tom's head lifted slightly. Not sharply — just enough.
His breath stopped in his throat.
"They say they were like emeralds soaked in poison," Merrythought added. "Brilliant. Piercing. Unnerving."
Laughter rippled through the classroom — the way it always did when something felt safely distant. The past couldn't hurt you. The Gaunts were dead. Long gone. Just a story.
But not for Tom.
Then, casually, James Potter turned in his seat — just enough to make sure the whole class could hear him.
He looked straight at Tom and grinned.
"Well, that explains a lot."
A few students laughed — not cruelly, but with that easy, confident humor James always carried. Even Sirius chuckled, muttering something under his breath.
Tom didn't react.
Not on the outside.
But his mind was spinning.
What did he mean? Why say that?
Why look at me?
He reached up instinctively, touching his temple — as if he could feel the color of his own eyes burning through his skin.
James wasn't finished.
"Maybe we should check if Riddle hisses in his sleep," he said, smirking. "Or if he keeps cursed rings in his trunk."
More laughter.
Even Lily Evans gave James a disapproving look — but she didn't say anything.
Professor Merrythought didn't stop the class, either. She raised an eyebrow, but allowed it to pass — perhaps because she thought it harmless.
Tom looked at no one.
But the coldness in his chest spread like ink in water.
He didn't understand why the words struck him so hard — but they did. Deeply.
And somewhere, beneath the confusion and humiliation, something else took root.
Fear.
What if they're right?
After class, Tom didn't leave with the others.
He stood in front of the cabinet at the back of the room, staring into a case holding a dark ring sealed under glass. A note beside it read:
"Item recovered from the Gaunt ruin. Do not touch."
His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass — pale face, black hair... and unmistakable green eyes.
Who am I?
He didn't know.
But now, he had to find out.
And if James Potter wanted to joke about shadows —
Tom would show him what they looked like up close.
NESSGEEORIGINAL