"We need to talk."
Snape mulled over the scene from earlier, his suspicion growing stronger the more he thought about it.
That Tom Riddle—could he be some product of Voldemort's reincarnation through dark magic?
The Sorting Hat's speed didn't necessarily reflect a wizard's potential, but it certainly revealed a glimpse into a young wizard's personality and inner thoughts.
And Snape had never seen a student sorted into Slytherin that fast. Honestly, unless Salazar Slytherin himself had returned from the grave, he doubted it could've gone any quicker.
What did that mean?
It meant Tom Riddle was astonishingly compatible with Slytherin House. And even as the Head of Slytherin, Snape didn't see that as an entirely good thing.
Yet Dumbledore didn't seem to care. As soon as Blaise Zabini took his seat, the headmaster rose with a beaming smile.
"Welcome!" he boomed. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! But before the feast, I'd like to say a few words. They are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
"Thank you all!"
With that, Dumbledore gave a slight bow and returned to his seat.
The hall erupted into thunderous applause. Tom clapped along with the rest.
"What did that even mean?"
Inside the learning space, Andros was utterly baffled. He hadn't understood a word, so why was everyone clapping?
"Honestly? Just the fact that he ended his speech with those random words is applause-worthy," Tom replied dryly.
No sooner had he spoken than the empty platters before them magically filled with food.
Roast lamb, lamb chops, golden fries, creamy mashed potatoes, rich gravy stew, velvety cream of mushroom soup, garlic bread, lamb-filled pastries—the delicious scents wafted up in a tantalizing wave, calling every young witch and wizard to dig in.
Tom didn't hold back. He grabbed a few ribs and wings from the nearest platter, ladled himself a full bowl of cream of mushroom soup, and began to feast—after all, Daphne's snacks were long gone, and snacks were never enough to actually fill you up.
People said Britain was a culinary wasteland full of questionable food, but Hogwarts meals—barring the usual fish and chips—were more like traditional Scottish home-cooking. They leaned heavily on meat stewed in broth with butter and spices.
There were even touches of French cuisine. The cream of mushroom soup, for instance, was a classic French dish.
As long as the ingredients were fresh and the cooks didn't get too experimental, it was hard to go wrong. At the very least, it was leagues better than what Tom had been fed at the orphanage.
Andros was still pondering.
"Short speeches can be a good thing?"
Tom scoffed between bites. "You've clearly never sat through a one-and-a-half-hour ramble by an idiot."
Don't be fooled—long-winded speeches weren't unique to certain Eastern countries. British ones could be just as torturous. After every award Tom received, some headmaster or chairman would show up to pontificate endlessly.
Those speeches weren't even meant for the live audience; they were staged for the journalists. A small column in tomorrow's paper could boost their chances of becoming an MP.
In 1990s Britain, where social media hadn't yet exploded, newspapers were a politician's lifeblood. That was gospel truth.
"Alright," Andros sighed. "Still, your headmaster seems a bit... unhinged. But I can sense he's powerful."
Power recognizes power. Just like Voldemort in his heyday—he had no rival, but he still held deep wariness toward Dumbledore, even though the two had never directly dueled. That unease came from instinct.
"So, between the two of you—who's stronger?"
Tom perked up. Power-level debates were timeless. He abruptly looked up from his food, causing Daphne to think he was choking from eating too fast. She hurriedly handed him a glass of orange juice.
Tom took it with a nod of thanks.
"Wizard duels aren't just about raw power or the strength of spells," he said calmly. "But I can say this—Dumbledore and I are on the same level. And in a formal duel, I would never lose to anyone."
That was the confidence of a king of the century—someone who had tasted invincibility.
Tom nodded to himself and ended the conversation with Andros.
As the feast wound down, the students began enjoying desserts while chatting about their new lives at Hogwarts.
A curious second-year boy had asked Tom what the Sorting Hat had said to him. But the moment he found out Tom was Muggle-born, his face darkened and he turned away, saying nothing more.
Soon, Tom's origins had spread across the entire Slytherin table. Many gazes turned his way—curious, cold, even hostile—but none of them friendly.
Tom didn't mind. But Daphne looked troubled.
The little witch had a sinking feeling that Slytherin might not be the best place for him. She leaned in and whispered, "Slytherins care about blood status, but if you're strong enough, it won't matter what you are."
Tom chuckled. An eleven-year-old girl trying to comfort him—it was almost adorable.
"I'm an orphan. I've gotten used to this sort of thing. It's no big deal."
But hearing that didn't make Daphne feel any better. If anything, she looked even more heartbroken, her eyes reddening.
Afraid she'd burst into tears, Tom quickly changed the subject, steering the conversation toward what they could expect in their classes and adventures ahead.
Eventually, the food vanished from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean once more.
Dumbledore rose again, delivering a few updates to the school rules and adding a stern warning about the consequences of breaking them. He spent nearly three-quarters of that speech staring pointedly at the Gryffindor table—more specifically, at a pair of identical twins.
The twins didn't seem the least bit chastised. They even winked and made faces at the headmaster, which made the old man chuckle despite himself.
Finally, under Professor McGonagall's withering gaze, Dumbledore invited everyone to stand and sing the Hogwarts school anthem.
Golden ribbons twisted in the air, spelling out the lyrics. When the final note rang out, Dumbledore dabbed his eyes and sent the students off to their dormitories.
He himself headed for the top of the castle.
Snape followed close behind.