Chapter Text
Some children would feel very nervous about a starting a new school year if the one before had been difficult. Most would at the very least feel a little apprehension about returning to a place where they are disliked by their housemates.
Tom Riddle didn’t, because Tom Riddle was better than that.
In the platform dotted with clusters of waiting people, Tom's arrogant demeanor would give him way if anyone cared to look. That’s not to say he was the only one projecting an air of superiority – far from, the purebloods from the ancient families had practically perfected that art and would probably boast to have invented it too, but it was exactly that compression that made Tom stick out.
One look at the second-handed robes the young boy was wearing would immediately exposed that there were few similarities between the poor orphan and the wealthy, spoiled aristocrats.
When the harsh, metallic shriek heralded the arrival of the Hogwarts Express, donned in bold red, Tom felt pleased. One could say he was standing in defiance of his less fortunate upbringing – with the proud tilt of his chin and refusal to act cowered.
He had nothing to be nervous about, he was no longer stranger to the magical would, and he had already proved that he was an exceptionally wizard; out-performing everyone in everything. No matter what his housemates in Slytherin whispered – mocked, the truth of the matter was that he belonged.
The doors to the train enthusiastically eased open with the force of ten horses, as if gripped by the desire to welcome him back, and Tom stepped in with bearing of a king entering his castle.
I belong, I belong, repeated in his head. Tom ignored how much it sounded like a comforting mantra the same way he ignored the sharp edges of his worn shoes through his thinning grey socks.
He was ready to start his third year in Hogwarts.
Over the remainder of the last weeks of second year and summer, Tom had regained the motoric of his left hand. It had been very upsetting to carry on with the practice exams while he still felt residual pain after the curse, but at least the matron had regrown his hair quickly. Looking like a fool would have been insurable.
They never caught who did it, his housemates swore up and down that they hadn’t seen anything, even though the attack happened in the common room.
Despite spending most of his horrid summer holidays nursing his grudges, Tom never considered the option of not return to Hogwarts. Cruelty was after all, something Tom was born and molded in, his housemates’ harsh treatment was nothing Tom hadn’t experienced before.
Truthfully, he was mostly frustrated that he couldn’t retaliate enough.
“You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you’ve a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.”
Usually, most cared little for the sorting ceremony, impatiently waiting for the feast to start. Sure, there are always a relative or acquaintance that one might have some interested in knowing where some first years ended up, but no one paid attention to the whole thing. To the first years it the most exciting moment in their life, granted even Tom had felt it was very pivotal when he was the one waiting to be sorted, but to the rest its was plain boring.
Or at least that was usually the case, but something was clearly different this year. There was a palpable anticipation in the air, and people were whispering excited to each other, shooting glance at group of first years waiting to be sorted.
At first, Tom was absolutely baffled as to why, and few thing angered him more than ignorance. Which was why he furiously directed his attention at the same place, glaring at the small first years, no doubt intimidating those who were unfortunate enough to meet his gaze.
When his careful scrutiny failed to yield results, he shifted his attention to the two chatting sixth-year girls that sat across him, straining his ears to catch their hushed conversation.
“I can’t see him anywhere,” one of them heaved a deep, weary sigh and rested her chin in her hands, “Are you certain he is really starting here?”
“Of course! I heard it from Malfoy,” the other said a little offended.
“Why would Malfoy talk to you?” The first asked a little bewildered, which was fair since both was rather low in the hierarchy of Slytherin, hence why they sat in the far end of the table, right across a mudblood like Tom Riddle.
Nonetheless, Tom really wasn’t interested in hearing about Malfoy lack of interest, and really wished they would continue to the subject of this mysterious him. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long before they divulged something interesting.
“I didn’t even know one could transfer from Durmstrang, or any other school, really. “
A Durmstrang transfer student? That was interesting. Tom ha read about other magical institutes in Europe and found Durmstrang particularly fascinating. It was known to put a lot of emphasis on teaching the Dark Arts and not admit muggle-borns, as some of his dull housemates pointed out.
The school was rumored to be in the far north of the continent and accepted many international students, but he had never heard about students transferring from there. It was not normal if the reaction of the Hogwarts students were any indication. Nor was the student arriving according to some people further down the table.
“Dueling Champion, youngest one to have earn that tittle!”
“I heard he associated with the trouble in Germany.”
“Do you think he was expelled from Durmstrang?”
It was almost impressive how the students kept up an incessant stream of chatter and commentary during the whole sorting ceremony; in Tom’s mind, he was creating a list. Noting every piece of information and storing it for later use. At this stage, his interested was impersonal, mostly there because he hated the fact that those around him possessed knowledge he didn’t.
Slowly, the chatter died down, but the questioning looks only increased as the first years thinned out. Disappointment teased the air before Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore cleared his throat, capturing everyone’s attention.
One day I’ll command the same respect, Tom inwardly sneered, annoyed at himself for implying he’ll strive to be anything like Dumbledore. It was petty of him to think that way, but so be it.
“I see the Hogwarts gossip mill work as swiftly as always,” Dumbledore said, his glasses twinkling “I do hope you all know better than to trouble our new sixth year student too much.”
Oh. Not in his year then.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Tom’s face, a shadow camouflaging the hot disappointment Tom felt at the realization that the he would probably not interact much with the newest addition to the school. A shame, he would have loved to hear more about other magical schools from someone who attended them.
There was bored indifferent painted his face as he (in)patiently waited for the whole thing to finish. Dumbledore, rather predictably, dragged out the introduction way longer than necessary. Probably for the sole purpose of being infuriating. Not much of what he said was informative, mostly vague nonsenses about trying times and new beginnings. It felt like an eternity before a lanky teen, with a mop of dark, unruly hair on his head stood up from the Gryffindor table and walked towards Dumbledore and the sorting hat.
Rather belatedly, Dumbledore announced him, “Gaunt, Hadrian.”
The teen walked with confident strides, oozing strength and power. There was something amusing about the audacity he had when he mockingly bowed to the gawking hall of students. It was also terribly Gryffindor-ish, so Tom was more than ready to dismiss him.
The air was heavy with the tense excitement and suspense, as everyone seemed to be bating their breath while waiting for verdict. Gaunt sat calmly on the high stool, taking his sweet time.
Just as Tom was about to glance way, Hadrian Gaunt’s eyes shifted to him. Tom felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Gaunt’s eyes, vibrant green deep enough to hold a universe, held Tom captive. Intensely, as if he was staring straight down into Tom soul, Gaunt examined him in a fleeting moment that seemed to last for ages
“SLYTHERIN!”
Relief was Tom’s first emotion felt when Gaunt broke the eye contact, but it was soon poisoned by a creeping, twisting feeling of being rejected. Like he had failed some test. The bitterness increased when Gaunt was welcomed by the sixth year Slytherins with open arms, and Tom was discarded to the side.
Furious and confused, Tom stabbed his food with more force than necessary, and stubbornly refused to even look at Hadrian Gaunt direction, thus missing how the older boy’s eyes kept flickering towards him.