Are You Mistaken?

"He deserved applause just for ending his speech after only a few sentences."

Tom clapped as he replied in his mind. The moment he finished speaking, all kinds of food appeared on the empty plate in front of him.

Roast lamb, lamb chops, French fries, mashed potatoes, meat stew, cream of mushroom soup, garlic bread, lamb pies...

Steam rose from each dish, and their aromas wafted straight into his nose. Tom couldn't help drooling.

He didn't hold back. He reached for a few ribs and chicken wings, served himself a bowl of cream of mushroom soup, and dug in.

Daphne had bought enough snacks to almost fill the two of them, but snacks couldn't make a proper meal. He was still hungry.

People said Britain was a culinary wasteland, full of abysmal food, but Hogwarts' meals were mostly Scottish home cooking, aside from the occasional fish and chips. They were big on stewing meat with spices, butter, and stock, and it was delicious.

There were also some French dishes. This cream of mushroom soup, for example, had the classic taste of French cuisine. It was so delicious it made his eyebrows fall off.

As long as the ingredients were fresh and nobody tried any strange combinations, the food couldn't taste bad. At least it was a hundred times better than the stale bread and watery porridge he'd eaten at Wool's Orphanage.

Andros was still hung up on the earlier question. "You consider being brief a virtue?"

Tom rolled his eyes and sneered. "You've never met an idiot who can ramble for an hour and a half."

Don't think ridiculously long speeches were exclusive to any one place. Britain had them too.

Whenever Tom won an award at a competition, people like the school principal or the student council president would always jump up and start talking at the top of their lungs. They'd repeat the same few points over and over, yet somehow drag it out for ages.

He knew exactly what was going on. Those speeches weren't meant for the people in the room. They were for the reporters.

They were hoping to claim a tiny spot in the newspaper the next day and pave the way for a future run for Parliament.

Back in the nineties, before new media had taken off, newspapers were the lifeblood of British politicians. That was no exaggeration.

"Fine." Andros sounded exasperated. "Your headmaster is a bit mad, all right. But I can tell he's got a solid foundation. He's a formidable opponent."

Powerful people had a way of sensing one another. Voldemort had once been invincible in the Wizarding World, but even though he'd never truly fought Dumbledore, he'd always been wary of him. That deep-seated sense of danger couldn't lie.

"Compared to you when you were alive, who'd win in a fight?" Tom's interest was instantly piqued. He leaned forward slightly. Discussions about who was stronger were right up his alley.

He suddenly looked up, startling Daphne. She thought he'd choked and hurriedly handed him a glass of orange juice.

Tom took it and thanked her, then turned his attention back to Andros.

"Wizarding duels aren't decided by magical power and spells alone." Andros sounded proud. "He's on my level. If we're talking about a proper duel, I've never lost to anyone."

That confidence was the product of a lifetime of being invincible. Tom pursed his lips and let it go—arguing with a dead man about who'd win was beneath him.

By the second half of the feast, everyone was more or less stuffed. Some were nibbling desserts and chatting, while others gathered to trade stories about embarrassing Sorting mishaps.

A second-year Slytherin boy had been curious about Tom's later argument with the Sorting Hat. But the moment he heard Tom was Muggle-born, his face fell. He turned and walked away, looking disgusted.

Before long, the news that "Tom Riddle is a Muggle-born wizard" had spread along the Slytherin table. Glances swept his way, full of scorn, mockery, and disdain—but not a hint of kindness.

Tom didn't care. He kept eating and drinking as usual, but Daphne's little face was crumpled with worry.

The young witch regretted it bitterly. She thought Tom had made a mistake by joining Slytherin, and leaned close to whisper words of comfort. "Tom, don't let it bother you. Slytherin cares too much about blood status. You're talented—they'll come around eventually."

Seeing an eleven-year-old girl trying to comfort him made Tom smile. He ruffled her hair. "I'm an orphan. I'm used to watching people's expressions. It's fine."

That only made Daphne feel worse. Her eyes reddened, and she nearly burst into tears. Tom quickly changed the subject and started talking about their classes, finally managing to distract her.

At last, the scraps and leftovers vanished from the plates, leaving them spotless.

Dumbledore stood up again and rattled off some new school rules and bans, repeatedly emphasizing the dangers of breaking them.

As he spoke, his gaze lingered mostly on the Gryffindor table—or, more precisely, on the twins.

The two boys weren't intimidated at all. They made faces and pulled silly expressions at Dumbledore, making the old man laugh heartily.

It wasn't until Professor McGonagall shot them a warning look that Dumbledore managed to stop laughing. He invited the staff and students to stand and sing the school song.

Golden ribbons floated through the air, twisting into the lyrics. When the last note faded, Dumbledore dabbed at the corner of his eye and dismissed the students to their dormitories. He himself headed for the Headmaster's Office on the top floor.

Snape followed close behind, his expression still grim.

In the Headmaster's Office on the Seventh Floor, Dumbledore poured Snape a glass of honey water. Snape took one small sip and set it down, his voice grave. "Are you sure that Tom Riddle isn't the work of You-Know-Who? Some kind of reincarnation or body-stealing dark magic?"

Dumbledore couldn't help laughing. "Severus, I've only just discovered your sense of humor. You should tell more jokes. Perhaps it'll improve your reputation among your colleagues."

After that jab, Snape's expression darkened further, and the gloom around him was practically tangible.

If he hadn't known he couldn't beat Dumbledore, he would have drawn his wand and retaliated. "Wizards at your level can do any number of outrageous things without surprising anyone," he said through gritted teeth.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Severus, you underestimate yourself and overestimate both me and Voldemort. He did have some utterly bizarre tricks and invented plenty of Dark Magic, but he might fool me—he couldn't fool the Four Founders. This school would never let the same person enroll twice."

Snape paused, then understood.

As Slytherin's Head of House, he knew how Hogwarts screened young witches and wizards. If that had been the Tom Riddle from years ago, he could never have enrolled again as a first-year.

"Keep an eye on the boy," Dumbledore said, his voice gentler. "I didn't expect him to be sorted into Slytherin. The atmosphere in your House may cause him trouble."

"Survival of the fittest," Snape replied coldly. "I'm the Head of House. I can't interfere too much in students' affairs. That's the Slytherin way."

Slytherin cared most about status and strength. It was more practical than the other Houses.

Even if he could interfere, he couldn't be bothered to waste his energy on an unimportant Muggle-born wizard. Harry Potter was enrolling, and Quirrell was acting suspiciously. Tom Riddle was the least of his concerns.