Are You Mistaken?

"Just for the fact that he ended his speech with those few words, he deserves applause."

Tom applauded while responding in his mind. No sooner had the words fallen than his empty plate was filled with a variety of food.

Roast lamb, lamb chops, french fries, mashed potatoes, meat sauce, cream of mushroom soup, garlic bread, shepherd's pie...

Everything was steaming hot, the aroma drilling straight into his nose, making Tom drool.

He didn't stand on ceremony, reaching out to grab a few ribs and chicken wings, then ladled himself a bowl of cream of mushroom soup and began to eat heartily.

Although the snacks Daphne had bought were mostly finished by the two of them, snacks couldn't keep one full; hunger was still hunger.

It was often said that Britain was a culinary desert full of "dark cuisine," but Hogwarts' food—aside from the occasional appearance of fish and chips—was actually mostly Scottish home-style cooking, focusing on meats stewed with spices, butter, and broth. It was delicious.

There were also some French dishes, like this cream of mushroom soup, which had a classic French flavor that was incredibly savory.

As long as the ingredients were fresh and one didn't mess around with bizarre combinations, the food wouldn't be bad. At the very least, it was a hundred times better than the cold bread and thin porridge he had eaten at Wool's Orphanage.

Andros was still dwelling on the previous question and asked again, "Is being short-winded considered a merit?"

Tom took a moment to roll his eyes and sneered, "You haven't met those idiots who can ramble on for an hour and a half."

Don't think overly long speeches were unique to any one place; Britain was the same.

In the past, every time Tom won a competition, some school principal or student council president would always jump up, shouting and boasting, repeating the same few words over and over while dragging it out for ages.

He knew clearly that those people weren't giving speeches for the audience; they were giving them for the reporters in attendance.

It was all so they could occupy a small column in the newspaper the next day, paving the way for a future run for parliament.

In the nineties, before new media became prevalent, newspapers were the lifeblood of British politicians; that was no lie.

"Fine," Andros's voice was full of helplessness. "Your headmaster is indeed a bit mad, but I can feel that his foundation is solid. He's a ruthless character."

There was always an inexplicable resonance between the strong, just like Voldemort back in the day. Even though he had no equal in the magical world, he remained wary of Albus Dumbledore, whom he had never truly fought. That sense of danger, deep in the marrow, could not be faked.

"Compared to you when you were alive, who is the better fighter?" Tom became interested instantly, leaning forward slightly. Topics comparing combat strength were his favorite.

He suddenly looked up, startling Daphne, who thought he was choking and hurriedly handed him a glass of orange juice.

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

"How can wizard duels be judged solely by magic power and spells?" Andros's tone carried a hint of arrogance. "He is on my level, but in a formal duel, I have never lost to anyone."

This confidence was the foundation built by a lifetime of being invincible. Tom curled his lip and didn't argue further—arguing about winning or losing with a dead man was beneath him.

In the latter half of the banquet, everyone was basically stuffed, either nibbling on desserts while chatting or huddled together complaining about the sorting ceremony.

A second-year Slytherin boy had been curious about Tom's later dispute with the Sorting Hat, but as soon as he heard Tom was Muggle-born, his face grew long, and he turned away in disgust.

Before long, the news that "Tom Riddle is a Muggle-born wizard" spread across the Slytherin table. Glances swept over him—some contemptuous, some mocking, some disdainful—but none were kind.

Tom didn't care, continuing to eat and drink, but Daphne was so anxious her little face was crumpled.

The young witch regretted it deeply, feeling that Tom coming to Slytherin was a mistake. She leaned into his ear and whispered comfortingly, "Tom, don't mind them. Slytherin values bloodline too much, but you are capable; they will submit to you sooner or later."

Watching the eleven-year-old girl try to comfort him, Tom couldn't help but smile and ruffle her hair. "I'm an orphan; I've long been used to reading people's expressions. It's fine."

These words only made Daphne feel more heartache, her eyes turning red as if she were about to cry. Tom quickly changed the subject, talking about future classes to draw her attention away.

Finally, the leftovers on the plates vanished into thin air, leaving them clean and shiny once more.

Albus Dumbledore stood up again, reciting some new school rules and prohibitions, repeatedly emphasizing the dangers of violating them.

As he spoke, his gaze remained mostly fixed on the Gryffindor table—or more accurately, on those twins.

The two boys didn't flinch, winking and making faces at Albus Dumbledore, which made the old man laugh out loud.

It wasn't until Professor McGonagall cast a warning look that Albus Dumbledore restrained his smile and invited all the teachers and students to stand and sing the school anthem.

Golden ribbons floated in the air, twisting into the lyrics. As the final note fell, Albus Dumbledore wiped the corner of his eye and told the students to return to their dormitories, while he himself walked toward the headmaster's office on the top floor.

Severus followed closely behind, his expression still grim.

In the eighth-floor headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore poured Severus a glass of honey water. Severus took only a small sip before setting it down, his tone heavy. "Are you certain that Tom Riddle is not the work of You-Know-Who? Some dark art like reincarnation or possession?"

Albus Dumbledore couldn't help but laugh, teasing, "Severus, I only discovered today that you have a sense of humor. You should tell more jokes; it might improve your image among your colleagues."

After being mocked, Severus's face grew even darker, the low pressure almost overflowing.

If he couldn't beat Albus Dumbledore, he would have drawn his wand to retaliate. "For wizards of your level, nothing is too outrageous," he said through gritted teeth.

Albus Dumbledore shook his head. "Severus, you underestimate yourself and overestimate both me and Voldemort. He does have many unfathomable methods and has invented many dark arts, but he could deceive me, yet he could not deceive the Four Founders. This school would never allow the same person to enroll twice."

Severus froze, then suddenly understood.

As the Head of Slytherin, he knew how Hogwarts screened young wizards. If it were the Tom Riddle of the past, it would be impossible for him to enroll as a new student.

"Keep an eye on that child," Albus Dumbledore said, his tone softening. "His sorting into Slytherin was unexpected. Given the atmosphere of your house, he might encounter trouble."

"Survival of the fittest," Severus said coldly. "I am the Head of House; I cannot interfere too much in the affairs between students. That is the rule of Slytherin."

Slytherin valued hierarchy and strength above all else, being more realistic than the other houses.

Even if he could interfere, he couldn't be bothered to waste his energy on an insignificant Muggle-born wizard—with Harry Potter enrolling and Quirrell acting suspiciously, there was no room for Tom Riddle.