Harry Potter: I, Tom Riddle, am not the Dark Lord Chapter 14 14: A Born Slytherin

In the Wizarding World, there are no true secrets. As long as sothing has ever existed, it leaves behind a trace.

Even sothing as elusive as a Horcrux can be unraveled thread by thread—exposed one after another by none other than Dumbledore.

Tom Riddle—his na once shone like a star at Hogwarts sixty years ago, only to beco a na feared and forbidden thirty years later.

Back then, Dumbledore was the Transfiguration professor. Flitwick taught Charms. Sprout and McGonagall weren't on staff yet, but with their close ties to the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore himself, they knew the essential truths he chose to share.

And Snape—once Voldemort's most trusted follower, now his most bitter enemy—had investigated every detail thoroughly.

Then there was Hagrid, shaking like a leaf, pale as a ghost.

Hagrid had gone to school with Tom Riddle, and the big-hearted half-giant had once naively believed Riddle to be a decent person.

But there was soone else who wasn't calm either—Quirrell.

When Professor McGonagall read out the na, Quirrell, who had been hunching down to avoid Snape's penetrating gaze, suddenly jerked his head up and stared fixedly at Tom as he walked toward the Sorting Hat.

Snape, on the other hand, had no ti to notice Quirrell's odd behavior. His gaze burned with pure hatred.

Not for this Tom—no, not exactly. For another Tom.

"Severus,"

Dumbledore whispered so softly that only Snape could hear him.

"There are many people in the world with the sa na. A na is just a label to distinguish one individual from another. Don't let old ghosts cloud your judgnt."

Tch.

Snape didn't reply. He just sneered.

As if he didn't know Dumbledore had personally fetched new students over the sumr. He'd assud the old man was collecting Harry Potter, but no—it had been that oaf Hagrid.

And besides Harry Potter, who else could make the headmaster go out of his way? Only Tom Riddle.

So of the sharper students had picked up on the shift in the professors' moods. The Great Hall gradually quieted.

By the ti Tom reached the stool, the silence was absolute.

"Riddle. Just put on the hat," Professor McGonagall said, pressing her lips together tightly. She never expected she'd get a second chance to teach Tom Riddle.

Tom gave a polite nod, sat on the stool, and slowly lifted the Sorting Hat toward his head.

He could swear on rlin's silky stockings that the hat hadn't even fully touched his hair yet when it shrieked—like soone choking it by the brim:

"SLYTHERIN! A born Slytherin!"

McGonagall was stunned. Snape's face turned grave. Dumbledore said nothing.

And Tom... was dumbfounded.

Sitting high up on the stool, he looked out across the hall full of craning necks, utterly blank.

Slytherin?

He wasn't a pure-blood. He wasn't even a half-blood. He had no thirst for power. What gave this hat the right to dump him into Slytherin?

Was this... fate? Was this the inescapable curse of being Tom Riddle?

anwhile, in the learning space within, Andros—who had been silently observing everything—was now howling with laughter. He knew Tom's plan inside and out, right down to the backup for Gryffindor. But Slytherin? That had never been part of the script.

Just as Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to suggest Tom take his seat, the boy, in front of everyone, yanked the hat back down over his head.

"Let's talk," Tom said in his mind.

"Hmm? Sorting's already over, little wizard. What do you want to discuss?" the hat whispered.

"You hadn't even touched my head just now. You must've announced Potter's result by mistake, right? He's the Boy Who Lived, the last heir of the Potters, pure-blooded and powerful. He fits Slytherin perfectly."

In a desperate bid to fix the ss, Tom threw Harry Potter under the bus without hesitation. He didn't even care if Dumbledore would corner him later for a 'chat'.

"Absolutely not."

The hat sounded annoyed. "Riddle, don't question my expertise. I've never made a mistake—not once. I might be old, but I'm still sharp. Slytherin is your proper house."

"That's not magical at all! Why on earth would I be in Slytherin?"

Tom refused to accept it.

The Sorting Hat, absorbing his frantic denial, responded in a chirpier tone:

"The thirst to be the best, that stubborn will to achieve your goals, and that ancient, untad magic running in your veins—even more pure than Salazar or Godric. If Salazar were alive, he'd be begging on his knees to take you as his apprentice."

Tom clenched his teeth. A born Slytherin, really? Since when?!

This bloody hat is slandering !

"Aren't you supposed to consider students' preferences? I insist on going to Ravenclaw!"

"Request denied," the hat replied cheerfully. "Now stop wasting my ti. I've got other young witches and wizards to sort. If you're that sentintal, co see in Dumbledore's office later. I charge a few Galleons per chat."

"Fine, Hufflepuff then! Look—I'm Muggle-born, kind-hearted, and love making friends. I'm basically the poster child for Hufflepuff!" Tom pleaded.

There was a pause. Then the hat spoke again, gentler this ti, almost like it was trying to comfort him.

"Child, you can lack many things in life—but never self-awareness. Please... accept who you really are."

Stupid hat. One day I'm going to stitch that cursed mouth shut, Tom fud.

The mont he thought it, the Sorting Hat caught the emotion and shouted even louder:

"SLYTHERIN! SLYTHERIN! TOM RIDDLE BELONGS TO SLYTHERIN!"

Before he could argue again, Professor McGonagall pulled the hat off his head.

"Mr. Riddle, the Sorting Ceremony is over. If you have concerns, you may bring them up later."

Tom forced a smile—one more painful than tears—and gave her a small bow. Then he walked toward the Slytherin table.

At first, no one applauded. Everyone was still reeling from the hat-wearing repeat scene.

Maybe he just wanted to feel more involved?

The young students exchanged confused glances.

Then Daphne Greengrass caught on, flashing a dazzling smile and clapping enthusiastically. Others at the Slytherin table slowly followed suit.

Tom slid into the seat next to her.

"I didn't expect you to be sorted into Slytherin!" Daphne whispered excitedly. "This is perfect—we'll get to take all our classes together."

"Yeah. I didn't expect it either," Tom replied flatly, soul weary.

Soon after, the final few students were sorted. The last one was Blaise Zabini, who was also placed in Slytherin.

Only then did Tom realize—this was the guy who had fallen for Professor McGonagall's nonsense and strutted around like the whole school belonged to him.