The students filed into the Great Hall one after another, settling into their seats with eager anticipation for the Sorting Ceremony and the lavish start-of-term feast.
Countless candles floated serenely in midair, their flames casting a golden glow upon the gleaming plates below. The polished surfaces sparkled in response, echoing the brilliance of the enchanted ceiling above, which shimmered with a tapestry of stars.
"Tom!" Zabini, seated across from him, greeted with unrestrained excitement. "Haven't seen you all summer—I missed you like mad."
"Same here," Theodore Nott chimed in quickly.
Rosier stammered, his gaze toward Tom filled with a mix of reverence and fear.
It wasn't only him. His cousin, Steven Rosier, a sixth-year Slytherin, also kept sneaking glances in Tom's direction, his expression complicated.
Just yesterday, the eldest patriarch of the British Rosier family—their grandfather—had summoned the two of them and issued a very clear order: within the school, Tom Riddle's word was law. If Tom said "east," they were not even to whisper "southeast." Any disobedience would result in punishment by family law.
Neither of them could make sense of what had gotten into their grandfather. Especially Steven—he was older than Tom. Yes, Tom was talented, but he wasn't pure-blooded, nor did he have any real foundation in wizarding society. Wasn't it enough to simply keep a distance? Why lower themselves to follow him like dogs?
Then Rosier—Tom's roommate—witnessed, for the very first time, what "family punishment" truly meant.
His grandfather was far harsher than Tom could ever dream of being. The punishment began with a hundred lashes in succession and continued until Steven passed out cold.
When he finally came to, Steven's eyes were clear. The defiance had drained out of him; he had no choice but to submit. And the old Rosier explained nothing—other than that the command had come directly from France.
Though the French and British branches of the Rosier family seemed long divided, their cooperation had never ceased. The hierarchy between them was unmistakable: the French Rosier line utterly crushed the British branch in both numbers and power.
The British Rosiers' middle generation was already locked away in Azkaban. Whatever scraps of dignity remained were only because the French branch occasionally dripped them a little sustenance. Refusal wasn't even an option.
More importantly, the old Rosier knew exactly who had given the order. In his mind, countless suspicions about Tom's true identity had already begun to swirl.
But that was not something to share with the younger generation. Whoever it was that stood behind the Rosier family, there was still one man they had to guard against—Dumbledore. The less the boys knew, the smaller the chance of secrets slipping from their mouths.
And so, today, both cousins acted strangely subdued. Every time Steven's eyes fell upon Tom, he could almost feel the sting of phantom blows across his back.
Taking advantage of Daphne's absence, Zabini leaned forward eagerly, firing off several questions about potion-making that had troubled him over the summer.
Slytherin did have its fools, but they were few and far between. Most students, under the house's influence, grew shrewd enough to understand their own ambitions.
Zabini knew his strength was potions. With a powerful roommate like Tom at his side, his future path was already clear.
Tom, for his part, never stinted on knowledge. He even hoped Zabini would push himself further. He wanted to set a precedent: anyone who followed him would prosper. It was the very same strategy the Dark Lord once used—amassing followers by binding them with his vast knowledge of the Dark Arts.
Antonin Dolohov, for instance, had joined the Death Eaters precisely for access to crueler, more forbidden magic—and later, he was the one who killed Lupin.
As Tom patiently resolved Zabini's questions, the Slytherins around them held their tongues, careful not to disturb the exchange.
Only when Daphne returned did Zabini draw back on his own. There would always be time for questions, but crossing their "sister-in-law" would mean social death in Slytherin.
"How did Professor McGonagall take it?" Tom asked, glancing at Daphne's flushed cheeks from hurrying.
The young witch waved her hand. "It's fine. She only told Astoria to wait with the other first-years for the Sorting Ceremony, then sent me back."
But as she finished, Daphne's face fell. "Astoria might be fine, but my Transfiguration essay isn't done. Looks like another sleepless night."
"Tom, give me two more bottles of Energy Draught, or I'll never make it through."
"Hm. Or you could just have your roommate write a little for you," Tom replied evenly.
Over at the Gryffindor table, several Weasleys sat in grim silence. They had seen Harry and Ron on the train, flying in that bewitched car. Now their worry wasn't only for the boys' safety—it was for their father.
As head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, Mr. Weasley's own sons had just been spotted joyriding across Britain in a magically modified car. Getting expelled would be the least of it; if the Ministry pressed charges, prison wasn't out of the question.
If Arthur Weasley really went to Azkaban… it would be as if the sky had fallen on their family.
All they could do was hope no Muggles had seen the flying car, and that the chaos had gone unnoticed.
But they didn't know. The Daily Prophet had already run a special evening edition. Six or seven Muggles had reported the sighting to the police, and the Ministry's Obliviator Squad was scrambling to contain the disaster.
After a while, the professors arrived one after another. When this year's new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, swept in, clad in flamboyant aquamarine robes, the Hall erupted in chatter.
Lockhart beamed and waved grandly at the four long tables, calling out thanks for their support and promising autographs after the feast, as though this were one of his book signings.
And to be fair—quite a few students actually ate it up.
It wasn't until Professor McGonagall appeared, face like thunder, carrying the Sorting Stool and the Sorting Hat, that the young witches and wizards fell silent.
McGonagall was already seething.
In the past, students only managed to cause trouble after term began. This year, some had stirred up a national incident before the feast had even started.
Driving a car across all of Britain—what in Merlin's name had possessed them?
All she wanted now was to get through the Sorting Ceremony, then hunt down Harry and Ron and show them precisely what the lion's wrath meant.
Even Tom felt a twinge of unease at the sight of her expression.
He no longer feared Dumbledore much—the old man was surprisingly easy to handle, his patience and tolerance endless. Unless you committed something truly heinous, it was hard to earn his genuine anger.
But the Head of House was another matter entirely. Her authority was razor-sharp, her discipline unyielding. When she scolded, it was because a student had erred, and it was always for their good.
Anyone with the faintest scrap of conscience would feel guilty under her gaze.
"Bourbon Anthony!"
—