The Sorting

Tom is deeply disappointed as first Avery, then Nott, then Malfoy and then Mulciber all get sorted into Slytherin. He glares in their direction, and they fidget in their green ties.

"Riddle, Tom," Professor Dumbledore calls.

The Professor smiles down at him kindly as he places the old, battered hat on his head. Tom beams back, ready to make him proud – he'll become one mighty Gryffindor!

'Well,' says an amused voice inside his head, 'will you really?'

Tom is startled by it. The idea of something else inside his head makes him oddly uncomfortable, even if it's just a crumpled old hat.

'Crumpled?' it says. 'I'll have you know – I look fantastic for my age.'

'My, certainly.' Tom tries for flattery, even though the hat looks like an old, dirty rag. It's never a good idea to anger one who holds your future in its… brim?

'Boy, I read minds – I can hear your scheming,' it says. 'And must I say, what a very Slytherin attempt.'

Tom panics.

'No!' he begs. 'A very brave thing to do! A truly cunning man would never try to trick a mind reader – I'm very non-Slytherin. And red is my favourite colour. And gold – well, who doesn't like gold?'

'A skill for rhetoric and ambition for riches, I see. There's really no doubt –'

'What, you think Gryffindors don't want money? Are you hearing yourself?'

'No better place for you…'

'No, no, no! NO!'

"Better be –"

'Listen you glorified dustcloth, you put me in Gryffindor or I'll use your patched, pointy self to make Mrs Cole a pair of knickers!'

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat bellows.

Tom drags himself to the Slytherin table without daring to look back at Professor Dumbledore's – surely disappointed – face. He sits next to Thoros, who tries to smile at him but only manages a grimace. Of course, he must be just as disheartened as himself.

None of the kids, later also joined by Ertan Rosier, eat much for dinner. Tom himself also feels too depressed to find hunger.

That, or they all ate way too many chocolate frogs.

The House of Slytherin

Tom sits on a comfy, black couch in the Slytherin Common Room and – very reluctantly – admits to himself that the ambience is nice. It's dark and classic and luxurious – it reeks of power and galleons. He's never been somewhere that looks less like the Orphanage.

"Slytherins stick together," says Luella Runcorn, seventh year prefect and Head Girl. "We offer a united front – Any issues you have with your housemates stay inside the Common Room."

Tom thinks Head Boy has a nice ring to it.

"Ah – Miss Runcorn," says someone entering the Common Room. "Thank you for welcoming our first years. I hope everyone had a nice summer."

The man is short and fat; roughly the shape of an inverted spinning top. He has a shiny, bald pate and an unnaturally voluminous moustache – as if all the hair has run from his head to stand over his mouth. He's dressed in a waistcoat that must have costed a small fortune, but which could pass for opaque curtains, the way it hangs over his round belly.

All in all, Tom's never seen a more ridiculous-looking person in his life.

He trips on the rug as he climbs down the steps out of the entrance hole. The man trips. Can wizards even trip? Not Professor Dumbledore, that's for sure.

He introduces himself as their Head of House, professor Horace Slughorn. Tom kind of wants to puke.

"Mr Malfoy," the man says. "I trust your father is well?

"Mr Nott – What beautiful party your mother held this last August. You must tell her I appreciated the invitation.

"Ah, Mr Avery. Happy to have you in my House. I'm sure your brother's pleased, too. Send my regards to your uncle – I hope the Wizengamot is treating him well.

"Miss Gamp! Your grandfather's latest contribution to Transfiguration Today is truly remarkable."

"Miss Burke, I had the honour of working with your grandfather – Phineas Nigellus Black," he adds for the audience. "A most admirable Headmaster. Great man, great man."

His eyes slide over Tom as if he's not even there.

Tom's hit list currently reads:

- Garrick Ollivander

- The Sorting Hat

- Horace Slughorn

The Dorm

Abraxas Malfoy can't stop talking about his father. Argo and Thoros, whose beds are closer to his, listen to him with the bored ease that comes with practice. They even nod in all the right places.

Ertan is sulking almost as much as Tom.

"Not all of us can be like Malfoy," he tells Tom, "but the Rosiers are still Sacred-Twenty-Eight."

Tom has already gathered that's the top rank in the wizarding world's Inbreeding Competition. He still fails to understand why it's a good thing.

"Slughorn cares more about power and galleons than blood," Mulciber, who's not as inbred as the rest, says.

Tom has neither of those, and is feeling rather miffed at the moment.

Abraxas' speech is still going strong.

"My uncle runs a very profitable potions business," Ertan says, and Mulciber rolls his eyes.

Did you know Abraxas' father owns twenty-three abraxans? Neither did Tom. And neither does he care. He's growing tired of all the useless bragging in the room. Slytherin is supposed to be the house of the ambitious, not the silver-spooned. But even their Head of House finds more merit in the latter.

"And my father's trading with the Germans is turning out to be a great investment," he goes on. Tom's certain he's just repeating what he's heard at home – he'll eat his wand if Ertan even knows what his father's daily work entails.

Abraxas doesn't seem like he'll end his monologue any time soon, and Tom's getting a headache.

He asks himself – what would Professor Dumbledore do?

He sets Malfoy's trunk on fire.

As expected, it works beautifully.

A/N: I expect I'll update rather frequently, given how chapters are short and it's easy to find a bit of time to write the scenes. Hope you enjoy the adventures of Tom the Truly-A-Gryffindor-At-Heart.