A/N: Hello there, dear reader! Thank you for being here and I do hope you enjoy reading this story. I plan on making it into a long-term series so drop a favorite and/or follow if you want to keep up with that. And now, without further ado...
Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my original characters.
As the boat glided toward Hogwarts, Tom Riddle's lips twisted into something that might've been a smile, had he been born with the correct facial muscles for it. The castle rose out of the mist in heavy, grey slabs, each one seemingly carved to remind children of their inferiority. He supposed it was the most exciting thing any of these wide-eyed, soft-brained eleven-year-olds had ever seen. He even heard one of them gasp behind him as if Hogwarts were the Sistine Chapel and not, quite clearly, a looming pile of rock.
Yet Tom still marvelled as the boat cut across the Black Lake, leaving a trail of ripples under the shadow of a looming castle. Hogwarts: his first real taste of freedom, and perhaps, his first real home. Freedom was just the beginning. Hogwarts meant discovery, potential, and the chance to build something worthwhile.
For himself, of course. Not for anyone else.
They crowded around the entrance hall, jostling each other, eyes darting like pigeons. But Tom noticed everything with quiet composure: the echo of his footsteps on the stone, the ancient magic that clung to the walls, and—of course—the stare of an abnormally dressed professor who seemed to have already pegged him for some kind of enigma. It was Professor Dumbledore, whose beard alone could have sent any man into early retirement. His eyes, maddeningly twinkling, were a mixture of amusement and... suspicion?
Tom bristled. He didn't appreciate being stared at by someone who looked like they lived in a library and hadn't spoken to a real human in decades.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Dumbledore announced warmly, giving Tom an extra, lingering glance as he said it. Tom felt his patience slipping. What, did Dumbledore think he was the first child ever to carry a troubled past in a suitcase and wear an expression as if he'd just smelled something unpleasant? Tom had assumed Hogwarts was practically a warehouse for tragic orphans.
The Professor herded them into the Great Hall, where rows of students watched with the kind of expressions usually reserved for animals at a petting zoo. He could practically hear their thoughts: Look, more first years. And this one has a permanent scowl! He must be very troubled. Tom kept his face stoic, though inwardly, he delighted in the silent attention. He'd always wanted an audience.
"Riddle, Tom," his name was finally called, after what felt like an eternity of sorting students whose names he would absolutely never remember. He strolled up to the rickety stool, mentally prepared for whatever condescending comments the Sorting Hat might make.
"Ah, another one," the hat muttered as it was placed on his head. Its voice was low, ancient, and a little too knowing for Tom's taste. "Ambition… ambition, I smell it like a scent in the air. Oh yes, much like the others before you, but something… different."
Tom could already feel the hat's mind probing. "Impressed?" he asked, with a condescending tone.
The hat's voice, unexpectedly sharp, echoed in his mind. "You're an interesting one, aren't you? I don't know whether to be excited or disappointed in what I sense. You're like a… puzzle that shouldn't be solved. An ambition so pure it could burn down everything it touches."
Tom raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Sounds like a compliment to me," he said internally, smirking a little at its flustered tone.
"Oh, don't get cocky," the Sorting Hat replied, clearly irked. "I've seen plenty like you. Bright, talented, dangerous. But there's something else, isn't there? A hint of—dare I say it—cunning... No, not just cunning. There's a ruthlessness to you, Tom Riddle. An eagerness to dominate. And to do so, with or without help."
Tom's lips twitched into a smile. "I can handle things alone. I prefer it that way."
"Hmph. So you say." The hat seemed momentarily to consider this, as if debating whether to challenge him or not, then settled on continuing to pry into his mind. "But what's this? Bravery? Cleverness?"
Tom nearly scoffed out loud. The hat was hardly revolutionary, it seemed, despite what he had read in the books he purchased from Diagon Alley after Professor Dumbledore had visited him for the first time. If this was Hogwarts' greatest tool for "sorting" talent, he wasn't exactly intimidated. "I belong in Slytherin," he thought. "Obviously."
The hat tsked in his mind. "But you would do quite well in Gryffindor, wouldn't you? You're not afraid of a challenge."
"Gryffindor?" Tom thought back, feeling a pang of indignation. "If I wanted my life filled with glory-seeking imbeciles, I'd go back to the orphanage. Now, if you don't want to find out what happens when fabric comes dangerously close to burning flames, I suggest you sort me into my rightful house."
"Suit yourself," the hat replied, its tone almost…hurried? "Better be… SLYTHERIN!"
The table erupted into applause, but Tom barely noticed. He was already imagining the future—the things he would accomplish, the power he would wield. The others were still clapping and cheering as though the houses they'd landed in actually mattered. Tom gave the faintest, half-hearted clap for the next student as he took his seat, but his mind was already elsewhere, calculating. Slytherin was a mere starting point, a necessary step along the way.
As his housemates patted him on the back and welcomed him to the fold, Tom smirked to himself. Let them feel good about having him as one of their own, for now. They were welcome to join in his success. Or watch it, from a safe distance. Either way, he was here for one thing, and it wasn't camaraderie.
...
The first few days at Hogwarts were nothing more than a game of waiting for Tom Riddle to prove himself. Classes, to him, were like poorly designed obstacles—nothing too challenging, nothing too complicated, just a series of hoops he had to jump through to remind everyone else of his superiority. He didn't particularly enjoy it. It wasn't the sort of pleasure a lesser person might take in simple things. No, this was business.
A good example was Charms with Professor Flitwick. The small, excitable wizard hardly seemed able to contain his delight when he introduced the first-year students to the Levitation Charm. Tom's gaze, however, was fixed with a sharp calculation. While the others fumbled with their wands, he observed the flick of Flitwick's wrist, the delicate emphasis on the pronunciation of the incantation. The charm, he decided, was laughable in its simplicity. His wand swished once, perfectly executing the charm on the feather before Flitwick could even finish his sentence.
Flitwick froze, staring up at the feather and then at Tom, clearly thrown off by the efficiency. "Well," he sputtered, "that's... that's excellent, Mr. Riddle. Very, very impressive for your first attempt."
Tom merely smirked to himself. Amateurs.
And there it was—the first taste of what he would become. Flitwick fumbled through his papers, clearly unsure of how to proceed with the lesson after Tom's flawless demonstration. The others, still struggling, exchanged looks that were part jealousy, part awe. It was as if they suddenly realised they were in the presence of someone far beyond their reach. Tom, of course, didn't care. He was used to being the standard by which others measured themselves.
By the end of his first month, Tom Riddle had already decided that Hogwarts was far less enchanting than it appeared in books and pamphlets. The stone walls, the shadowed hallways, the endless corridors—all screamed of institutionalization, a cage for mediocre minds to wander. Yet, for all its decrepitude, the castle was useful. It was the perfect backdrop for someone like him, someone destined to carve a name far above the petty squabbles and pleasantries of the masses. It was simply a matter of biding his time, waiting for the right moment to emerge from the shadows.
And the first step? The Slug Club.
Tom had quickly learned that Professor Horace Slughorn was a man with very particular tastes. Wealth. Talent. Influence. A concoction of everything that mattered in the wizarding world, and the kind of people Slughorn wanted around him. It wasn't just about brilliance—he wasn't merely interested in geniuses; he was also interested in connections. People who had potential and the resources to exploit it.
Tom didn't just want to be invited to the welcome party—he needed to be. It was an event where the future elite of the wizarding world congregated, and Slughorn himself handpicked who he would shower with praise and subtle, backhanded flattery. Tom couldn't afford to miss it, not with his eyes firmly set on a future far grander than the one most of his peers could even imagine.
He had to impress Slughorn.
And impress him he did. In Potions class, Tom was a marvel. While the other students struggled to stir their cauldrons without accidentally poisoning themselves, Tom produced a perfect potion with a casual ease that made the rest of them look like toddlers trying to wield knives. Slughorn was watching him, of course—eyes twinkling, fingers twitching as if he were measuring Tom for the perfect size of praise.
"Ah, Riddle! Outstanding, as always!" Slughorn called out, his voice booming across the room. "You, my boy, have a mind like a brewing kettle—always simmering with ideas. Pure brilliance, no doubt!"
Tom raised a brow, smothering a smirk. "Thank you, Professor," he said, as blandly as possible. He could already see it—the glittering star of Slughorn's favour shining down on him. It was as inevitable as the sun rising in the morning. He'd known he'd be good at Potions. The trick was to be so good that Slughorn would want him around. And Slughorn, it seemed, was practically drooling.
The very next day, Tom received an invitation to the Slug Club's first party of the year. The handwriting was as fussy as the invitation itself: "A special evening for exceptional students. Your presence would be most appreciated, Riddle. Don't keep us waiting." It was a subtle stroke of manipulation, the kind Slughorn specialized in. But Tom didn't mind. He was here for a reason, and the Slug Club would be his ticket to the inner circle.
The night of the party arrived, and Tom was prepared. He'd donned the cloak of politeness and disinterest with precision, slipping into the drawing room with the same quiet confidence he carried everywhere. The room was thick with the smell of butterbeer, cigars, and something else Tom couldn't quite place—pretension, maybe? It was the scent of who you knew rather than what you could do. And Tom was determined to master this particular artform.
The students in attendance were a predictable bunch—Ravenclaws with their noses buried in their books, Gryffindors puffing out their chests like peacocks, and Slytherins who seemed to think that by being here, they'd secured their futures as lords of the wizarding world. Pathetic. Tom was above them all, and they knew it. Some were trying too hard, others far too smug.
Slughorn, of course, was in his element, presiding over the group like a rotund king who'd finally managed to fill his court with enough promising sycophants. He beckoned Tom over with a wave, his voice already dripping with faux affection.
"Riddle, my boy!" Slughorn boomed, his round face splitting into a wide, greasy grin. "The true mark of a Slytherin—never one to miss a golden opportunity!"
Tom smiled politely, eyes scanning the room even as Slughorn continued his blathering. "Thank you, Professor. It's a pleasure to be here."
"Well, it's my pleasure, Riddle. Truly. You've shown such promise. Why, I've never seen anyone mix a Pepperup Potion so perfectly at such a young age! A natural!" Slughorn's voice dropped a little lower, clearly trying to make an impression on anyone listening. "You'll go far, mark my words. Far indeed."
Tom nodded, feigning interest. The compliments were amusing, but they were all too predictable. He had no doubt Slughorn's opinion of him would only grow with time. After all, he was exactly the type of student Slughorn loved to take under his wing. A shining star, eager to make the right sort of connections.
Slughorn wasn't the only one taking an interest in him. Tom noticed a girl across the room, her grey eyes tracking him with something between curiosity and admiration. She was pretty enough, with delicate features and a natural grace, though not the type to make a typical impression on someone like him. She didn't approach him directly, though her gaze lingered in a way that suggested interest. It was the sort of attention Tom was used to, the kind that made him smile inwardly. How quaint, he thought. I suppose I do have a certain allure.
Still, he didn't act on it. He was still surveying the room, sizing up who could be useful to him. There were better prospects here—an older Slytherin girl whose father owned a profitable apothecary, a Ravenclaw boy whose uncle was a well-known historian in the Ministry, and a few others who might one day come in handy. But the girl's eyes were definitely on him, which, if nothing else, was worth noting.
Tom had never been one for impulsive decisions. His mind worked in long-term strategies, the kind of planning that lasted for years. One glance from a pretty girl wasn't going to change his course.
Slughorn's booming voice interrupted his thoughts once more. "Tom, my boy, come mingle with the others! These young minds need to be inspired by you, after all!"
A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first Chapter. Leave a favorite, follow or review to let me know and see you next Chapter!