— — — — — —
Aside from Gryffindor’s sword, Tom still had another score to settle with the Sorting Hat.
Back when he was young, naïve, and helpless, that blasted hat had played him for a fool.
He’d clearly asked to go to Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, yet he’d been tossed into the snake pit of Slytherin instead.
People always say personality is shaped, not born. Genes set the stage, and environnt writes the script.
So if he, Tom Riddle, had turned into a Dark Lord, then the Sorting Hat would have to take the bla. It had crushed a promising young wizard’s dream of going straight.
"Huh? Riddle boy, you seem to be carrying a lot of resentnt."
The Sorting Hat’s low, odd voice echoed in the room, tinged with confusion, completely unaware of its own wrongdoing.
"Hey, Hat. Co on, give another Sorting ceremony. Where do you think I should go now?"
As Tom spoke, he deliberately activated his "limitless thoughts" talent, even adjusting his magic to better match Ravenclaw’s aura.
"I never regret my Sorting decisions, and I don’t do second Sortings. But for entertainnt... hm?"
The hat’s voice suddenly filled with surprise.
"This feeling... It’s practically Ravenclaw herself. You’ve changed a lot, kid."
Tom grinned. This was exactly the effect he wanted.
"So if you sorted now, where would you put ?"
"Slytherin!" The Sorting Hat answered firmly, without the slightest hesitation.
The smile vanished from the boy’s face, only to reappear on the hat’s wide, split "mouth."
"Riddle boy, I told you, I don’t change my mind."
"So you’re just making things up now?" Tom snapped, exasperated. "Do you have even a shred of professional ethics...? Can’t you see I’m a perfect Ravenclaw now?"
"First of all, Riddle, I don’t have eyes." The hat’s voice grew increasingly cheerful. "Second, I am very professional. I sorted you into Slytherin again for good reason."
"Back then I already said your bloodline was pure. If Salazar had seen you, he’d have begged you to join Slytherin. But now, your bloodline is the least important reason."
"What really fits is your ambition, your cunning. No one has ever been more Slytherin than you, Riddle. Honestly, if you’re willing, you might consider renaming Slytherin House to Riddle House. That would be more accurate."
"Speaking of which... when are you planning on becoming a Dark Lord? Slytherin’s reputation has been improving recently."
"..."
Tom’s vision went dark. He yanked the hat off his head, threw it onto the sofa, and started smacking it wildly.
(Dr. Victor Blane: people just can’t handle the truth)
---
"Pfff—"
"Hahahahahahaha! The Sorting Hat is brutally honest, hahaha!"
"Yeah, hahahaha... Riddle... Riddle House?"
Inside the study space, Ravenclaw and Morgan were already laughing themselves senseless. They’d witnessed the entire process of the Sorting Hat’s enthusiastic "affirmation" and certification of Tom.
The Hat’s mouth was vicious, really brutal. It was the first ti they’d ever seen Tom completely shut down, unable to argue with a hat.
"What are you laughing at?" Tom felt deeply wronged. "Rowena, I’m your disciple, your final student. And you’re telling a legitimate Ravenclaw successor ends up in Slytherin? Does that make any sense?"
"Don’t drag into this, I can’t take that responsibility." Ravenclaw steadied herself, still trying to calm her heaving laughter, and waved her hands. "Yes, you learned quite a bit from , but compared to the chaotic pile of knowledge you’ve gathered, that’s just the tip of the iceberg."
"Anyway, stop arguing with a hat."
Morgan also found Tom’s ltdown hilarious, but she felt a bit sorry for him too. Her rare maternal instincts kicked in, and she pulled him into an embrace to comfort him. "Go to whatever house you want. Who cares what the hat says? If you’re still mad, just burn the stupid thing."
"Morgan, don’t do anything reckless." Ravenclaw jumped in alarm. "That’s a thousand-year tradition. Without the Sorting Hat, future ceremonies would lose their soul."
"You’re overthinking it. As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters."
Morgan’s reply was pure witchy self-indulgence, completely unconcerned with anyone else.
Fortunately, Tom wasn’t quite that morally flexible. After enjoying the warm hug for a while, he recovered to full health, returned to reality, and squared off with the Sorting Hat again. He planned to take the sword, then toss the hat into the boys’ bathroom and suppress it there until the next sorting ceremony.
"...Alright, Hat. I won’t argue about the Sorting anymore. Hurry up and give Gryffindor’s sword."
"You just said it’s Gryffindor’s sword. Why would I give it to a Slytherin student?"
Tom patiently reasoned with it. "Hat, I’m sure Gryffindor’s ideals weren’t this narrow-minded."
"The condition for drawing the sword is being a ’true Gryffindor,’ needing help, and having the resolve to protect the school."
"I can have resolve. I can love the school too."
But the Sorting Hat remained unmoved.
"You don’t need help right now. Besides, even if you did, Gryffindor’s sword doesn’t have that ability."
"Who says I don’t need help?" Tom let out a cold laugh. "Right now is exactly when both I and Hogwarts need help the most."
With that, he wiped the hat clean, put it back on his head, and said slowly, word by word, "If you don’t give the sword, I’ll go blow up the school. Give the students another long vacation. Wouldn’t that count as and the school needing help?"
The Sorting Hat fell silent.
Lies weren’t frightening. The truth was the sharpest blade. It could clearly sense Tom’s determination.
If he didn’t get Gryffindor’s sword, the kid really would blow up the school.
The Sorting Hat’s core logic began contradicting itself.
Tom didn’t need the sword. But without the sword, he would blow up the school. The school would then be in danger, aning the sword was needed. But Tom didn’t need the sword...
After two and a half minutes of silence, Tom suddenly felt a surge of magic from the hat. He imdiately took it off and stuck a hand inside.
A mont later, his hand grew heavy. He pulled out a sword gleaming with cold light.
"You win, kid."
After saying that, the Sorting Hat fell completely silent.
.
.
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