After the Hufflepuff table had sett

After the Hufflepuff table had settled down, Professor McGonagall looked down to announce the next student's name, but the words died on her lips. Her already pale face went as white as a sheet and her eyes moved back and forth over the same line several times. Finally, she stuttered out, "R- R- Riddle, Harry!"

Harry smirked. She seemed to have recognized his last name already. His father had mentioned something about them attending Hogwarts at the same time, though he could truthfully say that his father looked very much younger than her. He strutted up to the stool and sat down, forcing himself to look as confident as he possibly could.

Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head with trembling hands. It slid down over his eyes, blocking out his view of the Great Hall.

Hello, a little voice whispered in his head. Why, if it isn't Harry Morfin Riddle. It has been a long, long time since I've sorted a Riddle. Did you like my song?

Let me guess. I'm the 'most cryptic riddle of all'? You could have been a bit more subtle about it. And it didn't really make sense, either.

My, my, my. You are like your father. Intelligent, immensely so. You have a thirst to prove yourself, yet you don't care what people think of you. There's talent, oh yes, there's so much talent. Hmm. You have a sense of justice, however odd, but I doubt you would do any good in Hufflepuff. To irascible.

Thank Merlin.

And while you are undeniably smart, you dislike studying, don't you? You prefer spending your time doing other things. You could get by in Ravenclaw, but it isn't the house for you.

That's fine by me.

Now here is the real challenge. You're brave, fairly honorable, in a bit of a strange way, daring, passionate, bold, and adventurous. You'd do Godric Gryffindor himself proud if it weren't for the darker facets of your personality.

What? NO!

On the other hand, you're cunning, manipulative, sly, a bit cautious, and a Parseltongue. Your father was a Slytherin, and sons usually follow in their father's footsteps.

As you said, I'm a lot like my father.

But your mother was a Gryffindor. You are a lot like her, as well.

I highly doubt that.

You do, do you? Hmm, you must remember I Sorted her, too. You'd fit in well with the Gryffindors, if you could get past your dislike of them. Getting sorted into that House may expand your horizons a bit.

All my friends are in Slytherin! My family is Slytherin. I'm the heir of Slytherin!

This is not based on friends or even family, dear Harry. It's personality. An heir of Slytherin could be a Gryffindor, just like an heir of Gryffindor could be a Slytherin. It's the individual, not the blood.

My personality is of a Slytherin.

Yes, but it's also like a Gryffindor.

I'm more Slytherin than Gryffindor.

The Hat was silent for a minute. You will be very important in the coming years, young Harry. Very, very important. I think, while you'd do well in both of the aforementioned houses, you would, in the end, fit in the best in SLYTHERIN!

Harry heard the Hat shout the last out to the rest of the hall. Relief like he had never felt before flooded through his body, making him weak in the knees, but he managed to smile widely and hand the ancient thing back to McGonagall, who was still pale.

Stepping down from the stool, he glanced over his shoulder at the head table. Most of the teachers (Severus included, but Harry knew it was just acting so as to stay on Dumbledore's good side) wore the same look of shock, concern, and, most of all, fear.

How he loved to inspire fear. Another family trait.

Harry's green eyes met the Headmaster's blue ones. The eleven year old smirked maliciously.

Head held high, Harry strode over to the cheering Slytherin Table and sat down beside Draco.

"Told you you'd be Slytherin," Draco said haughtily.

Harry scowled at his arrogant tone. "At least I have some semblance of a complex personality," he snapped back. "The Hat actually had to debate a bit."

"Hey, I have a-!"

Harry cut him off with loud clapping. Blaise had gotten sorted into Slytherin.

Dumbledore rose to his feet. He wore a disarming, dotty smile, but he seemed to be keeping one eye on the Slytherin Table. On one particular person at the Slytherin Table.

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

He sat back down. Harry remained staring at the spot he had been occupying for a few seconds before turning to Draco.

"That is the only wizard my father ever feared? Does my father have some sort of problem with the part of his brain that controls that particular emotion?"

Draco shrugged. "He's powerful. I mean, he defeated Grindelwald. And who knows? Maybe he's not as insane as he'd like us to believe. Potatoes?"

Harry glanced down. The food had appeared already. He piled a bit of everything onto his plate and began to eat, taking small bites. Harry had always been rather short and small boned (another thing he got from that mudblood mother of his, as his father was very tall), and he had never liked eating very much.

"That does look appetizing, " a hollow voice groaned. Harry slowly stilled, his fork halfway to his mouth, and cautiously glanced over his shoulder. He almost cringed.

A ghost, covered in silver blood and looking like something out of a nightmare, was staring directly back at him.

"Hello . . ." Harry said hesitantly. He tilted his head slightly. His father had told him about the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin House ghost, but the spirit was a bit more . . . off-putting than he'd made it sound.

The ghost looked Harry up and down. "You look familiar. What is your name?"

"Harry Riddle," he answered slowly.

"Riddle? I believe recognize the name . . ."

"Well . . . my father was a Slytherin. Tom Riddle."

"Oh, yes, Tom Riddle. I remember him. Talented, if I recall correctly. It was many years ago."

Harry smirked quickly, suddenly happy the ghost had approached him. This was the best chance he was ever going to get to find out just how many years his father had taken away from his appearance with whatever youth potions he took. "When did he attend Hogwarts, exactly?"

The Baron paused for a moment. ". . . 1938 . . . to 1945, if I recall correctly. Yes, it was during the War with Grindelwald, yes, I'm sure of that . . ."

Harry raised an eyebrow. His father was quite a bit older than he had originally thought.

"You seem to be a good asset to Slytherin," continued the Baron. "We have won the House Cup six years in a row now- I don't intend for our victorious streak to end. Especially to those dreadful Gryffindors." He glared over at the Gryffindor table, where another ghost was hovering, this one with his head hanging limply by a strip of transparent flesh to his stump of a neck.

Somehow, Harry found him less intimidating than the Baron.

"Yes," Harry forced out, "it would be shameful for the Gryffindors to win."

Seemingly pleased with his response, the Baron floated off towards the older Slytherins.

"You found out how old your father is?" Draco asked in between shoveling bites of food into his mouth. Harry quickly calculated the date and answered, "Sixty-four or sixty-five."

Draco made a face. "He looks thirty, doesn't he?"

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded away, leaving the plates sparkling clean. Seconds later, the desserts appeared.

Harry sighed - he was rather full - but for the spirit of things he dug in anyway.

"Who's that?" Draco asked, pointedly looking towards the front of the Great Hall. Harry followed the direction of Draco's gaze up to the Head Table, where it landed on a man in a turban.

"He's Professor Quirrell. Dad told me a bit about him. He'll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and he's new this year. I hear that he's rather pathetic, though. Scared of the students, scared of his shadow, of his own subject . . ." Harry trailed off.

"He looks like an idiot," Draco muttered under his breath. "Why do they always hire incompetents for the Defense position?"

Several minutes later, the desserts, like the main meal, disappeared. Dumbledore rose to his feet again and the entire Hall fell silent.

"Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils, thus the name Forbidden Forest. A few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Harry saw Dumbledore glance pointedly at the redheaded twins, who tried, in turn, to look innocent and failed horribly.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."

Harry scowled at the mention of Filch. His father had warned him about the man and his menace of a cat, Mrs. Norris. He was already plotting ways that the cat could meet her untimely end all the while looking like an accident. He had a few good ideas, most involving binding spells and candles.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"He can't be serious," Draco muttered.

"I think he is," Harry replied.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!"

Harry grimaced, along with the rest of Slytherin table and most of the students in the Great Hall. His father had especially warned him about this . . .

"Everyone pick your favorite tune and off we go!"

The school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some in