Old memories flooding back
Few days before
Heavy footsteps echoed through the silent halls of Hogwarts, each step reverberating off the ancient stone walls. The air was thick and cool, almost suffocating, as a cold breeze whispered through cracks in the castle's old structure. The stranger's eyes were fixed on the intricate details of the walls, every painting and every subtle shift in the shadows that marked time's slow passage. Tom Riddle, or as he had come to be known—Lord Voldemort—had returned to the very place that had shaped him, to the very heart of his long-buried ambitions.
There was a strange feeling here. Hogwarts had once been the setting of his youth—an age of potential and, as he now recognized, an age of naivety. He had dreamed of wielding its power, of bending its greatness to his will. But now he stood at its threshold not as a student, but as a professor, invited by none other than Albus Dumbledore. And yet, despite this seemingly benign role, he felt an unsettling excitement rise within him. It was the excitement of a man who had already begun to see the chessboard, who had already plotted the next moves, who had set the pieces in place.
His fingers twitched nervously under the dark fabric of his black coat. The hood was drawn low over his face, the shadows hiding his pale features. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—scanned the corridor with a predator's focus. The footsteps slowed, the silence pressing in as the time drew closer. Dumbledore had not yet arrived, and Tom was growing impatient. The weight of the years he had spent in hiding, the years of searching for the right moment, made the air feel even heavier.
Finally, the door creaked open, and the figure of Albus Dumbledore emerged, his tall form gliding through the space with the grace of a man who had known more victories than defeats. Tom stiffened, his hands clasping together before him as he waited for the Headmaster's words.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said, a smile spreading across his face, warm and full of false cheer. "I'm delighted to inform you that you can begin your teaching duties next Monday."
The words were soft but laden with layers of meaning. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but there was an edge to his voice—a sense of unreadable calculation. Tom returned the smile, but it did not reach the depths of his icy blue eyes, eyes that hid the swirling darkness within him.
"Thank you, Professor," Tom replied, his voice smooth and dark, like velvet dipped in poison. "I assure you, I will not disappoint you." His tone was perfect, measured. It was the voice of someone who had learned how to hide everything—his desires, his ambitions, his hatred—for the right moment.
Dumbledore's smile widened, though his eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly, a fraction of suspicion threading through the air. He extended a hand, and Tom took it, his grip firm but cold. "I have no doubt, Tom. No doubt at all. You were always... exceptional, even when you were a student here."
The words stung, though Tom didn't show it. Dumbledore had always spoken of his potential, of his brilliance, but there was a patronizing tone beneath the compliments. To Dumbledore, Tom had been nothing more than a promising student, a mere tool to be used for some greater purpose. It was a slight Tom had never forgotten, one that had festered in his mind over the years.
As Dumbledore excused himself, Tom stood still, his eyes fixed on the older man's retreating figure. A sense of satisfaction coursed through him. This was all part of the plan. The Headmaster might have seen him as a future ally, but Tom knew better. He had been biding his time, learning, growing, preparing. Now, the time was almost upon him. He would not be Dumbledore's pawn any longer.
Once alone, Tom made his way to his new office. The room was far more modest than the lavish chambers he had grown accustomed to in his youth, but it would serve its purpose. It was spacious, with two large windows that looked out over the castle grounds and the dark lake below. The lake held a strange pull on him, as it always had. It was a reminder of his time as a student here, a time when his dreams of power had taken root. And though his office was close to the library, it was the hidden secrets beneath the castle that truly intrigued him.
A part of him had always been fascinated by the Chamber of Secrets, the secret room hidden deep within the castle. It had been a mystery for years, a myth that Tom had uncovered in his youth, a place where only the true heir of Salazar Slytherin could unlock its doors. The memory of his sixteenth year, the year he had opened the chamber for the first time, still lingered in his mind like a faint whisper. A part of him wanted to return to it, to revisit the place where he had first embraced his destiny as the heir of Slytherin.
But that could wait. There were more pressing matters at hand.
As the evening drew on, Tom made his way to the Astronomy Tower, his coat billowing behind him in the cool night air. The castle was eerily silent, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. The rain had started to fall lightly, misting the air and making the castle seem even more otherworldly. From the tower, he had an unobstructed view of the lake and the darkened grounds that stretched beyond it. He stood there, gazing at the moon, his mind lost in thought.
The moon, full and cold, hung in the sky like a watchful eye, casting a silvery light across the world below. It was a symbol of everything he had become—alone, powerful, unyielding. The moon ruled the night, just as he would soon rule the wizarding world. It was a king among stars, a leader of the darkness, just as Tom intended to be.
He stood there for what seemed like hours, the chill of the rain soaking through his coat, the droplets clinging to his hair, but he didn't care. The feeling of isolation was something he relished. There was no one in this world who understood him. No one who could even come close to comprehending the depth of his desires.
But there was one more place he needed to visit tonight—the library. The very place where his journey into the dark arts had truly begun.
The library, as he had expected, was deserted. The rows upon rows of bookshelves stood like ancient sentinels, watching over the castle's secrets. He wandered through the aisles, his fingers grazing the spines of the books, remembering the many nights he had spent in this very place, searching for knowledge—dark knowledge—knowledge that would elevate him beyond the confines of mortality.
It was in this very library that he had first discovered the forbidden book, the one that had changed everything. The book was still there, tucked away in the Forbidden Section, just as he remembered it. Its pages were tattered and worn, but the knowledge it contained was as dangerous as ever. He carefully removed the book from the shelf, feeling the weight of it in his hands.
Flipping through the pages, he found himself drawn to the familiar spell—the one he had used to create his first Horcrux. His fingers brushed over the pages, remembering the dark rituals, the forbidden incantations, the sacrifices. Each one had brought him closer to immortality, each one had brought him closer to the power he now craved.
The feeling of triumph surged through him. He had mastered the darkest magic known to wizardkind. And soon, the world would know his name—no longer as Tom Riddle, but as the one who had risen above death itself. Voldemort. Lord Voldemort. The name would strike fear into the hearts of all.
And as he stood in the heart of the castle, holding the book that had begun his transformation, Tom knew that it was only a matter of time before he would reclaim everything that was his. The world, the castle, the legacy of Salazar Slytherin—everything would bow to him.
He turned to leave the library, the book clutched tightly in his hands, the weight of his destiny pressing down on him like a second skin. The dark arts had given him everything he needed, and now, he was ready. Ready to destroy anyone who dared stand in his way.
The castle was silent once more, but within its walls, a storm was brewing. And Tom Riddle, soon to be known as Voldemort, would be its master.