Chapter Text
Wool’s Orphanage, London
December 31st, 1926
The old brick building stood against a twilight sky painted in fading hues. Inside, distant laughter and muffled celebrations for the upcoming new year echoed faintly. Dark clouds slowly covered the previously clear sky. The old building creaked under the force of the wind, and the city’s hum was drowned by the howling gusts. Inside, the muffled cries of newborns, the chatter of young children, and the hushed voices of attendants filled the air.
But in one dimly lit room, a different kind of anticipation grew. Merope Gaunt, a young, heavily pregnant woman, had taken shelter in the orphanage when her labour pains began.
Nurse Evelyn peered through a window. Her face darkened by the storm clouds gathering outside, and a few raindrops started to hit the ground below. “Another year’s ending, and with it, a new beginning awaits,” she said softly.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Cole adjusted a worn blanket on Merope’s bed. “Tonight, there’s more than one new beginning in this room.”
The rain started to patter against the windows. Merope gazed intently at the ceiling, exhausted and drenched in sweat. Her laboured breathing matched the rhythm of an old clock ticking on the wall.
“Before the year ends…” Merope whispered through a searing pain, “he will be here.”
Nurse Evelyn took Merope’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Yes, dear. And we’re here with you, every step of the way.”
Merope’s face contorted in pain as another contraction hit, more intense than the others.
“It... ahh... he’s coming…” She groaned.
“Breathe, dear, breathe,” the nurse soothed. “It’ll be over soon.”
With tears in her brown eyes, Merope asked, “He will be... remarkable, won’t he?”
“Yes, dear,” Nurse Evelyn said, squeezing her hand again. “He will be.”
Mrs. Cole whispered, standing still at the end of the bed. “Every child is, in their own unique way.”
As the clock hands inched toward midnight, a lightning bolt lit up the room, casting eerie shadows.
Merope’s labour intensified.
With a final push, just as the old year gave way to the new, a cry pierced the room.
Nurse Evelyn cooed, cradling the beautiful baby boy with a pale complexion, dark brown eyes, and rosy lips. “Welcome, little one. Born at the cusp of a new year.”
“Tom... Marvolo… Riddle.” Merope weakly murmured with her last breath. “After his father and his grandfather—”
Mrs. Cole looked softly at the baby with dark brown eyes, perhaps the last time she would ever look at him with gentleness.
“A new year, a new life. May he find his path.”
Nurse Evelyn gasped as she looked at Merope, who was no longer breathing. “Oh dear. The poor girl, so young. She truly gave her all to bring him to life.”
“A tragedy,” Mrs. Cole said, staring at the pale, lifeless body. “May she rest in peace. Amen.”
Outside, the storm seemed to subside momentarily, as if acknowledging the birth of the boy who would one day become one of the darkest wizards in history.
In the quiet moments before dawn, the orphanage held its breath, cradling the newborn boy who would grow up to be a legend, both feared and revered.
March 18th, 1931
The chilling winds of winter clawed at the old bricks of Wool’s Orphanage. Inside, the children whispered and exchanged worried glances, their usual games and squabbles silenced by the ominous presence in their midst. Father Callaghan, a tall, imposing figure with greying hair and piercing blue eyes, entered the building, clutching a leather-bound Bible. He was a priest from the local church. Mrs. Cole, her body trembling, led him to a dimly lit room.
She tentatively opened the door with a creak and stepped aside as the Father entered. “It’s this one, Father. The Riddle boy. There’s something... unnatural about him.”
Father Callaghan nodded grimly. “It’s the work of the devil, no doubt. But fear not, the Lord shall prevail.”
In the centre of the room, Tom Riddle, a boy of mere four years, sat bound to a wooden chair, his dark brown eyes wide with terror. Despite his fear, a fierce defiance simmered within his dark eyes.
“What are you going to do?” Tom asked, his voice trembling.
“I am here to save your soul, child,” Father Callaghan stated, opening the Bible. “To purge the darkness within.”
A few other children had gathered outside the door, peering in with wide, curious eyes. Among them was Annabelle, a girl of Tom’s age, who held a soft spot for him despite his often aloof demeanour.
“This isn’t right,” Annabelle whispered. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. Please stop!”
As the exorcism began, Tom’s cries echoed through the orphanage. His pleas for mercy and understanding mingled with the priest’s fervent prayers. Father Callaghan was relentless, convinced the boy was possessed, attributing Tom’s strange abilities to dark forces.
“Please! I didn’t mean to! I just wanted the toy to come to me,” Tom sobbed, his body thrashing.
“Silence! Evil speaks through you,” Father Callaghan glared at him.
The ritual’s intensity grew, with Father Callaghan invoking stronger prayers. Tom’s anguish was palpable, his voice losing strength, replaced by quiet whimpers.
Annabelle looked at Mrs. Cole and the others. “Please! Someone stop this.”
But none dared interfere. The fear of the unknown, the unexplained magic that Tom had displayed, gripped everyone’s heart. They believed this cruel act was for the greater good.
Hours later, when the ritual was complete, a broken and traumatised Tom was left alone, the bindings around his wrists a painful reminder of his ordeal. The boy of only five years was put through a torturous incident that no child of his age should endure. In the darkness of the room, something in him stirred.
“They fear what they don’t understand, but I won’t forgive them. I will make them pay,” Tom whispered, his voice barely audible.
That fateful day cemented a deep-seated hatred within Tom, marking a turning point in his journey towards darkness. The world had shown him cruelty and ignorance; in return, he would show them power and vengeance.
September 6th, 1936
The hushed murmurs of children filled Wool’s Orphanage, spreading tales of Tom Riddle’s unsettling tendencies. Bill had accused Tom of pushing a boy down the stairs when it was actually Bill who had done it.
Tom didn’t prey on the weak; they could never harm him.
Mrs. Cole, of course, hadn’t believed Tom. He was punished with cleaning duties for two weeks. Billy’s false accusation stung deeply, fueling Tom’s growing resentment.
In the shadows, Tom whispered to himself, “Billy will pay for this.”
During the next two weeks, Tom’s anger and humiliation festered as he scrubbed floors, wiped windows, and endured the taunting glances of the other children. They saw him as weak, a boy to be blamed and punished.
Tom had other plans.
“It’s not right what Billy did, you know. I saw him push Jeremy down the stairs,” Annabelle said, cautiously approaching Tom.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tom said, eyes cold, voice devoid of emotion. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
Billy, meanwhile, basked in his newfound status. His rabbit, a fluffy white creature with bright eyes, was his most treasured possession. It symbolised his perceived innocence, a sharp contrast to Tom’s dark reputation.
One evening, as the sun cast eerie shadows on the orphanage corridors, Billy returned to his room to find a sight that would haunt him forever.
His beloved bunny dangled lifelessly from the rafters, a chilling note tied around its neck:
‘Liars should know the price.’
Billy’s screams echoed throughout the orphanage, drawing a crowd. Mrs. Cole rushed in, her face pale, realising they might have punished the wrong boy.
“Who did this?” Mrs. Cole shrieked.
Billy, teary-eyed and trembling, accused, “It was Tom! It had to be!”
The atmosphere grew tense, with many casting wary glances at Tom. Yet, despite the circumstantial evidence, no one had seen Tom near Billy’s room that evening.
Annabelle whispered to a friend, “Tom might be different, but this... this is something else.”
Tom watched the chaos from a distance, his face an inscrutable mask. Whether driven by revenge or a deeper darkness, the act cemented his place as the most feared child in the orphanage.
A title he wore with pride.
The chasm between Tom and the other children widened, with the incident becoming a legend whispered for years.
While some thought it was Tom’s cry for justice, others saw it as the beginning of the darkness that would eventually consume the wizarding world, and then the entire world.
July 3rd, 1938
The room was dimly lit, with the only light coming from a single window showing the gray skies outside. The walls were faded and peeling, giving the place a heavy feeling of neglect. In the centre stood a wooden table surrounded by a few rickety chairs. Sitting at the table was an eleven-year-old boy with dark brown hair, pale skin, and strangely knowing brown eyes that held a depth and intensity beyond his years.
The door creaked open, and a tall man with long auburn hair and a beard, wearing a plum-coloured velvet suit, a matching hat, and half-moon spectacles stepped inside–Professor Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore, with twinkling blue eyes, said, “Good afternoon, Tom. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Tom looked at the oddly dressed man in surprise, but also with curiosity. “Who are you?”
Dumbledore blinked slowly and introduced himself. “My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I’m here from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
Tom narrowed his eyes, incredulous, at the strange man with a strange name. “Hogwarts? Witchcraft? Is this some kind of joke?”
Dumbledore shook his head and said calmly, “No, Tom. It’s not a joke. You possess magical abilities, and I’m here to offer you a place at our school, where you can learn to harness and develop those abilities.”
Tom pondered this for a moment, then smirked. “Prove it.”
Dumbledore, without a word, pulled out a wand. With a swift flick, the chairs around the room began to float in the air. Another flick, and they gently set back down.
Tom’s eyes widened in surprise and fascination. “That... was real magic.”
“Yes, Tom,” Dumbledore nodded. “And you have the potential to do much more. Hogwarts can provide you with the tools and knowledge to become a powerful wizard.”
“And what does Hogwarts want in return?”
“Only that you learn, grow, and use your abilities responsibly.”
“Very well, Professor. I accept my invitation to Hogwarts. But know this: I intend to become the greatest wizard the world has ever seen.”
“Ambition is a powerful motivator, Tom. But always remember: it’s our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”
There was a stretch of silence. Dumbledore, intrigued by Tom’s intensity, tried to learn more about the young boy’s past experiences.
“Tom, have you ever experienced any... unusual occurrences before realising you had magical abilities?” Dumbledore asked cautiously.
Tom smirked, hesitating before answering. “I can speak to snakes. They listen to me, obey me.”
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Parselmouth?”
Tom leaned back with a confident smirk. “Is that what it’s called? Then, yes. I’ve always felt a special connection with them.”
Dumbledore’s gaze deepened, the weight of the revelation settling upon him. Speaking to snakes, or Parseltongue, was a rare ability, closely associated with Salazar Slytherin and darker aspects of the magical world.
“It’s a rare gift, Tom, but it’s important to understand that abilities themselves aren’t inherently good or evil. It’s how you choose to use them.”
Tom’s eyes gleamed with a hint of defiance. “And who decides what’s good or evil? The snakes have always been my friends when no one else was.”
Dumbledore sighed inwardly, sensing the depth of Tom’s isolation and the budding darkness within. “It’s important to find balance, Tom. While snakes might be your allies, it’s people who will shape your journey. Remember, magic is a tool, and like all tools, it can either build or destroy.”
Tom narrowed his eyes and said almost mechanically, “I will remember, Professor.”
Dumbledore gave him a long look, his suspicion of the darkness within Tom growing. He silently hoped that Hogwarts would be a guiding light for the boy, steering him away from the shadows that threatened to consume him.
July 14th, 1938
The sun blazed overhead, casting golden rays on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Shops buzzed with activity, windows adorned with magical trinkets that beckoned witches and wizards of all ages.
For Tom Riddle, everything was new, wondrous, and overwhelming.
His sharp eyes took in every detail: the shimmering emerald robes at Madam Malkin’s, the twirling broomsticks in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, and the aroma of freshly baked pastries wafting from Flourish & Blotts. Yet, amidst the wonder, something darker lurked.
A shopkeeper sneered at a young girl. “You’re Muggle-born, aren’t you? Bet you’ve never seen a Galleon before.”
The girl blushed and whispered, “I’m just trying to buy some school supplies, sir.”
Tom observed from a distance, his brow furrowing. The scorn in the shopkeeper's voice was palpable. The girl, embarrassed, quickly made her purchase and left, eyes downcast. Tom frowned at the shopkeeper's behavior. Shaking his head, he walked toward Gringotts Bank when he overheard another conversation.
An elderly wizard in simple robes murmured to his friend, “The number of Muggle-borns at Hogwarts is increasing. It’s not like the old days.”
The friend nodded. “Indeed. Diluting our proud magical heritage, they are.”
Tom felt a chill run down his spine. Here he was, in the world he desperately wanted to belong to, yet he could see the fractures and divides. As an orphan who had grown up in the Muggle world, Tom knew he’d be judged too, even if he was sure his blood was not entirely Muggle.
At Ollivander’s, while waiting for his turn, he overheard a conversation that deepened his resolve. Two boys were getting their wands before him; one dressed in immaculate robes, the other in a muggle shirt and pants, similar to Tom’s.
“My family’s been pure-blood for generations. What about you?” asked a white blonde-haired boy.
The other boy nervously looked at the piercing eyes and stammered, “I— I just found out about magic. My mum’s magic, and my dad’s a… Muggle.”
The blonde boy smirked, looking down at him. “Figures.”
Later, holding his new wand—13 and ½ inches, yew with a phoenix feather core, a brother wand to another, he was told—Tom made a silent promise.
“This will change. No one should be made to feel less. And I will be the one to bring that change,” Tom whispered to himself amidst the bustling crowd.
As he left Diagon Alley, the weight of his new wand in his hand and the fire of purpose in his heart, Tom Riddle stepped onto a path he believed would reshape the wizarding world.
Little did he know how far that belief would take him.
October 10th, 1940
The chilly corridors of Hogwarts buzzed with whispers, the stone walls echoing tales of Tom Riddle’s rise in Slytherin House. It was the start of Tom’s third year, but the past year’s events had already left a lasting mark on the students.
It all began in the Slytherin common room, a place where Tom was once mocked for his “impure, muddy” blood at the start of the term in 1939. What they didn’t know was that Tom was no mere Muggle-born. He hadn’t yet discovered his true heritage—a mix of the Muggle world he wanted to escape and the magical blood of the Gaunts. This mix had been a point of scorn for many pure-blood Slytherins.
Marcus Rosier, a fifth-year bully known for his broad build and sneering voice, had once tormented Tom, saying, “Little Riddle thinks he belongs here.” His beady eyes met the coolness of Tom’s dark brown gaze. “He may not be a Mudblood, but we all know he’s just a half-blood with delusions of grandeur.”
The common room had erupted in laughter, but Tom’s stoic demeanour had never wavered.
Those were the words, among many others, thrown at Tom in his second year.
That was last year.
This year, things were different. Rumours of Tom’s magical prowess, his ability to communicate with serpents, and his skill in mastering advanced spells had spread like wildfire.
He was rumoured to be the Heir of Slytherin.
The teachers were in awe and immensely proud, except for Albus Dumbledore. Students were amazed, envious, and intimidated.
One evening, Marcus and his gang cornered a first-year Muggle-born in the darkest part of the dungeons. The terrified screams caught Tom’s attention as he was passing by. He quickened his steps and found a horrible sight: the first-year boy pressed against the wall, blood dripping from his nose, and five large boys surrounding him.
“Let him go, Rosier,” Tom said calmly.
Marcus turned to face him and scoffed. “Or what? You’ll hiss at me?”
Without warning, the torches lining the corridor went out, plunging the dungeon into eerie darkness. A chilling, oppressive force weighed heavily in the air, making it hard to breathe. The very stones of Hogwarts seemed to tremble, echoing the dread that gripped every heart.
When light returned, Tom stood unchanged, but Marcus and his gang were on their knees, gasping for breath, their faces twisted with terror.
Tom looked at them, his voice menacing. “Understand this: I am not to be trifled with.”
From that day on, the power dynamics in Slytherin shifted dramatically. The very students who once mocked Tom Riddle now avoided his gaze, fearing his wrath. His yearmates, who had made his life hell, were now fighting to get into his good graces.
Tom decided he would make them work for it.
The whispers no longer spoke of his mixed heritage, but of his unmatched power and potential.
Annabelle, a Gryffindor who had known Tom from the orphanage, whispered to a friend, “The Tom I knew is gone. In his place is someone... something much more formidable.”
As weeks turned into months, Tom’s influence only grew. Slytherins, both younger and older, either joined his growing circle of allies or avoided him entirely. The boy who was once an outsider had become the undisputed king of Slytherin House, his gaze set on even greater ambitions.
This was just one of Tom’s many achievements, however small.
July 28th, 1941
Gringotts Bank stood tall in the heart of Diagon Alley, its white marble front shining in the sun. Inside, witches and wizards moved about, and the clinking of coins echoed as goblins counted money.
Tom Riddle was now nearly fifteen and ready to start his fourth year, walked in with purpose, his black robes flowing. He approached a counter where a stern goblin sat with a quill over a large ledger.
“I’m here for a Heritage Test, Master Goblin,” Tom said firmly but respectfully.
The goblin looked down at the young wizard who showed a rare sign of respect. “Very well. Name?”
“Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
The goblin nodded, scribbled down the name, and gestured for Tom to follow. Inside Gringotts, the air was cool and filled with soft murmurs and the diligent work of goblins. The marble columns, high ceilings, and golden chandeliers spoke of grandeur and age.
Tom was led to a private room, darker than the main hall, lit by green lanterns. Another goblin waited next to an ebony table holding an ancient parchment and a small, ornate knife.
“For the Heritage Test, we need seven drops of your blood.”
Tom extended his arm confidently. With a quick motion, the goblin made a small cut on his finger. Tom winced slightly but stayed composed as seven drops of blood fell onto the parchment.
Each drop sizzled and smoked, slowly forming intricate patterns and writings.
- A snake coiled around a sword – the emblem of Salazar Slytherin.
- The Gaunt family crest and a tarnished golden locket, the Slytherin Locket.
- Dark forests, indicating his connection with dark creatures.
- Ancient runes, signifying his magical abilities.
- Slytherin Bloodline: Half-Blood.
- Abilities: Parseltongue, Control of Dark Creatures, Advanced Legilimency, High Potential for Wandless & Wordless Magic.
Tom observed the parchment with pride and determination. He thanked the goblin silently, then smirked. “Just as I suspected.”
The goblin bowed slightly. “The parchment never lies, Mr. Riddle. Your lineage is ancient and your abilities are formidable.”
“Indeed. This knowledge will be of great use,” Tom said thoughtfully.
As he left the chamber, the weight of his ancestry and the confirmation of his powers settled in his mind, fueling his ambitions further.
December 18th, 1942 - January 3rd 1943
The winding corridors of Hogwarts held many secrets, none more coveted than the Chamber of Secrets, hidden by Salazar Slytherin himself. The chamber was said to hold vast knowledge and power.
Tom Riddle, armed with the knowledge of his lineage, had found the chamber.
The cold, eerie silence of the chamber echoed with ancient whispers. Tom’s initial exploration uncovered a library filled with books and scrolls written in Olde English and Parseltongue, along with many unclaimed wands. But he sought Salazar Slytherin’s personal library, which still eluded him.
Back in the Muggle world, World War II raged on. Tom, working odd jobs until he could claim the Slytherin and Gaunt Lordship on his next birthday, found himself in London when the air raid sirens blared. Chaos erupted as buildings crumbled and fire filled the night sky.
Pinned under rubble, the weight pressed down on his chest. Each breath was a struggle, dust and blood filling his mouth. The boy who had conquered the Chamber and held Slytherin House in awe now lay vulnerable and desperate.
This would not be his end.
Tom whispered, choking, “Not like this... Not here…”
Gathering all his magic, his will and power dislodged the debris enough for him to crawl to safety. The experience left a deep scar. That summer, he learned how his mother died, despite being a witch with little magic.
The vulnerability of mortality and the fragility of life became clear to him.
Tom knew he had to find a way to overcome this.
***
Returning to Hogwarts, Tom felt a newfound urgency. He hurried back to the Chamber of Secrets, driven by his desperate need for immortality. Deep within the chamber, he found Salazar Slytherin’s revered library, filled with sacred texts on ancient and forbidden magic.
Tom scoured every shelf; searching for something, anything that promised eternal life. In the farthest corner, he discovered a small scroll that read:
‘To conquer death, one must embrace the shadows. Seek the realm of Necromancy, where souls are tethered and time is but a whim.’
Tom’s fingers traced the arcane symbols, his mind racing. Necromancy: the dark art of communing with and resurrecting the dead. Mastering it could hold the key to escaping death’s grasp.
His eyes gleamed with excitement. “With this, I can be eternal.”
The path was dangerous. The text warned of the perils of tampering with the balance of life and death. Failure meant doom and destruction. But Tom, his fear of mortality intensified by the bombings, was undeterred.
He believed in his power.
As days turned to nights, the Chamber of Secrets became Tom’s sanctuary. By day, he was the charming, aloof yet helpful model student. By night, he delved into the dark arts, experimenting with spells and rituals, his ambition overshadowing any moral doubts.
While the world outside remained unaware, within the cold stone walls of the Chamber, Tom Riddle took his first steps on a path that would shape the destiny of both the wizarding and Muggle worlds.
At only sixteen, Tom Riddle had begun to conquer death.
There was no stopping him now.
May 2nd, 1945
The Room of Requirement was draped in green and silver, the fireplace crackling warmly. In the middle stood Tom Riddle, tall and imposing, shadows casting a haunting silhouette around him. Behind him, a silver serpent banner with the Slytherin emblem fluttered. An eclectic group, the Knights, gathered from various bloodlines, all shared a common purpose.
“Those who stand here tonight recognize the need for change and power,” Tom said, his voice echoing through the stillness. “Power isn’t just in blood, but in unity and vision. Together, we will redefine the future.”
“We graduate in a week,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over each person. “I want to know what you all plan to do moving forward. I want a united front for what I aim to achieve. Swear your loyalty to me and come when I call.”
Abraxas Malfoy stepped forward, pride in his voice. “The Malfoys have always been at the forefront of power. I have spoken with my father, Lord Malfoy, and he stands with you. We recognize the winds of change, and they blow in your favour, My Lord.”
Tom smiled, devoid of warmth. “I am glad to hear that, Malfoy. Lord Malfoy has my regards.”
Orion Black nodded. “The Black family has always valued power and influence. Aligning with you, My Lord, seems the natural course.”
Tom nodded in approval as other pureblood families pledged their oaths.
“Half-bloods have the best of both worlds, don’t you think? A foot in each door.” Jasper Anson, a half-blood and Charms prodigy, said. The half-bloods with him nodded. “I believe in your vision, Riddle, as long as it means everyone gets a fair shot based on their talent.”
“Very true, Jasper.” Tom smirked. “Talent is what I most admire.”
Marrick Rosier, younger brother of his former tormentor, spoke thoughtfully. “The old ways have served us well, but maybe it’s time for a new world order, one that combines the best of every lineage.”
Eleanor Hepburn, a young and ambitious Muggle-born, took a deep breath. “I’ve been looked down upon since my first day here, not because I lack talent, but because of my blood.” A few other Muggle-borns nodded beside her. “If your new world values merit over lineage, then you have my wand, Riddle.”
Mulciber looked around, especially at the half-bloods and Muggle-borns. “Our world is on the brink of transformation. The Mulcibers will stand where power and vision converge.”
Tom Riddle leaned forward with intense focus. “Each one of you brings something unique to this alliance, be it old power, fresh perspective, or unmatched skill.” He saw the fire in their eyes. “Together, we will be unstoppable. This room, under this vast sky, will witness the moment the Wizarding World began its metamorphosis.”
The night deepened, but the gathering felt like the dawn of a new era. Their combined energies, pulsing with ambition and hope, promised to redefine the future of magic.
“Now go; gather alliances and strengthen yourselves. I will call for you, in time.”
February 17th, 1946
In a dim chamber at Slytherin Manor, old portraits watched silently as a single candle burned, casting long shadows. Tom stood at the centre, holding a silver locket with a serpent-shaped ‘S’ glinting ominously.
Tom raised the locket, his voice filled with triumph, his long fingers tracing the ‘S’ of the locket. “Centuries of legacy, back where it belongs.”
“Hepzibah Smith had a fine collection. Pity she had to... part with it,” Jasper smirked, leaning against a shelf.
“Yes, a tragic accident.” Tom said with dark humour. “How careless of her.”
Mulciber, looking at Tom with awe, added, “The locket’s power is palpable, even from here. With it, your strength will be unmatched, Tom.”
“It’s not just about power, Mulciber. It’s a symbol, a reminder of my birthright, my destiny.” Tom clenched the locket, determination in his eyes. “This locket has seen many rises and falls. Now it will witness the rise of the greatest wizard of all time.”
“And what do you plan to do with it?” Corvus Lestrange asked, stepping forward. “Surely, it’s more than a mere family heirloom to you.”
“You’ve always sought more than mere trinkets, Tom. What are you planning?” Mulciber asked, curious.
“Surely, you haven’t severed your soul in half…” Jasper trailed off.
“Not Horcruxes. Though I briefly considered it. Splitting one’s soul is crude.” Tom spoke with fervour. “Necromancy, the ancient and forbidden art, holds true power. Immortality without the cost of one’s soul.”
The room went silent, the weight of Tom’s words hanging heavily. The ancient portraits seemed to watch more intently, sensing the onset of a new era.
Corvus’s eyes widened. “Necromancy? That’s a lost art, believed to be a myth.”
“In the hands of a master, myths become reality. This locket will amplify my abilities, help me channel the energies needed for the rituals.”
“But Tom, Necromancy requires…” Jasper hesitated.
“Sacrifices. Yes, I’m aware.” Tom interrupted, his voice authoritative. “But the promise of eternal life, of ruling the Wizarding and Muggle Worlds for ages to come... isn’t that worth any price?”
The atmosphere grew colder, the gravity of Tom’s ambitions weighing heavily on everyone present.
“I will leave Britain for some time. A few years perhaps,” Tom revealed. “Continue gathering allies and avoid Dumbledore for now. The old man grows suspicious.”