the seven virtues [tom riddle]

final chapter

FINAL CHAPTER

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Be advised that this chapter contains death and gore. I also attached a playlist that should be played halfway through.

   Polished black shoes sounded against the gravel floor, their echo bouncing against the bleak walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As Tom Riddle paced the crudely lit corridors of the castle, his acolytes trailed closely behind, gradually slinking around the edges of his vision. The portraits swirled their heads as he moved past them, querying why a student would ever take on the burden of defending the castle.

   The question lacquered his mind in inky spots, and, with every step, he queried when his means of achieving power had changed. In some paradoxical way, Tom thought he was still the same ruthless creature he had been three years ago, with an unquenchable desire for sovereignty and control. Still, his vision had metamorphosed into something else. More tangible, if anything, an established plan that would seize control over the Ministry of Magic, replacing the cowardly members with his own.

   The world would be reformed to his own model, and Riddle would become a governor unlike anyone before. The Dark Arts would be a legacy, a practice worshipped and coveted by many for its dastardly nature. Knowledge would not be hidden due to fear, but rather embraced for its appeal, and the wizarding world would flourish as it always should have. A hierarchy of excellency would be stabilized, where thirst for intellectualism and unprecedented ambition would be celebrated—a Dark Age, though fluorescent in its own way.

   Tom's eyes slid to the wizard and witch following his lead, Ananke and Nicholas, their faces covered in dry blood and yet eyes gleaming with purpose. They were both restless, but Avery was ravenous for everything that had been promised to him, and the boy thought the battle to be the first step towards greatness.

   Avery's face morphed into marble, though, underneath, wrath pulsated freely, something that controlled him in his entirety. By his side, hands clasped around daggers, though his injured limb trembled slightly. Unlike Maxwell's accident, which had been improved through constant training and magic, Nicholas' was not reversible. Once, the assassin had thought it to be the end of it all, and although it still intervened with his accuracy, the tremor had become part of him. He had embraced it, drilled himself until he could throw his weapons again and hit the target. With the shift in his mentality had also come improvements—Avery brought different blades to suit his needs, practiced his magic more, trained to be faster on his feet. He conformed to the situation and, just like Maxwell, found worth in himself beyond one talent.

   Icarus had made sure that, once met with a stressful situation, Nicholas would be prepared. They trained from morning until dusk, clashing metal against metal, because they knew hardships were not endings. They were beginnings. With two fingers made of iron, Lestrange became fire-hearted and refused to let the throbbing pain that never entirely left his limb during training become something that turned him around.