The hallways of Hogwarts were unusually quiet. The usual sounds of chattering, squealing and laughing were displaced by an eerie silence. Tom Riddle relished in this, taking advantage of his newly acquired prefect badge to roam the castle in the dead of night, his only obstacle being the portraits that adorned (unfortunately) the majority of the castle walls. Luckily enough, many of them were actually deep sleepers, so all he needed to do was ensure that the light emitted from his wand was pointed towards the floor.
His footsteps echoed through the hallway as he made his way up to the seventh floor. He needed to think, so the Room of Requirement called to him. Sometimes he wondered how it was possible that a person, only sixteen years of age, could hold as much anger as he did. He never liked to dwell on it for too long, but it pestered his mind often, as he watched others his age live so carelessly, not feeling it a necessity to hide behind a wall. Sometimes it felt as if it was a completely different entity, his anger. Like he had the devil on his shoulder without the angel to create a balance. His urges fought little to no resistance, the only thing keeping this castle from facing pure destruction was his extremely well thought out future plans. He had a reputation to uphold. The perfect Slytherin student. Just the right amount of ambition, smart, cunning, prideful. Heir of Slytherin or not, Slytherin would always have been his house. The traits match to him near perfectly, though he, and anyone who knew him as much as he allowed himself to be known, knew that he had far more than 'just enough' ambition. He had plans to change the world, plans to be the most powerful, most feared. Plans that would cause people who knew him as a student to think back and wonder how they missed the signs. Anyone as psychopathic as he truly was must have a tell, a small aspect of their personality that showed their inner self. The truth was, his whole personality was his tell, he was just smart enough to form a facade to hide behind. One so strong that no flaws could slip through a crack and expose what lay just below the surface. Even his eyes, the piece of a human so commonly described as 'the window to the soul' showed nothing but the same mask of passive indifference that his face held when not actively speaking with someone. It truly was incredible how he could morph his facial features on command to the emotion which would gain him the most favour. Many would deem it terrifying, how he could manipulate his way through life with ease, but Tom would describe it as a type of art, one that he specialised in.
He paced before the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, thinking of a place he could calm down. A door formed on the opposite wall, which would have elicited a sigh of relief had Tom not been on the verge of bursting at the seams with anger. He was rarely unable to contain it, but he could feel the anger leaking from him in the form of small cracks of magic that dissipated into the air around him. He was in an extremely dangerous state, that much he knew. It's not that he particularly cared for the general student body, but he couldn't risk the accidental murder of another student, especially after the events of last year. Damn that mudblood girl for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She nearly cost him his freedom. His plans. Luckily enough, Hagrid, the half-breed, had been nurturing a dangerous acromantula, so Tom had a scapegoat. An event like this could never happen again, however. He absolutely refused to base his future on 'luck' or 'chance'. Everything needed to be articulated and executed perfectly, though he knew he couldn't complain, as much as he so desperately wanted to. She had been the kill that had allowed him to create his first horcrux, the diary. He had truly underestimated the physical toll that creating this would take, though. It was excruciatingly painful.
Fury coursed through him at the blatant disrespect shown by the Avery girl, Isadora. She was lucky that her brother was an important asset, he thought.
It was the first feast of the school year, and he has made it a tradition to scan through the heads of the people he surrounded himself with; he needed to ensure that they were trustworthy, loyal, devoted to his cause. Well, to his rise to power. His 'cause', to rid the wizarding world of mudbloods in order for purebloods to rule and for a 'pure society', was not something he truly believed in. It was seen as a means to an end, a way to manipulate his knights into following him blindly into his ruling of the wizarding world. All he needed to do was play into their ideologies and he would have each and every one in the palm of his hand, which would assist him greatly. Having powerful purebloods on side was a key factor in his plans, it was such a shame that they were such... idiots. The belief that mudbloods stole magic? Ridiculous. The ratio of mudbloods to squibs, who they assumed were the unfortunate victims of 'magic stealing', is immeasurably high, so they simply don't make sense. Mudbloods and halfbloods are less powerful? He is fully aware that he is the most powerful wizard of his age, as a halfblood. They know this too, so why they still insist upon this he can not begin to imagine, however he can use it to his advantage, and so he will. An advantage, as illogical as it was, was still an advantage.
Sifting through their minds was an easy enough task, so he did it casually as he feigned listening to Dippet's welcome speech, which had the exact same content as it had the previous five years, when he came in contact with a black wall. He was thrown quite forcefully from the offender's mind, so much so that he flinched back in his seat, eliciting strange looks from the group, but they were easily enough deterred by his glare. All except Isadora Avery, who had the audacity to glare back at him, after so rudely rejecting his mind intrusion. While she held some form of respect from him, stemming from the sorting ceremony, where she so blatantly expressed her dislike for Dumbledore to him, mirroring his own thoughts, she was not exempt from the rules he placed on his 'friends', and it seemed she needed to be taught a lesson. Never once had he been defied, they were much too scared of him, but now it seemed that the Avery girl had some dare about her, which frustrated him to no end while simultaneously... peaked his curiosity? He wanted to discover where she got the nerve to pull this stunt, why she thought she could beat him so easily, and whether she was ready for the hell he was to raise against her. As he walked into the room of requirement, he began to formulate a plan, which he continued to do as he subconsciously paced afront the fireplace that had formed in the centre of the large stone wall. A large rug, detailed with silver and gold was placed in front of the fire, on which he was walking, a stark contrast to the near black wood that the floor was lined with. At the back of the room was a black leather sofa, facing outwards towards a window, which showed the hills of Scotland, projected by magic much like what is used on the ceiling of the great hall. As it was late, this provided limited light and so the room was lit by a glowing golden ball of light that hovered by the centre of the ceiling, as well as the light from the lit fireplace which offered little contribution, especially as Tom walked before it, blocking its light every 1o seconds, walking perfectly timed and spaced as if he had done this many of times before, which in truth he had. He needed to infiltrate her mind, her space, her time. He needed to find what it was, what made her so different. Why she could resist him, and why she wanted to. She had never shown a shred of dislike or disobedience towards him before today, what had changed? Where did her resistance come from? Why did he need to know so badly? What pulled him into this new mystery? Was it general curiosity? Offence? Frustration? Power? Obsession? It was a question impossible to find the answer to with no further investigation, and so that is what he shall do. Investigate.
He stopped in place, before the fireplace. He turned towards it slowly, a grin forming as he faced the fire. He stared into the flames, a proud, sadistic smile placed upon his most handsome features.
Isadora Avery had no idea of the hell that was Tom Riddle, but she will learn soon enough.
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pure destruction - tr.
FanfictionTom Riddle was not tolerant of disrespect. Never had been, never would be. Just this once, though, curiosity overpowered this, and what he worked so hard to find in her reflected himself. *any and all aspects of this story relating to harry potter a...