Every organization, no matter how grand or small, required a purpose , something that burned at its center, something that drew people together when the world grew cold.
The Saints once had that.
Under Grindelwald, their mission was to tear down the Statute of Secrecy, to bridge the worlds of wizard and Muggle, and to drag humanity , magical and nonmagical alike , into a new era of revelation.
But that was decades ago.
And that purpose had died the same day Gellert Grindelwald fell.
It wasn't simply because Dumbledore defeated him, or because his empire crumbled. It was because that battle , that single day , had changed the world.
The wizarding world had no strength left to face the Muggles anymore.
The gap wasn't one of power , two legendary wizards could still turn the sky upside down if they wished , but rather one of numbers, of unity, of will.
If Grindelwald and Dumbledore had continued their war, they could have shattered nations… but the wizarding race might not have survived the aftermath.
So now, a new Saint Order could not rise on the same foundation.
It needed something else , a new idea, a new flame.
Tom, sitting cross-legged in the dim cell, listened patiently as his teacher spoke. Then he tilted his head, the faintest smirk forming on his lips.
"Is that really so hard?" he asked, voice deceptively innocent. "The purpose is simple: they serve me. They handle the little things so I can grow faster, reach higher, and become the strongest wizard in existence. Isn't that enough of a goal?"
Grindelwald stared at him, speechless for a long moment.
"Tom," he finally said, the corner of his mouth twitching, "you do realize how… unsubtle that sounds?"
Tom shrugged. "Then I'll phrase it your way."
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat, his eyes glinting with wry amusement. "For the Greater Good, right? Only this time, the 'greater good' happens to align perfectly with mine."
"Rebrand it however you like. You're the visionary here. But make no mistake , I won't shortchange my people. Anyone who stands with me will thrive."
The fading light through the narrow window brushed across Tom's face as he spoke. Evening had settled outside, and the cold air pressed faintly through the cracks of the stone.
He turned toward the door, slipping his wand back into his sleeve.
"That's all for today. Rest up, old man , I'll visit again soon."
As he descended the spiral stairs, the slumbering Squib guard remained motionless, snoring softly. Tom paused by the booth, lifted his wand, and touched the man's forehead.
A thin, silvery thread of memory drifted out like smoke, coiling around his wandtip before dissipating into nothingness.
It was the only regret Tom ever had about sending Lockhart to Azkaban so early , the man had mastered Obliviate better than anyone. He could have been a useful tutor.
At the top of the tower, Grindelwald watched through the window as Tom's figure grew smaller, vanishing into the dark.
For a long time, the old wizard said nothing. Then, softly, he murmured into the quiet:
"Voldemort…"
His lips curled into the faintest, most dangerous smile.
"One day, I'll make Albus see for himself , who truly deserves to be called the greatest dark wizard of this century."
Tom had felt the echo of that thought even as he left , but he didn't mind. Ambition, pride, defiance , those were the traits of the powerful. The world's strongest wizards were all driven by their rivalries.
Even now, as the cold wind bit at his coat, Tom's mind was clear. He had left behind several bottles of vitality potion , the same elixirs he'd once designed to restore energy. By now, he was using them as all-purpose medicine. They weren't perfect, but the body's enhanced vitality healed more than flesh , it soothed the soul itself.
When Tom finally returned to Hogwarts, the courtyard was empty. The crowds had dispersed; the giant automaton Megatron had been taken back to the professors for maintenance.
He had turned the creature over to Professor McGonagall, trusting her to handle its testing and report any magical irregularities. The thing was more useful as a study subject now than as a weapon.
But Hogwarts had changed in his absence.
Ever since Dumbledore's announcement, the castle had come alive again.
Professor Flitwick's Charms classes had turned into unofficial dueling workshops. Each day, the tiny half-goblin professor selected students to spar against him, teaching them how to combine agility and quick thinking to outmaneuver stronger opponents.
Meanwhile, Professor Rouse had taken the opposite approach. His lessons were practically combat training , destructive, loud, and exhilarating.
"Subtlety?" he'd laughed once. "You can't dodge what's already hit you! Strength first, finesse later!"
Students were divided.
Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws admired Flitwick's cleverness , tactics, timing, precision.
Slytherins and Gryffindors, however, rallied behind Rouse's philosophy , raw power, unyielding defense, and overwhelming offense.
"Magic is battle," Rouse would say. "If your spell can break through the enemy's shield, you've already won."
The rivalry between the two styles soon split the school in half. Arguments flared in common rooms and hallways , sometimes even duels.
Flitwick and Rouse never interfered. In fact, they seemed amused. For the first time in years, the four Houses were united , if only by disagreement.
As January drew to a close, Tom published two more biographies in The Magical World Chronicle, this time focusing on foreign pure-blood families. They barely caused a stir in Hogwarts , but that wasn't his goal.
According to Rosier's intelligence, the bounty on his head , fifty thousand galleons , had finally been traced.
Half of it came from extreme pure-blood supremacists; the rest, from a few families with ancient feuds against the Rosier line. Together, they formed a small, desperate alliance , powerful once, now broken and decayed.
"Pooling money for a bounty," Tom had mused. "How pathetic."
They had neither power nor wealth , relics of a dying ideology.
But Tom was patient. The moment the opportunity came, he'd strike. He wouldn't simply ruin them. He'd erase them.
Root and branch.
On the last day of the month, as the winter sun faded over the Black Lake, Tom returned early to the Room of Requirement.
The sixth trial had yet to begin , but the fifth, long delayed, was nearly complete.
Half a year had passed since it was assigned, and he could feel the weight of progress pressing against him, the invisible hum of destiny whispering at the edges of his mind.
Whatever awaited him next… it wouldn't be small.
Because Tom Riddle was no longer just a brilliant student or a rising name.
He was the serpent coiling beneath the foundations of Hogwarts , and soon, he would strike.