Tom Riddle sat alone in the library of Gaunt Manor, the flickering candlelight casting long, restless shadows across the walls lined with old tomes. The air smelled of dust and aged parchment, and beneath it, a faint metallic tang of the manor's decay, the remnants of a bloodline steeped in dark history.
He had spent hours poring over ancient texts, notes, and scrolls, each one a thread leading closer to the knowledge he craved—the secrets that would make him invincible, the keys to bending the Wizarding World to his will.
Yet even among these relics of the past, there was always more to learn, more to manipulate. Knowledge, he understood better than most, was power—but only when wielded with precision and without mercy. This pursuit of dark expertise should make the audience feel the weight of Riddle's dangerous obsession and the threat it poses.
His fingers gently traced the faded ink on a particularly worn page, absorbing the words with the meticulous care of a dedicated scholar. Each letter seemed to whisper secrets from a bygone era, and as he immersed himself in their meaning, a faint sensation began to prick at the edges of his awareness. It was a subtle vibration—almost imperceptible—that signaled to him that he was no longer alone in the dimly lit chamber.
"Master," the house-elf croaked, emerging tentatively from the shadows where it had been concealed. Its large, expressive eyes shimmered with a mixture of fear and reverence, reflecting the flickering candlelight that danced around them. "A visitor… he requests entry."
Riddle's dark gaze lifted from the ancient text, narrowing instinctively as he focused on the elf. The calmness of his voice belied an underlying tension, each syllable cutting through the air like a finely honed knife. "Who?"
The elf hesitated, trembling visibly in the presence of its master. "Severus… Severus Snape, my lord." The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, as Riddle's expression transformed into one of cold calculation.
A small, slow smile curved Tom's lips. The name had been familiar to him, whispered in passing by Hogwarts professors, and he had long been curious about the boy who had always walked between light and shadow. "Bring him to me," he said finally. "Now."
Moments later, the library door creaked open on rusty hinges, and Severus Snape entered, the faint scent of damp robes and cold air accompanying him. His robes were pristine, his posture rigid, yet there was a subtle tension in the way he moved—as if he were already anticipating the consequences of every action. He bowed deeply, his knees brushing the cold stone floor, eyes lowered to the ground, shadows flickering across his face in the candlelight.
"Severus," Riddle began, his tone deceptively gentle, almost teasing. "Rise. Tell me… what brings you to Gaunt Manor?"
Severus straightened slowly, glancing up at Tom with a mixture of reverence and apprehension. "My lord, I have overheard a prophecy. It is something I believe you should know." His voice was low and measured, but each word carried the weight of secrecy. Riddle felt a thrill of anticipation coil in his chest. This revelation from Snape held significant implications and posed a potential threat to Riddle's plans.
Riddle leaned back in his chair, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, studying Snape with an intensity that made the young man flinch slightly. "A prophecy, you say? Speak, then."
"The… prophecy speaks of one born at the end of July," Severus said, voice steady now. "Born to those who have thrice defied him, or something to that effect… someone… who has the power to vanquish you. The one with the power to… challenge you…"
Tom felt the air tighten around him. He remained perfectly still, letting the words hang between them like a noose. "Repeat it," he finally said, his tone a mix of silk and steel. "Exactly as you heard it."
Severus swallowed, speaking carefully: "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born at the end of July… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have powers the Dark Lord knows not, powers that… that may defy him."
Tom's mind worked quickly, slicing through the prophecy's words, analyzing every angle, every implication. He exhaled slowly, a soft, deliberate sigh that seemed to pull the darkness closer to him. He closed the book before him, the leather cover creaking, the scent of ink and time rising like smoke.
"Interesting," he murmured, his voice smooth and dark like polished onyx. "The boy will come. He will pose a threat. But threats can be... eliminated." He leaned forward, lightly resting his chin on his knuckles. "Or... used."
Severus flinched at the word. Tom's gaze swept over him, dark and penetrating. He enjoyed that flinch—the fear in Severus's eyes came from knowing the truth, the realization that he was in the presence of something far greater than he had imagined. It was invigorating.
Finally, he sighed—a sound so soft it could have been mistaken for the flutter of a page in the library's silence. "Very well," he said, closing the book in front of him with deliberate care, the thud of its cover on the table echoing like a heartbeat. "You will do more than merely bring me this information. Offer me your mark."
Severus flinched, eyes widening, but he obeyed. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he extended his forearm. The blackened, serpent-like mark of allegiance glimmered faintly in the candlelight.
Tom's hand moved like a shadow, swift and sure. He grasped Severus's arm, feeling the cold, reluctant strength of the boy's magic beneath the skin. His own wand appeared in his hand—a slender, blackthorn piece with a core of phoenix feather, cold and almost liquid to the touch, its tip faintly gleaming with anticipation. Tom pressed it to the mark, murmuring the incantation under his breath, a sound that was almost too low to hear but heavy with command.
The air changed in an instant. Shadows grew darker, and the candle flames flickered as if responding to an unseen breeze. Slowly and deliberately, the black mark began to glow brighter, pulsating with power and vitality. Through Severus's allegiance, Tom could feel the presence of others—the loyal ones who had been waiting, scattered across the wizarding world, ready to respond to the call.
"The others will arrive soon," Tom said, turning away. "I suggest you go and wait in the grand hall as well."