SWNOVELXO Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The dim light a abandoned room flickered, casting long shadows across the dark stone walls. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the hushed murmurs of the select few who had gathered for the evening's meeting. Tom Riddle, his sharp features bathed in the low, flickering light, stood before the assembled group of his most loyal followers .
His cold, calculating eyes scanned the room, noting the eager faces of his inner circle: Theodore Nott, Reinhardt Lestrange, Thomas Avery, and Elliot Rosier. These were the ones he trusted, the ones who understood his vision. He had been sowing the seeds of their cause for months now, whispering of blood purity, of reclaiming the wizarding world for those who truly mattered. But one figure was conspicuously absent.
"Where is Abraxas?" Tom asked, his voice smooth, but the edge of impatience was clear in his tone.
The others looked at each other uneasily. Abraxas Malfoy was one of his most trusted allies, his right hand—someone who had stood by him through every step of this journey. It was unusual for him to be absent without reason.
"Headmaster Dippet called for him," Thomas Avery said cautiously, looking to the others for confirmation. "It seems he's been summoned to the headmaster's office."
Tom's brow furrowed, his sharp eyes narrowing with mild irritation. "Dippet." The name left his lips like a snake's hiss. He had little patience for the weak, old fool who ran the school, but he could not deny the headmaster's power.
"Let him have his little chat with the headmaster," Tom said dismissively.
Theodore Nott adjusted the collar of his robes, his face composed but his eyes alight with curiosity. Beside him, Reinhardt Lestrange lounged against the cold stone wall, a trace of amusement playing on his sharp features. Elliot Rosier was meticulously cleaning his wand, the act more of a nervous habit than any practical necessity. And Thomas Avery, ever the eager one, was perched at the edge of his chair, leaning forward as if anticipating a grand proclamation.
At the center of the room, where the flickering firelight cast shadows that danced across the stone walls, stood Tom Riddle. His posture was impeccable, his expression one of practiced ease, but his dark eyes betrayed an intensity that held the room captive.
Tom was the perfect enigma—brilliant, orphaned, and naturally gifted—a model student, a school prefect, a future leader in the making. He had mastered the art of persuasion with such finesse that even the most skeptical of the Hogwarts staff had bought his act. Even the ever-watchful Dumbledore couldn't fully see through the mask, although Tom knew that the old man was the one to fear. Dumbledore had been the only one who ever seemed to remember—to keep an eye on the boy who was too perfect.
At this table, Tom's mind was a storm of ideas, ideals, and carefully constructed lies. He had built this group, piece by piece, and each member had a purpose whether they sought protection, shared glory, or craved a more refined cruelty. the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty
"Gentlemen," Tom began, his voice smooth and commanding, "I've been reflecting on the future. On our future." He paced slowly, his steps deliberate, every movement calculated. "The wizarding world is at a crossroads, though many are too blind to see it. Our traditions, our purity, are under threat by those who would see them diluted, diminished…destroyed."
"Do you understand what I am offering?" Tom's voice was calm, calculating, as he turned to Theodore Nott. "Power. Control. A future where blood purity isn't just some old superstition we wave in front of the unworthy, but a truth that defines us. No one can stand against us."
Theodore nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. He was ambitious, but even more so, he was afraid. He'd grown up in the shadow of his father's reputation but had never truly felt the weight of that legacy. But Tom—Tom was different. Tom knew how to make him feel as though he was part of something greater, something necessary.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Lestrange's smirk widened, and Avery nodded enthusiastically.
"For centuries," Tom continued, his voice rising slightly, "our kind has ruled from the shadows. We've safeguarded the sanctity of magic, ensuring that it remains in the hands of those truly worthy. But now?" His tone darkened, his eyes sweeping across the room. "Now we face a tide of mediocrity, of contamination, as Muggle-borns flood our sacred halls and half-bloods rise above their station."
Nott shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Riddle noticed but pressed on, his voice softening into something almost intimate.
"It falls to us," he said, his gaze locking onto each of them in turn, "to reclaim what is ours. To ensure that the future of wizard kind is shaped by those with the strength, the vision, the purity to lead."
Rosier cleared his throat, setting his wand down carefully. "And how do you propose we do that, Tom? The Ministry is hardly going to bow to a group of…students."
Tom's lips curled into a smile, cold and calculating. "The Ministry? The Ministry is an edifice of corruption and complacency. It's not about bowing, Elliot. It's about positioning ourselves as the inevitable. The indispensable."
He stopped pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. "Power is not taken in broad daylight. It is cultivated in the shadows, where only the truly ambitious dare to tread. And we," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo in the chamber, "are those ambitious few."
Lestrange asked "So, what's the plan, Tom? how will we achieved it? "
Tom turned to him, "By spreading our ideology, T our vision of a new order. Of a world where purebloods reign supreme, where the weak—Muggle-borns and half-bloods—are no longer allowed to tarnish the greatness of our kind. "
Tom's eyes flashed, his expression darkening. "The weak have no place in our world. And yet, they are everywhere. It's time to rid the world of their taint. Only then will the wizarding world know its true power."
There was a murmur of agreement from his followers, but Tom's gaze turned cold, calculating. His mind was elsewhere, piecing together the next steps in his grand design. The obsession with his heritage, with the blood that ran through his veins, had consumed him since he'd arrived at Hogwarts. The name 'Slytherin' carried weight, and as the heir of Salazar Slytherin, he knew that it was his destiny to lead the wizarding world into a new era. But there was something deeper—darker—hidden beneath his ambition.
Nott finally spoke, his tone measured but skeptical. "And what of Dumbledore? He's no fool, Tom. He watches you closely."
"Dumbledore," Tom said, his voice laced with disdain, "is a relic. A sentimental fool who clings to ideals that have no place in the world we are building. Let him watch. He sees only what I allow him to see."
As he spoke, a memory surfaced, unbidden yet vivid. He was eleven again, standing in the dimly lit office of the orphanage, Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes boring into him. The man had seen something in him then, something no one else had. But even then, Riddle had known how to mask his true self, how to show only what was necessary.
He shook off the memory, returning to the present. "The time will come when even Dumbledore will be forced to acknowledge the inevitability of our rise. Until then, we remain patient. Strategic."
Lestrange's smirk returned, this time with an edge of genuine admiration. "You're a cold one, Riddle. I'll give you that."
Tom inclined his head, accepting the backhanded compliment with grace. "Cold? Perhaps. But necessary. We're playing a long game, gentlemen. And in the end, we will be the ones left standing."
He turned toward the fire, his profile illuminated by the flickering flames. The group watched him, their expressions a mixture of awe and apprehension. They didn't need to know the full truth—that their so-called leader, the paragon of pure-blood supremacy, was himself sullied by Muggle blood. That secret was his alone to bear, and it would remain buried, just like the Chamber of Secrets he had unearthed.
I am the heir of Slytherin, he thought, a bitter smile curling at the corners of his mouth. That is all that matters. The truth of my heritage is irrelevant. It is the blood that I carry, not the one that sullies me, that will guide this world.
He had long ago convinced himself that his father, the Muggle, was irrelevant. The fact that the Slytherin bloodline ran through his mother's side mattered far more. It was his mother's magical blood that had empowered him, and the name 'Riddle' was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
But that was the secret he would never share
For now, they believed. And that was all that mattered.
"I want this ideology to spread, to reach every corner of the wizarding world," Tom said, his voice rising slightly, filled with the fervor of his cause. "We cannot wait forever. The Muggle-borns grow bolder each year. They infiltrate our schools, our families, our society. But this—this is the beginning of the end for them. The first of many steps."
He paused, his dark eyes sweeping over each of his followers. They were loyal, ambitious, hungry for the power he promised them. They would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he commanded it. And that made him smile.
"A true pureblood society, one that answers only to us." Tom's voice softened, almost a whisper now, yet every word carried weight. "The world will be ours, and nothing—nothing—will stand in our way."
There was a long, tense silence, broken only by the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Tom turned his gaze to the door, his thoughts momentarily drifting to Abraxas. He would return soon, no doubt. When he did, there would be much to discuss—plans to be made, new recruits to be brought into the fold, and perhaps more targets to consider. The legacy of Salazar Slytherin was his, and he would stop at nothing to make sure it stayed that way.
"Let's begin," Tom said, turning to his followers with renewed intensity. "We have work to do."
"To the future," Tom said smirking his eyes reflect so much ambition.
"To the future," they echoed, their voices tinged with both reverence and ambition.
As the fire crackled in the hearth, Tom allowed himself a small, private smile. The pieces were falling into place. The legacy of Salazar Slytherin, of the Gaunt bloodline, would soon be restored. And he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, would lead the way.