The doors to the Great Hall of Gaunt Manor groaned as they opened, ancient hinges protesting like old bones disturbed from rest. Tom Riddle did not slow his stride. The sound pleased him. It reminded him that this place, like everything else of worth, was old, stubborn, and steeped in power that lesser minds mistook for decay.
Torchlight flickered along the stone walls, casting elongated shadows that twisted and bowed before him. The Great Hall stretched wide and severe, its ceiling lost in darkness, its long obsidian table polished to a dull sheen that reflected firelight like blood beneath ice.
They were already waiting.
Dozens of figures stood in silence, clad in black robes that drank in the light. Some wore their masks openly, cold metal shaped into leering skulls, serpents, or smooth, expressionless visages engraved with runes of old families. Others held theirs at their sides or rested them upon the table before them, as if even anonymity were a privilege to be earned.
Purebloods. Every one of them. Names that traced their lineage back centuries. Houses that had survived wars, purges, and politics by knowing when to kneel and when to strike.
The Death Eaters.
The moment Tom crossed the threshold, they moved as one.
They rose.
Chairs scraped softly against stone. Robes whispered. Heads bowed low, some so deeply that foreheads nearly brushed the table. A few dropped to one knee outright, devotion heavy enough to bend bone.
"Lord Voldemort," they intoned, voices overlapping, reverent, fearful, eager.
Tom did not acknowledge them immediately.
He walked.
Each step, measured and deliberate, echoed through the hall like the ticking of a great clock counting down toward something inevitable. He passed between them, his presence drawing eyes even as they remained bowed. He could feel their attention like heat on his skin, feel their magic stirring, reacting to him instinctively.
At the far end of the hall stood his seat.
Not a throne. He had never cared for crowns or gaudy displays. Power that required ornamentation feared being questioned. His chair was carved from dark yew, its back etched with serpentine motifs so subtle they seemed to move when one did not look directly at them.
He sat.
Only then did he lift a hand.
They returned to their seats in silence.
Tom surveyed them with calm, cold precision. Masks hid expressions, but magic did not lie. He tasted their emotions easily. Anticipation. Fear. Pride. Resentment. Devotion. Ambition. Weakness.
So much weakness.
"There is much to discuss," he said at last, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. He did not raise it. He never needed to. "But first things first."
His gaze sharpened, fixing on a cluster of Death Eaters to his left.
"Dolohov," he said softly.
The man stiffened.
"Yes, my Lord."
"You were tasked with eliminating a Muggle-born family in Kent," Tom continued, fingers steepled lightly before him. "A simple assignment that I had believed you were going to be able to complete, and yet they are still alive."
A ripple moved through the hall. Dolohov swallowed.
"There were… complications—"
Tom's wand was already in his hand.
It slid into his grasp like a familiar thought, smooth and perfectly balanced. Dark yew. Thirteen and a half inches. A phoenix feather core stolen from a creature that should never have been bound. The wand hummed faintly, eager, attuned to his intent.
"Crucio."
The word was spoken almost conversationally.
Dolohov screamed.
Pain ripped through him with surgical precision, not wild, not frenzied. Tom did not believe in wasted suffering. The curse coiled through Dolohov's nerves, lighting each one like a filament drawn too tight, forcing his body to convulse against its will.
Tom watched dispassionately.
"This," he said, as Dolohov collapsed gasping to the floor, "is what happens when instructions are interpreted as suggestions."
He lifted his wand again.
"Rookwood."
The man flinched before Tom even spoke again.
"You delayed the acquisition of a Ministry artifact," Tom continued. "You allowed bureaucracy to slow you, and now I have to find some other way to steal it."
"My Lord, the safeguards—"
"Crucio."
Rookwood's scream joined Dolohov's, a duet of agony echoing off ancient stone. Tom let it last a heartbeat longer. Not out of cruelty.
Out of necessity.
Pain taught lessons words could not.
When he lowered his wand, both men lay broken on the floor, shaking, alive only because Tom willed it.
"Let this be clear," Tom said, eyes sweeping the hall. "Failure is not tolerated. Hesitation is not forgiven. You are here because you serve a purpose. Forget that, and you will discover how easily you can be replaced."
Silence answered him.
Good.
He turned his attention elsewhere.
"Lucius Malfoy."
Lucius rose smoothly, mask tucked beneath his arm. Tall, pale, composed. A man who understood presentation as well as he understood influence.
"You secured favorable legislation within the Ministry," Tom said. "Subtle. Effective. You ensured that certain… restrictions remained unenforced."
Lucius bowed. "As you commanded, my Lord."
"You will be rewarded."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Tom noted it and allowed it. Rewards mattered. Loyalty fed on recognition as much as fear.
He gestured slightly, and a small, ornate chest appeared on the table before Lucius, conjured from thin air. Inside, Tom knew, lay a relic of old magic, something Lucius would covet deeply.
Lucius' eyes gleamed despite himself.
Others followed. Praise given sparingly. Favors promised. Positions adjusted. Tom balanced punishment and reward with the precision of an alchemist measuring volatile ingredients.
Then, at last, he leaned back in his chair.
"Now," he said, "we come to the matter that concerns our future."
The air shifted.
Tom felt it in the tightening of spines, the flare of magic. He turned his gaze toward Severus Snape, seated near the end of the table, his posture rigid, his face pale beneath the torchlight.
"Severus has brought me word of a prophecy," Tom said.
A snarl rose immediately from the hall.
"A prophecy?" Bellatrix Lestrange hissed, fingers curling eagerly. "About you, my Lord?"
Tom inclined his head slightly. "About me."
The anger was immediate, visceral. These were not men and women who tolerated the idea of destiny challenging their master.
"Impossible," one Death Eater spat.
"Prophecies are lies," another said.
Tom raised a hand, and silence snapped into place like a spell locking shut.
"The prophecy speaks of a child," he continued calmly. "Born at the end of the seventh month. To those who have thrice defied me."
He watched their reactions closely.
"Who," he asked, "has dared defy me three times?"
Names surfaced quickly.
"The Longbottoms," someone said.
"The Potters," another added.
James and Lily Potter.
Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Both couples had refused to join his cause over and over again.
"Both women have given birth," Severus said softly. "Two boys. Harry Potter. Neville Longbottom."
The room vibrated with tension.
Bellatrix laughed, sharp and delighted. "Then let us kill them both, my Lord."
A practical suggestion. Efficient.
But Tom was not careless.
"That would be the best course of action," he said. "Though I assume whoever I choose to go kill myself will be the one seen as the chosen one of the prophecy, now who should I pick?"
The Death Eaters exchanged glances. Debate erupted. Arguments started as they each had their own opinion about him going to slay some child.
Tom listened.
He always listened.
At last, he spoke.
"Enough, I decided that I shall go after Harry Potter," he said.
The room stilled.
"I believe that he shall hold more sway in what would happen in the future, being born closer to midnight," Tom continued. "I shall head to where they hide and kill the three of them, and Bellatrix, you will go after the Longbottoms and kill Neville Longbottom."
She bowed deeply. "It will be done, my Lord."
Then Severus Snape stood abruptly.
"My Lord," he said, voice tight. "If I may interrupt."
The word rang strangely in the hall.
Tom's eyes narrowed. Slowly, deliberately, he turned toward Snape.
"Speak."
"Spare Lily Potter," Snape said, dropping to his knees. "I beg you."
A hush fell.
Lucius scoffed openly. "Don't be ridiculous, Severus. I have told you many times that you need to forget about the girl."
Snape's head snapped toward him. "You don't understand—"
"Enough."
Tom's voice cracked like a whip.
Both men fell silent instantly.
Tom regarded Snape thoughtfully. There was something raw there. Something dangerous. Emotion.
A flaw.
And yet, flaws could be exploited.
"I will consider it," Tom said at last. "That is all you will receive."
Snape bowed his head, trembling.
"Now leave me," Tom commanded.
One by one, the Death Eaters Disapparated, black robes collapsing into nothingness, the hall emptying until only one remained.
Peter Pettigrew.
The man stood apart, small, nervous, his mask clutched tightly in his hands. He shuffled forward, eyes darting.
"My Lord," he squeaked. "I… I have information on where the Potter'sPotter's are hiding."
Tom's lip curled faintly.
"Speak."
"The Potters," Pettigrew said, licking his lips. "They've hidden themselves. With the Fidelius Charm. I'm the Secret Keeper, Sirius Black, having pushed them to let me take his place."
The words settled into place like the final piece of a puzzle.
Tom smiled.
A slow, cold, knowing smile.
"So the rat actually has some use after all," he murmured. "Now, begone before I have Nagini eat you."
Pettigrew ran out of the hall as fast as he could, as Tom leaned on his hand, wondering if he was walking into some trap.