What is power, without the intelligence to use it? What is wit, without the dare to say it? What is ambition, without the hard work to achieve your goals?
The Sorting Hat's words echoed in Tom's mind even after all these years of wearing the colors of his House with pride. He recalled the look in Dumbledore's eyes when he went not to the House with the serpents but to that with a lion roaring. Tom knew that was the point of no return, when he grabbed the teacher's trust and pocketed it. And it was all thanks to a piece of fabric infused with the magic of the very same Founder of his chosen House. Fate, he would call it, but Tom Riddle doesn't believe in fate.
"Marvolo?" asked a firm voice that reminded Tom of a crackling fireplace. "Everyone's expecting you at the atrium."
"Thank you, Charlus," he said, standing up from the magnificent, and uncomfortable, chair that marked his status as Minister of Magic. "Is everything ready for tonight's meeting?"
"Of course, Marvolo," Charlus responded with a nod and a smirk. "Harfang and Septimus have everything ready. The recruits, though, are a problem."
Tom frowned and grabbed Charlus's arm. "I will not tolerate incompetence from any of them, Charlus," he warned. "Much less from you, my friend."
Their walk was quick and silent, both men musing about the diverse matters to attend before the Minister's ascent to a complete power. Charlus was nervous, Tom knew, but he would be as outstanding in his service to him as ever and Tom trusted him.
Huh. Trust was something he thought himself uncapable of give, but the very night he wore the scarlet and gold for the first time, something changed: he made a friend, and he had proved himself worthy once and again.
"Your people await, Minister," Charlus smiled, shaking Tom's hand with obvious pride and joy.
Tom couldn't stop a smile forming on his lips.
He thanked Charlus, and faced the crowd.