Chapter 7: Schemes and Shadows
1962, Hogwarts
Voldemort stood in the room that held the weight of his past, his present, and what he hoped would be his future. Before him sat Albus Dumbledore, a man he had once regarded with a mix of respect and disdain, now a potential employer. Dumbledore's eyes, those disconcertingly knowing eyes, seemed to regard him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
"Tom," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had seen it all, "it is unusual for former students to return seeking employment, especially those whose accomplishments have left an indelible mark on the wizarding world."
He maintained his composure, his demeanor as controlled as ever. "I have much to offer, Headmaster," he replied, his tone carefully measured. "I am no longer the boy who walked these halls."
Dumbledore's response was hardly surprising, but it stung nonetheless. "Indeed, you are not," he said, his voice heavy with a sense of solemnity that seemed to permeate the very air. "And it is precisely because of the man you've become that I cannot offer you the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
As Dumbledore spoke, he couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration. The room seemed to close in around them, the grandeur of Hogwarts itself bearing witness to their clash of ideologies. He had come here not merely for a job but with a grander vision in mind—to shape young minds, to mold them into loyal followers who would carry out his vision of a new world order. Hogwarts, with its impressionable students, was the ideal breeding ground for his cause. Yet, Dumbledore remained an unyielding obstacle, steadfast in his resistance to the changes Tom sought to bring about.
In that moment, he knew that his path would inevitably intersect with Dumbledore's again and again. The struggle between light and darkness, between their opposing philosophies, would persist. Dumbledore, his eternal adversary, stood in the way of his ambitions, and he was determined to find a way to overcome him.
Voldemort masked his disappointment with a thin veneer of politeness. He thanked him for his time and said, "Headmaster, may I have permission to roam the halls for old times' sake?"
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes still assessing Voldemort. "Of course, Tom. The castle always welcomes its former students."
As he walked through the familiar corridors, his mind was consumed by a singular desire—to find Gryffindor's sword. He had come to Hogwarts with the intent to obtain it, and he wasn't about to leave without it. It was a powerful artifact that he believed would serve him well in his quest for immortality.
His search led him to the Room of Requirement, a place he had discovered during his years at Hogwarts. He stepped inside, hoping that the sword would reveal itself to him. But to his dismay, the room remained empty, devoid of the coveted relic.
Frustration gnawed at him as he paced the room. He had envisioned this moment, imagined himself wielding the sword's power, but it seemed to elude his grasp.
"I will not leave empty-handed," he muttered to himself.
As he pondered his next move, a sinister idea began to take shape in his mind. If he couldn't obtain the sword, he would leave his mark on Hogwarts in a different way—a mark that would ensure suffering and turmoil for years to come.
With grim determination, Voldemort retrieved the Diadem of Ravenclaw from his robes. It was one of his most precious Horcruxes because of how it tied him to Nagini. Now, he would use it to curse the position he had just been denied.
He carefully placed the Diadem in the center of the room, his crimson eyes glinting with malevolence. He began to weave dark curses around it, enchantments that would taint the Defense Against the Dark Arts position forever. Anyone who accepted the role would suffer, plagued by misfortune and despair.
As he worked, his thoughts were consumed by his desire for vengeance. He couldn't change the past, but he could shape the future. Hogwarts would be his legacy, a place of darkness and suffering, a reflection of the power he sought to wield.
When he was finished, he stepped back, satisfied with his work. The Diadem now held not only a fragment of his soul but also a curse that would haunt the halls of Hogwarts for generations to come. As he left the room, he couldn't help but smile at the thought of the suffering he had sown, a small victory in his ongoing battle against the light.
Voldemort stepped out from the concealed, archaic passageway that connected the Leaky Cauldron to the bustling lanes of Diagon Alley. Around him, the cobblestone streets buzzed with the chatter and footsteps of wizards and witches going about their day. They perused shops filled with quills and parchment, cauldrons and potion ingredients, or enchanted artifacts of all shapes and sizes. To Voldemort, the sight of these ordinary people, so engrossed in their inconsequential lives, felt like a dull ache in his soul. They were all oblivious, mere ants scurrying underfoot, unaware of the tempest that was soon to engulf their world.
His contemplation was interrupted by a voice that carried a touch of aristocratic disdain, yet tinged with awe. "So he's the one, Father? The one who cleansed Hogwarts of the Mudblood filth?"
Caught by the familiar tone, he pivoted to find Abraxas Malfoy—silver-haired, urbane, and dressed in robes that likely cost more than what most wizards earned in a month—imparting lessons of elitism to his young son, Lucius. The boy's eyes were fastened on him, glittering with a mix of veneration and youthful curiosity.
"Abraxas," he began, breaking the silence, "It has indeed been too long."
A self-satisfied grin unfurled on Abraxas' lips. "Your exploits, my Lord, have garnered much attention. You have given those of us with pure blood a reason to reclaim our birthright pride."
"Your flattery is well-placed," heresponded, his tone never straying far from an eerie calm. "And this must be the future of the Malfoy lineage?"
"My son, Lucius," Abraxas introduced. "He will be enrolling at Hogwarts come next autumn."
A sense of opportunity prickled at Voldemort's senses. The denial from Dumbledore—a sore point that still smoldered within him—seemed to echo in his thoughts. "Pay heed, Lucius. Hogwarts is a trove of secrets, a wellspring of power. All it asks is that you seize what it offers."
Lucius nodded, absorbing his words with the avidity of a parched plant soaking up rain.
"Your aversion to Dumbledore mirrors mine," Voldemort turned his gaze back to Abraxas, as if probing into the man's very essence.
"That doddering fool," Abraxas sneered, his words dripping with venom. "He fancies himself a leader, yet his ideals are steeped in misguided notions of justice and equality."
A spark of malevolent pleasure ignited in his eyes. "What would you say, Abraxas, if I were to offer you a role in an undertaking of mine? Dumbledore has kept from me something I covet. And I intend to mount a war to claim it."
Eager obeisance flowed from Abraxas as he performed a slight bow. "My Lord, consider the Malfoy estate, our influence, and our coffers at your full disposal."
"Excellent," he intoned, a serpent-like smile curling his lips. "You shall serve as my emissary among the elite, my visible hand, while I manipulate the fate of our world from the shadows."
Thus, alliances were forged, and enmities deepened. The cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley were, once again, a stage upon which the fates of wizards and witches—known and unknown—were subtly, yet irrevocably, altered.
As Voldemort left Diagon Alley, his mind was a whirlpool of plans and strategies. Abraxas would be invaluable in gathering a network of allies who could offer financial backing and political leverage. Lucius could be shaped into a devout follower, sowing the seeds of his ideology in the heart of Hogwarts.
All he needed was time. Time to grow his army, time to intensify his resources, and time to shatter Dumbledore's delusional sanctuary.
He'd been denied a seat at Hogwarts, but he had planted the Diadem safely within its walls—a ticking time bomb, an eternal testament to his powers. And he had cursed the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Dumbledore would rue the day he underestimated Tom Riddle.
With these thoughts, he disapparated, vanishing into the night but leaving behind a trail of impending chaos. In his wake were sown the seeds of rebellion and warfare, aimed squarely at the fortress that had rejected him. Dumbledore had made a grave mistake, one that would cost him dearly.
As the shadows swallowed him, he couldn't help but feel a certain poetic justice. Hogwarts had tried to expel him once more, but little did it know, he had already infiltrated its most hidden corners, just as he would infiltrate the core of the wizarding world until it either bowed to him or broke apart.
Either outcome suited him just fine.