The year was 1955, and as I strode through the familiar gates of Hogwarts, I could feel the hum of power beneath the grounds, pulsing stronger than ever since I had connected to Slytherin's source. My return was calculated, deliberate; the castle had not changed much in appearance, but the currents of influence running through its stones were far more interesting now.
My goal was clear: the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. I had all the knowledge, the skill, and the authority to teach, to shape students into formidable witches and wizards—but Dumbledore, ever the thorn in my side, refused me. His calm, grey eyes studied me like a hawk.
"Tom," he said smoothly, voice carrying that mix of warmth and underlying steel. "I cannot, in good conscience, give you that post. You are… too unpredictable."
"Unpredictable?" I repeated, the single word tasting like ash on my tongue. "Headmaster, I have mastered more forms of magic than any other student here. I have demonstrated loyalty, leadership, and…" I let my words hang, measuring the tension between us. "…capability."
Dumbledore's smile was patient, almost kind, and yet full of restraint. "You have capability, yes. But what you do with it, how you choose to use your power… that is the concern. The safety of the students comes first."
I let out a quiet sigh, more to myself than to him. "Very well," I said, my voice soft but carrying a promise. "If that is your judgment, Headmaster, then I will act accordingly. But do not think for a moment that I am defeated."
Leaving his office, I walked the corridors of Hogwarts with my usual confidence, eyes sharp, observing every subtle detail. The castle hummed with potential beneath my feet, whispering secrets and currents I alone could feel. As I reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, a plan formed.
I stepped inside, wand in hand, and muttered a curse—not complex, not flashy—but precise. The same charm that the original Tom Riddle had used. It was elegant in its cruelty: the position would now be cursed. No teacher could hold the Defense Against the Dark Arts post for more than a single year. Each attempt would falter, each contract would crumble, each candidate would fail, no matter their skill.
As I finished the incantation, the air shimmered faintly, a subtle pulse of dark magic weaving through the walls. A cold satisfaction ran through me. Hogwarts would feel the effect for decades, the one thing that Dumbledore could not control entirely.
"Let the cycle begin," I whispered to the empty room, letting the shadows gather in response.
Exiting the classroom, I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. The first wave of influence, subtle but powerful, was already in motion. Dumbledore might deny me the post, but Hogwarts would eventually bend—not through his permission, but through circumstance.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of autumn over the castle grounds. Students moved between classes, oblivious to the invisible currents shaping their futures. I would watch. I would wait. And when the time was right, I would claim what I was owed.
The game had begun. And now, with my horcrux, my artifacts, my allies, and my carefully built network across the world, I had more than just power—I had inevitability.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts post would remain cursed, a reminder to all who underestimated me. And for me? It was merely the first ripple of the storm I intended to create.