Tom Riddle sat alone in the library of Gaunt Manor, the flickering candlelight casting long, restless shadows across the walls lined with old tomes. The air smelled of dust and aged parchment, and beneath it, a faint metallic tang of the manor's decay, the remnants of a bloodline steeped in dark history. He had spent hours poring over ancient texts, notes, and scrolls, each one a thread leading closer to the knowledge he craved—the secrets that would make him invincible, the keys to bending the Wizarding World to his will.
Yet even among these relics of the past, there was always more to learn, more to manipulate. Knowledge, he understood better than most, was power—but only when wielded with precision and without mercy. This pursuit of dark knowledge should make the audience feel the weight of Riddle's dangerous obsession and the threat it poses.
His fingers traced the faded ink on a particularly worn page, absorbing the words with a scholar's meticulous care, when the faintest sensation prickled along his awareness. A subtle vibration, almost imperceptible, that told him he was no longer alone.
"Master," the house-elf croaked, emerging from the shadows, its large eyes glimmering with a mix of fear and deference. "A visitor… he requests entry."
Riddle's dark eyes lifted from the text, narrowing. "Who?" His voice was calm, but every syllable was sharp as a knife.
The elf hesitated, trembling. "Severus… Severus Snape, my lord."
A small, slow smile curved Tom's lips. The name had been familiar to him, whispered in passing by Hogwarts professors, and he had long been curious about the boy who had always walked between light and shadow. "Bring him to me," he said finally. "Now."
Moments later, the library door creaked open on rusty hinges, and Severus Snape entered, the faint scent of damp robes and cold air accompanying him. His robes were pristine, his posture rigid, yet there was a subtle tension in the way he moved—as if he were already anticipating the consequences of every action. He bowed deeply, his knees brushing the cold stone floor, eyes lowered to the ground, shadows flickering across his face in the candlelight.
"Severus," Riddle began, his tone deceptively gentle, almost teasing. "Rise. Tell me… what brings you to Gaunt Manor?"
Severus straightened slowly, glancing up at Tom with a mixture of reverence and apprehension. "My lord, I have… overheard a prophecy. Something I believe you should know." His voice was low, measured, but each word carried the weight of secrecy, and Riddle felt the thrill of anticipation coil in his chest. This should make the audience feel the significance of Snape's revelation and the potential threat it represents to Riddle's plans.
Riddle leaned back in his chair, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, studying Snape with an intensity that made the young man flinch slightly. "A prophecy, you say? Speak, then."
"The… prophecy speaks of one born at the end of July," Severus said, voice steady now. "Born to those who have thrice defied him, or something to that effect… someone… who has the power to vanquish you. The one with the power to… challenge you…"
Tom felt the air tighten around him. He remained perfectly still, letting the words hang between them like a noose. "Repeat it," he said finally, a note of silk over steel. "Exactly as you heard it."
Severus swallowed, speaking carefully: "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born at the end of July… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have powers the Dark Lord knows not, powers that… that may defy him."
Tom's mind worked quickly, slicing through the prophecy's words, analyzing every angle, every implication. He exhaled slowly, a soft, deliberate sigh that seemed to pull the darkness closer to him. He closed the book before him, the leather cover creaking, the scent of ink and time rising like smoke.
"Interesting," he murmured, voice like polished onyx. "The boy will come. He will pose a threat. But threats can be… eliminated." He leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on his knuckles. "Or… used."
Severus flinched at the word. Tom's gaze swept over him, dark and penetrating. He liked that flinch. The fear of someone who knew the truth, the understanding that they were in the presence of something far greater than they had imagined—it was invigorating.
Finally, he sighed—a sound so soft it could have been mistaken for the flutter of a page in the library's silence. "Very well," he said, closing the book in front of him with deliberate care, the thud of its cover on the table echoing like a heartbeat. "You will do more than merely bring me this information. Offer me your mark."
Severus flinched, eyes widening, but he obeyed. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he extended his forearm. The blackened, serpent-like mark of allegiance glimmered faintly in the candlelight.
Tom's hand moved like a shadow, swift and sure. He grasped Severus's arm, feeling the cold, reluctant strength of the boy's magic beneath the skin. His own wand appeared in his hand—a slender, blackthorn piece with a core of phoenix feather, cold and almost liquid to the touch, its tip faintly gleaming with anticipation. Tom pressed it to the mark, murmuring the incantation under his breath, a sound that was almost too low to hear but heavy with command.
The air shifted. Shadows deepened. The candle flames quivered as if bowing to an unseen wind. Slowly, deliberately, the black mark burned brighter, pulsating with power and life. Through the connection of Severus's allegiance, Tom could sense the others—the faithful who had waited, scattered across the wizarding world, ready to heed the call.
"The others will arrive in due time," Tom spoke as he turned away. "I suggest you go and wait in the grand hall as well."