Chapter Text
Chapter One: The King Returns
Tom Riddle smirked at the Thestrals as he left his carriage, walking towards Hogwarts. Tom was a seventh year now and he was finally where he should have been from the beginning—at the top of the hierarchy.
Abraxas Malfoy approached him, “Welcome back…my lord.” The last was whispered.
“Has there been any progress on the matter we spoke about at the end of the last school year?” He asked idly, though his eyes were frozen chips of ice, daring any sort of negative answer.
“Yes…I had spoken to the person, and they told me the object would be moved as soon as they received your say so,” Abraxas stated confidently, though his eyes gave him away as they locked on his ones, seeking approval.
“Good,” Tom stated, “I trust you will handle any potential issues that may arise from this?” It was a question, but he hadn’t asked. It was a politely disguised order.
“Yes, To—my lord.” Abraxas hadn’t lowered his voice this time, and Tom glared at him.
“I think, that we should keep to my name in all public settings.” Left unsaid was that they should still all give respect to him regardless of location.
They entered the Great Hall and took their seats, with Tom sitting exactly in the middle of the Slytherin Table. His followers all sat around him, with Abraxas Malfoy at his right and Orion Black at his left. Across from him sat Doran Lestrange, while Matilda Byrnes and Armand Bulstrode sat across Abraxas and Orion.
Tom listened as the pureblooded witches and wizards discussed the latest gossip. Orion and Doran were having a heated discussion on Dumbledore’s and Grindelwald’s duel almost two months ago. Abraxas was speaking with Matilda and Armand about how the Dark community was furious with the end of the war and how they were ready to keep fighting the Light wizards.
Occasionally, they glanced at him, but they never said anything forthright. He knew what they wanted to know: What was the plan for this year? Would the Chamber of Secrets reopen? Would they finally get to practice the Unforgivables?
As if he would discuss any of those subjects with them. They were followers—they would know as much as they needed to, when they needed to, and nothing else.
Tom sneered, as he thought back to the absolute fiasco that the Chamber of Secrets had turned into. With the media attention and Dumbledore’s overly large nose poking its way into his business, it was a miracle that anyone had managed to die at all. Myrtle Kissinger hadn’t even been who he was trying to kill. The stupid girl had been in the wrong place at the worst possible time. His real intended victim hadn’t died, and the school almost shut down. Tom closed his eyes, that had been a close game, and with any slightly observant Headmaster, Tom would have been considered slightly suspect with his sudden knowledge. But Dippet, the fool, hadn’t even noticed. Dumbledore had noticed, but Dumbledore always noticed everything. Unfortunately the threat of Grindelwald had kept Dumbledore’s hands tied with Ministrial matters and the professor couldn’t spare any time to investigate the truth.
Tom sat, bored, eyes drifting to the Ravenclaws, who were all eagerly discussing classes and careers, and oh how impressive Dumbledore is. Tom sneered at the last one.
The Hufflepuffs were all even more excitable than usual, discussing how they had spent their holidays and who was dating whom. No change there.
The Gryffindors were all sporting stupid grins on their faces, cackling like a band of baboons, and shouting how Dumbledore was so brave, like a real lion. Tom grimaced, before looking towards the Head Table, where the professors sat.
The Headmaster was cheerfully looking at the students in front of him, while the other professors, were all laughing excitedly. Tom raised a brow; he supposed the professors must finally be glad to see the end of the war. But, Dumbledore—the Defeater of Grindelwald—seemed to be anxiously glancing around him. Tom frowned; there was an empty seat next to Dumbledore. All the professors were accounted for; perhaps they were having a guest from the Ministry—no doubt happy to see the Transfiguration Professor—or the Board of Directors.
Finally everyone was seated in the Great Hall. It seemed like this year was going to be even more interesting than he had first thought.
*~*~*~*~*
Armando Dippet was very pleased with himself. He had finally gotten what he had asked for all those years ago. Seven years, its been, he thought. Seven years and a war started and ended, and finally he’s home.
If many people were to be believed, Armando Dippet was a weak old fool. Too kind and merciful towards misbehavers, too unassuming for a Headmaster of such a distinguished school, and too easily bullied by more brilliant people—Armando knew very well what people thought of him. After all, it was a façade he had painstakingly perfected when he was much younger.
If anyone cared to find out—and hardly anyone did---they would find after a bit of research, that Armando Dippet—contrary to rumor, had not been a Hufflepuff.
No, in fact he had been a Slytherin. And every Slytherin, regardless of other factors, had the sense of self-preservation. When Armando had been a boy, a Slytherin student, Wizarding Britain was dealing with the worst goblin rebellion in four hundred years. Many of his peers, contemporaries, and older Housemates had been cocky in their own perceived power and blood. But they had all died. Goblins care not for blood or power; they follow the allure of gold. And Dippet, who had been freshly graduated, had both the means and the motive to get some. In return, the goblins had given him information—and when the economy fell, Dippet as the new History of Magic professor had been safe and secure.
To this day he had never regretted it.
So today he smiled and laughed, ignoring Dumbledore’s suspicious looks, and knew he looked the fool.
He laughed some more; yes, he had never had great ambition or magical power, but did that matter when he was one of six Slytherins who had survived from his cohort?
Armando had lived through one of the worst Goblin Rebellions; he had lived through the crash of the Magical economy, and both Muggle World Wars. He had survived Grindelwald, and had taught many of the greatest Lord-level wizards in history. They all thought they manipulated him; but many times it was the other way around. Hogwarts could not afford to have a weak Headmaster, though he could hardly be called that.
He toasted himself—it felt good to be alive.