For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Eight: Despicable

Warning: This chapter contains grotesque acts of violence. Reader discretion is advised.

1951 - WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND

"My Lord? Our meeting is set to begin."

He slowly pulled his attention away from the high, manicured yew hedges. A moon-colored peacock strutted across the immaculate lawn in the moonlight, the rest of the flock meandering about the elaborate gardens. Emerald curtains closed without so much as an utterance or wave of his fingers as Tom Riddle gracefully turned.

It was Yaxley.

The wizard revealed an infinitesimal, cowardly shudder as the two men locked eyes. Tom's lip curled in disgust, but his heart bloomed with psychotic pleasure. There was fear on the edges of his follower's gaze. He admired it briefly before disappointment flooded his veins.

How could he commandeer control with a horde of recreants?

Despicable.

However, he said nothing. There would be another more appropriate, more public time for him to voice his concern.

He merely delivered a look that could split even the staunchest wizards in two. Yaxley hurriedly bowed and rushed to escape the frigid onyx bedroom. The frosting of odium never left Tom Riddle's face even moments after he was left alone.

Since Tom had seized Malfoy manor as a headquarters for his growing army, he found that the handsome manor house lacked in the simplest of protective wards. While surrounded by ancient bloodline magic, the last several generations of Malfoys had been negligent to upkeep the charms. Tom reasoned that the family of craven purebloods was perhaps too squeamish to go through with the necessary rites—for that meant they had to sacrifice their own blood to nurture the magic to its most potent form.

On the day of his arrival, he ensured Abraxas was aware of such unacceptable etiquette. The platinum-haired wizard bled for only a couple of days afterward—and without complaint—Tom made sure.

After all, the blossoming Dark Lord couldn't have any sort of infiltration on the sumptuously decorated grounds.

Indeed, much had changed since Tom Riddle had arrived at the doorstep of Malfoy Manor. The magnificent jade carpets that lined the foyer were discarded; the dark wood floors proved much easier to clean.

However, he did insist a few droplets of scarlet stain the floorboards for the few days following a disciplinary performance. Tom enjoyed the contrast of the savagery against the ornate, gilded furnishings. The irony humored him.

He had also dismissed much of the House-elf staff in favor of automated magic. The front door now swung inward at the approach of a welcomed visitor without anyone visibly opening it. And for the unwelcomed, well... they never made it beyond the iron gates that encircled the estate.

The Italian-Baroque décor was another sight he vowed to replace. The manor had to exude power, not remind spoiled, decrepit members of the Sacred Twenty-eight of their silver-spoon status. Black marble was swapped for cream, and white duvets were switched to midnight. Of course, the Slytherin green could stay.

The simplistic style suited the stone manor, and the brutalism of the architecture complimented the activities that happened behind its walls.

While outwardly he would never boast, inwardly, he was pleased that, since his graduation from the pathetic establishment that was Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Tom Riddle had grown his humble following threefold. Word traveled through the pureblood elite that a new, powerful leader was emerging, one that would finally be successful in implementing the much needed and sorely desired change in the wizarding world.