the seven devils [completed]

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖓

THE ANATOMY OF TOM RIDDLE - THE DARK LORD

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tom Riddle was a catastrophe waiting to occur, a bomb with a short fuse that had been struck, a paradoxical being. Above all, Tom Riddle was a man that had little to put to his name, especially in the public eye.

He had grown up in an orphanage in London, a filthy building with fewer beds than children, that reeked with the putrid stink of despair and shattered dreams. The war had altered the effervescent scenery of the capital, with many buildings being nothing but rumbles and pebbles, and muggles loitered the mucky boulevards. The lanterns no longer buzzed with the static sound of electricity, as they had been turned off to make it more troublesome for the enemy to spot them from above.

His childhood was in no way forgiving of him, as he fell asleep to the sound of air-raid sirens blasting through the gloomiest hours and children weeping themselves to slumber. Tom never cried, not because he thought there was nothing to fear, but because he thought his life to be so miserable that he did not care for it.

That changed, however, when he found out about his true talents on that faithful night. He had known, even at his green age, that he was different, but the discovery of him possessing magic baffled him. He understood, then, that his life was precious above the rest, in his bloodstream pulsing the vigor of a wizard.

And as he grew up, he became obsessed with mortality, trying to pry himself from its intimidating grip. He fought against the inevitable, considering himself to be unconquerable. The pinnacle of all was when he had found out about his heritage.

The Heir of Salazar Slytherin.

A name he held in secrecy, aware that divulging it might do more harm than good, and he waited for the day when it would come to light, when he could bask in the glory of his lineage. Until then, he plotted in obscurity, and because his name carried no value, he surrounded himself with powerful allies that could connect him to the wizarding world.

Nevertheless, Tom did his share of schmoozing to the higher society, hiding his loathing at having to gravel before them. He soothed himself by thinking about his long-term plan of having them plead at his feet once he rose to power.

And he knew that his charm was part of it, his uncanny way with words making women swoon and men admire him, his features the right mixture between mellowness and harshness. His nautic eyes held an everpresent storm in them, framed by coal eyelashes, and he had a sparkle that proved intelligence beyond Tom's years. Stygian hair rested on his head, curled softly at the edges, and framing his chiseled face. He was tall, admittedly a bit lanky, but he held himself with such poise that it had never been an obstacle. When Tom walked wit stag-like steps, heads turned. When Tom spoke with velvety smoke in his timbre, ears listened.

His mind was a constant swirl of anger, ambition, and cruelness, and whenever he allowed himself a feeble shred of happiness, it was commonly because of his constant accomplishment. Tom did feel, and he ridiculed those who thought that he could not, but he felt selfishly, all of his emotions orbiting around himself only. If he was curious, it was because something was useful to him. If he was upset, it was because his scheming did not work out. If he was pleased, it was because the world was falling at his feet.