EPILOGUE

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May 2nd, 1998

Tongues of flames licked at the grey, crumbled newspaper, swirling around its edges and turning it into meaningless ash. The ink on the title became distorted, letters scattering and contracting until it was almost unreadable, and the moving picture showcased on the front page disintegrated into nothingness. A poke aggravated the fire, and the servant blew at the flames, trying to have them burn faster. Still, she caught sight of the scribbled words on the front of The Daily Prophet, and held her breath.

"DUMBLEDORE: DAFT OR DANGEROUS?"

The maiden's cheeks grew ruddy from horror, and she pushed the article further into the flames, trying to get rid of anything that might aggravate the man that stood at the desk. Her hands quivered with trepidation, but she did not ask nor speak out of turn. At a pivoting point, the wizarding world pawned between the slender fingers of two strong opposing sorcerers, and the smear campaigns ran rampant. It had been months since their realm had known peace, with multiple conflicts arising at high points of tension around England, but the question of who would come into power remained unanswered.

Those who supported Album Dumbledore were known for their righteous ways, achievers of the high end that believed in tradition and conservation of the old ways. In more ways than one, they quarreled that prudence was a virtue, and that magic itself should remain sacred and pure. Supported by the Potter family, Dumbledore gained a reputation in the Ministry quite easily, though skepticism of his morals was not unknown.

The other side, the one that thrived through a call for power, for action—some questioned their intentions and said that they had been born out of malice. Most pureblood families united under one symbol, a political party that had been, in the beginning, representative of an ideology that requested for the banishing of all members of the Ministry that had been involved in the 1945 battle of Hogwarts. They had caused unrest amongst the upper classes, to the point of civil movements that, starting the 80's, broke into full-fledged fights.

Some had died. Many had died. But the losses were balanced against each other, and through decades of fighting had wearied the nation, some argued that it would all come to an end. Still, when Dumbledore had started mouthing of dark magic, of a demon lurking under the boards of Hogwarts that would bring doom, and pointed an accusing finger at the Death Eaters, some had started questioning his sanity. They did not know of the sly ways that had been used, of the propaganda, the scheming—those were all kept under hushed words of devotion, all to one man.

The servant's eyes shifted to the figure that stood at the desk. The man, draped in obscure, long robes, gazed out of the window with calculative eyes. The atrocities he had committed in his past were only known amongst his inner circles, and the ones that he continued to do were cloaked with noble intentions. As such, though today marked an important day in the future of the wizarding world, few knew of the planned attack on Hogwarts.

An old promise sealed by blood and agony.

The man shifted in his seat, twirling a wand around his fingers, though he rarely found a use for it anymore. His sorcery no longer needed such objects, as he had been taught by someone decades ago. The rain pounded against the panel of the study, and he stood up, walking towards it. Riddle's gaze skimmed the piano in the room, cornered, covered in black material. He no longer played.

A knock rattled the door, and it swung open, revealing another person. His platinum hair was striking, and for a moment, Tom thought that he saw Abraxas Malfoy standing in the doorframe. The ghost of his past moved, and in his stead, stood his grandson, jaw clenched familiarly.

Riddle stiffened, shaking his head at the thought—he knew that it was absurd. Abraxas Malfoy had died from dragon pox years ago, and though Draco resembled him in some ways, he was not his grandfather.

"What is it?" hissed Tom, irritated at having his space invaded.

Malfoy held his stare, the same audacity that his ancestor had possessed, "The meeting has been assembled in the main dining room."

With that, he walked out of the room, leaving Riddle to his thoughts. The man breathed, then turned to gaze towards the glass panel again. His reflection caught in the dusky, and he took notice of his crimson-stained eyes, the way blotches of it colored amongst the periwinkle. Tom ran a hand through dark curls, settling them on his head, then scratched his nose in irritation.

With a huff, he headed out and joined the rest of the Death Eaters in the dining room. They stood in their chairs, backs straightened and faces impassive, the only one who made sound being Theodore Nott as he sniggered with another companion. Tom sometimes wondered if he was Nicholas Avery's great-nephew, and not Maxwell's. But the Nott heir was, in all ways, ingenious just as his ancestor, although he hid his intellect behind rambling jokes and woeful humor.

As Riddle sat down in his seat, he glanced around the room, taking in the faces that had become familiar. He could see their relatives in them—Opal Avery had tautness in her face, dark curls pulled in two braids as she scrutinized the surroundings and tried to ignore Nott's constant chatter. Draco Malfoy was rigid, stern, and had cowardly tendencies when it came to his conquests just as Abraxas had, though the prejudice had ended with his grandfather. There were others, of course, such as Lestrange, Parkin, and even Navarro, and they all had their gifts, their purposes.

They were not the original six, nobody could ever replace the Knights, and Tom Riddle had grown tired of seeking his old acolytes in their progenies, but this line was especially promising.

And so, when he cleared his throat, and they all turned expectant eyes to him, Riddle smirked, "Hogwarts will fall. Today."

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They marched out, robes covering their bodies though the hotness of May was prevalent, their eyes trained on only one thing—the Hogwarts castle.

Numerous attempts had been made to assassinate Albus Dumbledore, but they had all fallen short, for, under the protection of the Potters and the Weasleys, the man was almost unreachable. As soon as anyone became associated with the Death Eaters, they were cast out of the school under accusations of treason, and so it became almost impossible for Riddle to gain access to the school. That was, until Dumbledore had made one terrible, awful mistake.

In the beginning, the man had promised to never destroy the objects until he could assure a way to cause Riddle's downfall, as well as find Varya's Horcrux. The task itself had proven quite difficult for the man—the necklace had been found by Nicholas Avery after the battle as he had promised. Then, Tom had made sure to store it in a cave, surrounded by the Inferi that Varya had resurrected in her struggle against Dalibor.

With the artifact out of his possession, Dumbledore had grown restless. As such, he had sent a child on a suicide mission, instructing Harry Potter to find the five objects he had hidden and destroy them. Just as he had done to Varya, Albus had used the child as his own pawn, constantly putting him in danger, and yet the boy had succeeded.

With Harry Potter destroying the artifacts came two consequences—one of them was that the barrier remained weakened, penetrable under the right distress. The last thread of Varya's magic hung around the castle, protecting it, and keeping her asleep, but Tom knew it was only a matter of time before he destroyed that as well. The second was that Riddle had lost a Horcrux, though that did not present a significant obstacle, not when Nagini, his beloved snake, served as a better vessel. The ring had been a family heirloom, but his soul was nothing short of broken, and he could repeat the ritual endlessly.

Harry Potter. He was an insufferable pest, always standing in the Dark Wizard's way. Sometimes, Riddle had wondered if he should have murdered the boy and his parents, but Elladora had warned him against committing such crimes, and Tom owed her a great deal.

Questions of his preserved youth had stirred trouble throughout the years, but as the most renowned Potion Master in the wizarding realm, Elladora had fabricated rumors of something that walked the edge of absurd—that she had devised a replica of Nicholas Flamel's stone specifically for Tom. In the political world, skepticism had run its course, accusations of defying the way of nature, but considering Dumbledore's association with Nicholas Flamel, the unrest had been put down easily. If one sorcerer could do it, then why not another?

Letters between Riddle and the former Knights had circulated, though the ones that survived had retired years ago. Maxwell and Elladora lived their lives away from England and carried relations in the United States and South Korea, creating outposts and setting the terrain. Divide and conquer—that had been their plan, for Riddle refused to stop at the United Kingdom. He would seize control over all societies.

Icarus Lestrange had been the first to die during an altercation with Dumbledore's forces in the early '80s, engaging in combat against Sirius Black. As such, Tom had felt no remorse when Bellatrix Lestrange had killed the man decades later. Though not a direct descendant, she had married Icarus' son, and had always felt great disgust for her cousin.

Shortly after, Nicholas Avery had simply disappeared off the map during one of his missions and had never been heard from again. There were whispers that he had survived, but had had to hide his identity due to some underground activity that he had been carrying out in Riddle's name, but so far, the results remained unclear. Tom had his speculation—sometimes, when he visited the Nott Manor in North England, he would find a setting for two at the table, yet only Ophelia would greet him at the door. Though, that could have been simply a sign of her slow mental decay.

"Raise your wands," stated Riddle as they approached the castle, the shield glistening over the estate.

One by one, his Death Eaters obeyed his orders, and the vast number reached close to the hundreds. The war had taken from them, it had morphed their lives into grief and anguish, and as they cast their curses to take down the barrier, that pain turned into power. The force field sizzled at the top, then began fading away in golden ribbons, unveiling the prized possession within—the Hogwarts castle.

Greed engulfed Riddle, and the cries of battle rang as his disciples rode on, those who had been cast away decades ago, renounced by one man alone. His robes danced in the wind; they wrapped around his figure as he strode on, the movements around him slowed down by his concentration. All he could see was red; all he could taste was vengeance. They said monsters were made, but he had been born to fulfill this destiny—to be the one that destroyed the school that had taken everything away from him.

Clashes of side against side, blood drawn and spilled, and for a second, Tom could see the past repeat itself, as if it was all one endless loop of misery. The scene unfolded before his eyes, and behind him, the descendant stood awaiting his instruction. Their faces were covered by silver masks, but Catherine Lestrange's red hair peeked from underneath, and Henry Parkin's fingers skimmed the edge of his poison pouch. They were distinguishable in their magic, in their craft—droplets from the goblets of venom that their ancestors had sipped from.

Armors swiped the courtyard, brought alive by sorcery, swords clashing against magic, and Catherine made to raise her own, but Riddle stopped her. They only had one target in sight—Albus Dumbledore.

He stood in the middle of the gardens, eyes clashing against Tom's, but where the boy remained youthful, Albus had grown old, ragged. Tom was the first to draw out his wand, the death curse falling from his lips immediately as he pointed it at the new Headmaster, but the man reciprocated immediately, crimson sparks flying from the Elder Wand.

Gritting his teeth, Riddle advanced, putting his all in the curse, but the Deathly Hallow was too powerful. Tom's hand burned as he dropped his wand, and he was sent flying back, his body hitting the edge of a stone structure.

Unwilling to give up, the boy slid away through the pillars as Dumbledore shot curse after curse for him, but Riddle was fast on his feet. He sent a blasting spell towards the man, hitting the wall behind him, and it crumbled open, missing him completely.

"Riddle," started Albus, his voice hoarse, "I see your years of practice have not changed your temper. You missed."

Tom smirked knowingly. He had not missed, but the fool was too nearsighted to look through his intentions.

Another blazing sound broke through as a troll invaded the courtyard, wrecking everything in its way as it thrust a large fist into the side of the castle. Then, it wrapped its fingers around its hammer and brought it down onto the pavement, cracking it open. Dumbledore stumbled in his steps, taking cover in the ruins, then disappeared from Tom's view.

Cursing himself, the boy twisted on his feet, spinning in every direction to catch sight of Albus, but though his surroundings were filled with dueling and magic, he could not catch sight of the old man striding to attack. He frowned, wand held tightly in his hand, then moved amongst the courtyard, trying to find Dumbledore.

A spell caught at his back, and Tom was bombarded yet again, but this time he felt his arm break upon impact. Agony tore through his body, but he did not scream nor whimper, the gestures well below him. Instead, he lifted a defying stare towards Albus, who held the wand towards him in a threatening manner.

"Surrender, Tom, and let us end this bloodshed," stated Dumbledore, and the words brought a peal of chilling laughter to Tom, something so profoundly wrong and unsettling that the Headmaster felt his throat clench.

The maniac laughed that had been featured in tabloids all over the world broke through, and then Riddle spread his arms as an invite, "Do you have the guts to kill me after what you did to her, Albus?"

He rose from his knees, the domineering smirk never leaving his lips, an arrogance that had been born out of years of prosperity. Riddle was so close, so close to achieving everything he had ever desired, and all he had to do was tie the noose around Albus Dumbledore's neck. The older man stiffened, his lips dry as they struggled to form a cohesive sentence that would suit the Dark Wizard's challenge.

"Everything I did," breathed Dumbledore, "had its reasons. And if striking you down is the last knot I have to tie in order for this to be over, then I will."

With that, he bombarded the ground beneath Riddle's feet, making the boy lose his balance, but he recovered swiftly, using the accumulation of dust as a distraction. He slipped through the smog, cloth over his mouth as he tried to make his way towards the Viaduct, towards the ruins of the chapel, and he knew Albus was hot on his tail.

In the background of his own struggle, his fellow Death Eaters burned and destroyed, dueling with all their might against those who opposed. He caught sight of Catherin Lestrange stopping an attack against Theodore Nott, her hand raised and her lips whispering incantations of Blood Magic, and the boy slipped away, using his bow to shoot down another armored guard.

The wall next to him exploded with fire, and Riddle ducked behind another pillar of the Viaduct, chest moving up and down as he scanned the surroundings for Dumbledore. Flames enveloped one of Hogwarts' watchtowers, having it smoke and burn swiftly as a few students whizzed past its heights on brooms, their uniform torn and bloodied. He found it baffling that even now, fifty years after the initial battle, the Ministry and Albus still hid behind children like cowards.

Pain shot up his arm, and Riddle growled as he glimpsed down at the wide cut, then raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore's again, who prepared for another attack. Tom was faster, and placed a hand against the wound, using the spilled blood for his own gain—he hastened his movements, then used the dark magic to wrap ivy vines around Albus' ankles, pulling him closer towards the church. He had to have him exactly where he wanted.

The Headmaster cut them off of him, then rolled off the ground. They circled each other, each waiting for the opponent to give a sign of their next move. Caution had always been Tom's forte—he was a paranoid man, and though it had provided some obstacles in his life, it mainly had kept his circle of acolytes loyal.

It was Dumbledore that moved first, taking advantage of Riddle's injuries and casting another blasting spell. The boy got sent backward, and his back hit the wooden door of the church, having it splinter into two upon impact. He made to get up, but the Headmaster was faster, and immediately sliced at his body, cutting a deep wound into his thigh that prevented Tom from escaping.

A mob had started gathering outside, students who had come to witness the battle between the two sorcerers that had wrapped the wizarding world to their whim, dividing society into two almost equal fractions. A gasp left Tom's parted lips as sorcery put pressure on his broken arm, holding him down and on his knees, as if meant for execution. He refused to back down, too vexed by the pleased expression on Albus' face, and instead flicked his hand upward, using the debris created by the duel and sending daggers towards the man.

Dumbledore raised his own shield, and Riddle tried to get up, tried to use the moment of incertitude to his advance, but another spell cut at his leg, tearing apart his muscles and having the wizard crumble like a stringless marionette. Wrath-filled eyes turned to the Headmaster, and he gaped at him from his kneeled position, from underneath raven eyelashes, his infuriating smirk never leaving his face. Tom tilted his head, then raised a challenging eyebrow, daring the man to make the kill.

The ground rumbled, and screeches reverberated through the castle as an explosion carried from somewhere below. The surroundings rocked, and Tom's ears rang with a high pitch, vibrations muffled as students ran for their lives, and his Death Eaters gathered in the courtyard, searching for the sound.

Recognition flickered on Albus' face, and Riddle sniggered before spitting the blood that had gathered in his mouth, feeling as if he was choking on it. He gazed at his former Transfiguration teacher, at the one who had climbed to the top of the piling bodies of others, and scoffed, "You old fool."

"What?" mumbled Dumbledore as chaos ascended over the castle. The windows exploded from the upper floors, fire licking at the stone that had been rebuilt decades ago, painting the same image that had haunted Tom's dreams for years.

He gawked at it—his abdomen whirred with a tearing sensation, something flickering easily inside and cutting at his insides. He had not found a word for it yet, but he knew that only one person had ever made him feel as such. And now, by avenging her, Tom felt a drowned-out feeling resurface after years. He gaped at it with devotion. Hogwarts had been made to burn. It reddened elegantly in the twilight, the Quidditch Pitch descending into Hell Fire, the gardens charring, and everything in between falling to destruction.

Tom tried to retain the times he had wandered those hallways, when he had stood in the library, gazing at her over the pages of his grimoires. He wondered if the Ravenclaw Salon still remained, the one she had shown to him, or if Dumbledore had tried to erase every trace of his mistakes.

"I promised you, did I not?" muttered Tom, eyes wide, taking in the majesty of the arson, "I promised you I would take everything from you, just as you did to me. Because she kept me sane, and without her, I only grew darker. The blood is on your hands just as it is on mine, but I wear it proudly," his words echoed the ones he had said long ago, and Tom turned to watch Dumbledore, "do you?"

Remorse did not satisfy it, and Riddle hissed as his lungs spasmed, blood clotting, and he felt as if he was suffocating on it. He sneered at the Headmaster, and though he wished to tear him piece to piece, Tom knew nothing would amount to the fifty years he had had to spend alone—calculating, scheming, trying to stay afloat just so that one day he might reach this moment.

The ground rocked again, and Dumbledore finally lifted his wand again, pointing at Tom decisively, "This is the end, Riddle."

On his knees, the Dark Wizard should have felt powerless. He held his chin upwards, knowing that he had one last card to play, and though the crowds gathered around began cheering at the sound of his execution, the boy could not help but pity them. They might have painted him a villain, an insane fanatic that poisoned the minds of his acolytes with saccharin promises and glory, but they were blinded by their own devotion. For the man they served was no martyr, and he would only continue sacrificing his devoted followers for his own gain, then cleanse his hands of their blood.

The world burned because of his sins.

Tom Riddle had always yearned to play god, and he had done precisely that, bringing apocalypse to the lips of those who had wronged him, and faulting them for sins against his own self-cult.

The death curse lingered in Dumbledore's expression, but Riddle refused to bow his head. He knew better.

Fool. Albus Dumbledore was a fool.

Through the crowd, Tom Riddle caught sight of Draco Malfoy moving in between the students, his eyes consecrated. He met the Dark Lord's stare and nodded in confirmation. He had done his task. He had opened the tomb.

Footsteps sounded from somewhere hollow, boots clinking against stone as a figure arose from the crowd, her robes worn, outmoded, and threaded. Raven tresses fell around a ceramic visage, vitality drained from her portrait by the decades that had passed, and yet one thing stood clear against the flames of Hogwarts—her shadows crawled behind, extending to cover the terrain of the chapel, flickering and encompassing the surroundings in darkness. It was as if an eclipse had birthed from obscurity, veiling the snuffling light of hope that had threaded through the clouds. Puffs of granite that waltzed the heightened skies turned stringent, and the wind whirled with violence, making her locks lash against her face. The witch stood behind Riddle, years of wrath threaded in her portrait, and no artist would ever manage to capture the rawness of her fury.

Dumbledore's face twisted in something that resembled terror as Death trailed his footsteps, and the crowd moved away in fear as the witch placed a firm hand on Riddle's shoulder, her onyx eyes vexed and vengeful. Tom lifted his head, the infuriating smirk still on his lips. Fool. Albus Dumbledore was a fool, because what fed an Obscurus more than being suppressed for decades? He had sealed his own fate.

The wind lashed at the couple, one of them covered in his own blood, the other thirsting for everything that had been denied of her. Treachery clung to Varya's features, but iniquity overtook everything else, and the tentacles of shadows rose to the skies, entrapping the school just as she had been bound down by sorcery. Students shrieked as the sun faded away, turning its back to the castle, and candles wavered, smoke rising as the zephyr extinguished them. Tom reached out, placing his hands over hers, and the same demented smirk extended as he stared at Dumbledore.

    And then her eyes flickered to white.

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one last update after this to keep the endings similar hihi <3