For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Ring

Even as child, Tom had always been a restless sleeper. But that night, he did not sleep at all. Perhaps it was because the inn's old pipes groaned and creaked incessantly, or the fact that the very girl that had been occupying many of his thoughts lately was sleeping in the same room—serene and so vulnerable as she lay tranquilly underneath the sheets. Both were very distracting, indeed, but Tom knew that neither was the reason for his insomnia.

There was something else on his mind entirely. Power.

He craved the feeling of being in control. That's why he enjoyed being a Prefect. He loved to have authority over others—he was destined for it. If he could always implement his authority, the world would be a much more efficient place.

And if Tom could have his way that very moment, he would alight the village of Little Hangleton with a passionate Incendio without a second thought. A feeling of all-encompassing glee would come over him as he watched the little thatched shacks and shops burst into flame. Disgusting muggles would flee from their homes, their livelihood destroyed in a matter of minutes. And then, like a savior emerging from the embers, he would walk up the hill to the large manor house, and-

A dark smile washed over his face as he imagined the chaos and turmoil. He sable eyes flitted toward the carved wooden cuckoo clock mounted to the wall adjacent to him. The sun was beginning to stir across the horizon. It was almost time.

His gaze floated over to the bed on the other side of the room. Gwen's slender shoulder peeked out from underneath the duvet, her soft exposed skin glowing in the moonlight. His mind drifted back to the morning in the Prefect bathroom, where her dripping wet hair clung to her slick skin and her lips parted with surprise. In a moment of weakness, his gaze had floated to the water, where he could barely make out the curve of her hips underneath the surface of the emerald pond.

Tom struggled to tear his gaze away from her as a sudden feeling of desire enveloped him. She looked so peaceful. Her dark lashes brushed against her pale cheeks, and her curly mess of golden locks fanned out across the pillowcase in a cascade. She was so unaware in that moment, so innocent.

Why is she in Little Hangleton, of all places? And why was she attacked by two Muggle men?

He could use Legilimency on her, and she would never know. He could search his mind for every answer he ever wanted.

But something stopped him.

A ray of light came surging through the paned glass window and hit him square in the eye. Dawn had arrived. Tom gracefully rose to stand.

Before exiting, he let his eyes rake over the sleeping form of Gwen, taking in every detail of her slumbering body one last time. He watched her chest rise and fall with every breath, so effortless in its nature. Tom forced himself to turn his attention toward the door.

Using non-verbal magic, the door swung silently open, and Tom was greeted by the cool December air. It was silent. The village of Little Hangleton was dead to the world. With a face masked with marble-like smoothness, Tom Riddle disappeared with a crack.

He reappeared atop a small crested butte. A small, dismal shack rose out of an outcropping of trees, dilapidated, and thick with filth. The trees growing nearby blocked all light and the view of the valley below. Tom felt a wave of repulsion; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Even the orphanage, a dank and often musty building, appeared to be a palace when compared to the conditions of this shack.

Tom did not flinch as he strode up to the door and knocked. There was silence for several moments, and enough time for Tom to fully take in his surroundings before the latch was unlocked and the door creaked open. A pungent smell rose from the interior of the home, if you could call it that, but Tom entered without hesitation. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the threshold, and dirty plates and utensils littered the floor. The cores of rotten pieces of fruit were strewn about, half-eaten. Pots and pans caked with grime were stacked upon a three-legged table.