EDITED: 1 January 2016

(HOLY SHIT! IT'S 2016 AS I'M TYPING THIS!)

Chapter Playlist – "Everybody Wants To Rule the World" by Lorde

V. VERWIRKLICHUNG

"They are the conquerors of the world

Seeking a personal chemical fortune;

Sports and comfort travel with them;

They take the education

Of races, classes, and animals, on this Boat.

Repose and dizziness

To the torrential light,

To the terrible nights of study"

—Arthur Rimbaud

20 December 1943

Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Tom always thought there was a grotesque beauty to the victims of the Cruciatus curse. The bodies of his toys would dance along his wand movements like ragged puppets on a string, their empty eyes wide in awe, shock, and pain, their bloodied mouths open and their throats strained. Sometimes they would fill his ears with wails of agony, sometimes they would be silent, either out of stubborn defiance or due to the silencing spell he cast over them.

The young man laid writhing on the cold forest floor, and Tom couldn't help but admire his expert handiwork: a true symbol of loyalty, subservience, obedience, servility, and Dark Magic. There was nothing unforgivable about the scene before him, and he savored the power he had over him – over all of them.

"So," he began softly, approaching Black's thrashing figure, but never moving his wand away to give the boy a moment of peace. "I see that you have been engaged in some…interesting activities." Tom remarked innocently.

He stood over Regulus Black like a cold-blooded hunter ready to slay his prey, his expression was unreadable and his eyes abysmal.

Black coughed, his warm breath forming a cloud of mist against the winter cold, and vomiting more blood onto his Slytherin robes and the ground. The pristine white snow immediately turned crimson, encircling his body diabolically. "Y-Yes, Master." He choked, "I was researching the Sto—er, what you sought—in the Ministry files illegally. But, I-I swear to Merlin, I—"

Tom held up a pale hand, and the boy immediately fell silent. A look of dread flashed across his eyes before they were replaced by despair.

"I've discovered a new spell, Regulus," Tom spoke. He scanned the circle of black robes around him, all kneeling on the floor, their heads bowed in deference. Their school uniforms did nothing to protect them from the frigid weather, but no one dared to shiver, let alone ask permission to cast a warming spell. The Knights of Walpurgis all knew what their Lord demanded of them, and they were either too cowardly or too obtuse to defy him. They were all united by a common purpose.

Tom's lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "Rosier, come."

Regulus' face fell immediately. Watching the fifth year close his eyes, Tom knew that he knew what was coming. He watched with a mixture of amusement and apathy. Any evidence of Regulus' usual kempt appearance had been completely eradicated; his exposed skin was marred by thousands of tiny cuts, fresh blood excitedly flowing out of them like a tsunami finally being released by Neptune's anger, and the healthy tan he proudly sported was turning into a rather sickening shade of cerulean from blood loss and hypothermia. His dark curls were matted with blood, sweat, and tears.

As he turned his head weakly to look at Rosier, a crunch of his spinal bone could be heard, and in the silence of the forest, the nauseating sound was disturbingly deafening.

Hurrying over to the center of the field in a lightning speed, Rosier kept his head stealthily downcast as he acknowledged Tom.

"My Lord?"

Rosier's attention was somewhat transfixed on the young Black's legs, both of which were both twisted at an unnatural angle. Something white, which looked suspiciously like the anklebone, jutted out against his dark leather boots. A noticeable shiver passed through Rosier's body.

Tom took note of the Slytherin's conspicuous display of unease and alarm, but decided against saying anything. After all, he needed to focus on Black first. He will deal with Rosier and his jitters later.

"I trust that you have your wand on you, yes?" Tom asked in a disarmingly nonchalant tone. It sounded like a casual conversation between two friends, but Rosier knew better.

"Yes, my Lord."

Tom nodded in acknowledgement. An uncomfortable silence followed, but none dared to lift their eyes to their master. Tom stood, apparently pondering on his next action, even though he knew very well what was coming.

The edgy atmosphere around him did not seem to match his relaxed and composed demeanor, but it was fitting. Tom knew his Knights feared him; it would not bode well if they were anything but apprehensive in his presence—especially at their weekly gatherings. He often thought about the nature of the power he had over the students: just how loyal were they? Despite being a mere sixth year, he had enough influence over the seventh years to ensure his dominance in Hogwarts.

Not that he was complaining, of course.

But at the moment, Tom was well aware that more pressing matters needed his attention. The image of that particular parchment appeared in his mind again, and he gripped his wand tighter.

"So, regarding the incantation," he resumed, still speaking in his dangerously soft tone, letting the brisk December wind carry his voice to his followers. Even the evergreen trees seemed to be listening as they rustled along. "I just remembered that you, too, had learned about it the night before, Evan. Would you like to try it out?" Tom asked the seventh year Slytherin, who was now rigid, warmly, almost cheerfully. But the Knights knew it was no question; Tom Riddle did not ask. Tom Riddle simply commanded, and every one of his commands was heaven's mandate.

Rosier's hand jerked violently, and Tom smiled contently. Black and Rosier seemed to share a sort of childish dependency on each other (A boyish attraction, maybe? Tom had wondered to himself many times), and their friendship simply made this more enjoyable. Although he was full heartedly regretting not being the one to curse Black, Tom was rather satisfied the desperation written on Black's bloodied face, mutely imploring his friend to spare him of the anguish.

Hah, fat chance.

Tom wanted to laugh. There was no way Rosier was going to save his so-called good friend's arse, not at the expense of his own skin. They were all selfish, egocentric creatures, that Tom knew very well. If put in a life-or-death situation, Rosier would undoubtedly let Black succumb. And under Tom's command, this was life-or-death.

"My dear Regulus, you know how much I hate to do this to my friends."

Evan Rosier refused to meet Black's eyes. He lifted his Hazelwood wand silently, pointing directly at the boy on the ground. He did not speak the incantation, but rather drew the wand in an intricate pattern. A single bright white light emitted from his wand, and hit the fifth year Slytherin squarely in the chest.

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the howling of the wind. Tom smirked, waiting patiently. Then, he saw.

As if placed on a boiler, Regulus' skin began to bubble uncontrollably. The unhealthy blue shade in his skin was also gone, replaced by a bright hue of red. He screamed, making feeble attempts to place snow on his boiling body, but was only met with more pain as the broken bones in his body protested against the movements. Tom could see how Rosier's hand shook violently at the ungodly sight, his lips trembling as he tried to steady his wand. It was a torture for both, and they knew.

Tom closed his eyes, a light smile appearing across his features. He wanted to savor this moment – he want to remember the scream, the pain on their faces, the fear among them all, the power.

Silently counting to thirty, he slowly opened his emerald eyes again.

Regulus was no longer screaming. He merely remained still, his eyes dead and his mouth open. The epidermis has been completely burned off, making him look like a rather ridiculous human tomato in Tom's eyes. He was sure that the boy has lost the ability to feel the pain now, especially since a significantly larger area of snow has turned red around him, signifying a really dangerous amount of blood loss.

Tom finally spoke. "Enough."

Rosier instantly lifted his wand away from Regulus, way faster than Tom would have liked, and he couldn't help but smile rather sadistically at the misery in both of their eyes. At the gesture of his hand, Rosier scurried back to his position among the circle. No one dared to give him looks of sympathy or calming words. His followers simply remained still, waiting for more instructions to come.

"All of you will be remaining in Hogwarts during the upcoming holiday. We will meet next week at the same time, but at the empty Potions classroom on the Sixth Floor." Tom announced. "You, Abraxas, take Black to Hospital Wing. Explain to Madam Gaffkin that he had ignorantly wandered into the Forbidden Forest, and attacked by a group of centaurs."

"Yes, my Lord."

Tom watched impassively as the blonde cast a silent spell to stop the bleeding, and another to levitate Regulus' now unconscious body off the ground. For an onlooker that did not know the truth, it was a rather amusing procession that resembled a strange ritual: a circle of teenagers, cloaked in black, surrounds another boy and a floating body as the boy carefully walked across the clearing, the body hovering behind obediently. But for the Knights of Walpurgis, none had found the scene before them strange, let alone amusing. They only thanked Merlin that the body, gory and comatose, was not theirs.

Tom folded his arms, watching Abraxas as he slowly moved toward the exit of the ward Tom had set up. Something in the blonde's gray eyes had caught Tom's interest, though he was sure that he was imagining it. It was a quick flicker of haze and darkness that disappeared as quickly as it came. His raised an eyebrow at Abraxas' retreating form. No, it couldn't be…

He must have imagined it. The cold was affecting his vision. Besides, he wasn't even near enough to actually see Abraxas' irises.

"Meeting dismissed," He proclaimed to the Knights, with a louder voice this time.

Tom still could not shake off the mounting suspicion in his chest. After all, he was Tom Riddle; his perceptions have never lied to him.

23 December 1943

Fifth Floor Corridor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

"So, what did they do to him afterwards?"

"I don't know. The last time I saw him was in Hospital Wing. Madam Gaffkin was tending to his body and telling me to leave."

Hermione pondered for a while. The information the imperioed Abraxas had just revealed to her was way too valuable to ignore.

The Knights of Walpurgis, perhaps the most exclusive and obscure Hogwarts society, was nothing but a cult led by an unstable Riddle? Hermione was both relieved and confused. There was so much yet to be discovered about the school—and Riddle, for that matter.

It was a rather welcoming feeling, she had admitted to herself, knowing that Hogwarts was not all virtuous and immaculate as she had began to suspect. But right now, she was more interested in what the leader of the Knights of Walpurgis possessed rather than his questionable extracurriculars.

"You don't happen to know anything about Riddle's ring, do you?" she asked casually, crossing her arms and leaning against the stone column. Her gaze remained steady on Abraxas' face, shrewdly observing of his every muscle movements.

"No," the Slytherin replied mechanically, a dreamy expression remained on his features. "Though, I do remember he had researched and travelled extensively last year in search of it. I have never seen him so ecstatic in my whole life when he held it in his hand this summer; a bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. It's just a stupid rock."

A stupid rock, indeed.

"Thanks, Malfoy. You've been more useful than I had anticipated." She licked her lips, almost a bit too sadistically. It was obvious that the imperious curse she had cast was rather impressive, for no hint of attempt at defiance was shown. "But before I obliviate you…" She aimed her wand at Abraxas. There was no reaction from him; all traces of malice from their previous run-in gone.

He simply stared, dumbly yet merrily, at the witch before him, with a rather loony crooked smile that reminded Hermione of her father's prisoners.

She smiled back, victorious. "Legilimens."

25 December 1943

Slytherin Girls' Dormitory, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Father,

Happy Christmas. The problem has been eliminated rather easily, and I think we can resume our communication without any disturbances from now on. I hope you are enjoying your vacation so far. How are matters going for you at your end?

As of this moment, there is really not much going on in Hogwarts. The castle is pitifully empty, for the majority of the students had returned home for the holidays. Perhaps, I'll pay a visit to our dear Miss Joana Granger a visit, and give her my gratitude.

H.

25 December 1943

Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Mulciber leaned back on the leather sofa, clasping his hands calculatingly as a mischievous grin hung on his pale thin lips. "You're only teasing our curiosity, Tom. How…cruel of you."

If the others thought otherwise, they did not show. Clad in uniform dark ensemble with the emblems of Salazar Slytherin hand sewn onto their blazers, the most elite members of the Knights of Walpurgis had the effortless air of detachment and royalty to them. To any observer, they were all brilliant, glamorous, affluent, enigmatic, hungry – the moneyed progeny of prestige and opulence, luxury and fortune. The world, it seemed, was too small for their ambitions.

Despite the Christmas décor in the Common Room (Tom thanked Merlin that it was kept to a minimal level), there was no sense of holiday spirit among the Knights. Everything went as usual.

Avery occasionally tossed an expertly folded airplane into the ornate fireplace, watching the green flames devouring the parchment with a rather philosophical look on his face. Malfoy and Rosier spoke among themselves in a quiet whisper, delicately sipping their tea and snacking on the panna cotta delivered by the kitchen House Elves—illicitly. Lestrange's midnight black eyes haughtily stared into space, the long fingers of his right hand drummed on his knees in a tap-tap-tip-tap rhythm, seemingly bored with the happenings around him.

Only Dolohov looked at the dark-haired boy with anticipation. "My Lord?" he attempted weakly. The usual malicious glister in his blue eyes faded as he looked at Tom.

Tom turned his attention to the seventh year Slytherin across from him. "You're never adept at masking your emotions, Antonin. That—" his lips curled slightly, "—may be a problem we need to solve."

The other Slytherins, who all sat around their leader, all looked uneasy.

Antonin Dolohov's sharp intake of breath could be heard throughout the empty Common Room, housing only Tom's favorites among the Knights of Walpurgis, currently gathered on their reserved lounge. The ghostly green light from the Great Lake poured in generously; its eerie flickering caressed the aristocratic features of the seven students.

Nott lifted the porcelain teacup to his lips, shattering the silence. "Antonin's not good at masking many things," He remarked disinterestedly, letting the bitter aroma of oolong tea fill his nostrils. Tom, along with others, snickered at the veiled remark.

"I say," Avery began, no longer finding his parchment planes entertaining. "It doesn't happen to have to do with the Minis—" he suddenly halted, and sat up in surprise, "Hello, Granger. Didn't know you were also staying over the holidays too,"

Hermione Granger stood in front of the doorway of the Girls' Dormitory, looking equally bewildered and alarmed as the rest of the Knights of Walpurgis. It was evident that she, too, shared the belief that the students were gone from the castle. Tom raised an eyebrow as he watched the girl briskly stuff the parchment that was in her hand into her robe pocket.

Hermione was quicker to recover from her initial shock than his Knights.

"Good afternoon, Avery," she greeted smoothly, striding to the Common Room exit in quicker and larger steps than normal. "Oh," the brunette abruptly stopped midway, and turned on her heels, apparently remembering something important. "Riddle, Professor Slughorn wanted me to give you this. Something about your...inquiries." She produced a mauve envelope from her other pocket.

Tom straightened in his seat. He had stopped attending Slughorn's stupid little club meetings; those gatherings were boring and useless, anyway. The last time he spoke to the professor the last school year regarding his research on a certain instrument of immortality. He was slightly confused, but also paranoid. Did Slughorn inform anyone else of their exchange?

"Thank you," he nevertheless smiled when she handed him the letter. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she looked away swiftly, her movements stiff. Tom felt a sharp jab of magical aura from the girl before it was promptly repressed.

Interesting. His eyebrows slightly quirked. "Good day, Miss Granger. Please do let me know when I can help you with your research project."

He was slightly overcame disappointment that there were no more physical reactions from the brunette girl. Her body language was still a tad unnatural—but only to the extent that only particularly detailed observer would notice.

"Absolutely, will do. Happy holidays, Riddle," She gave him a strained smile, and nodded at the other Slytherins sitting at the table. "I will see you all around."

Rosier waited till the Common Room door was shut before turning to Tom. "Charming, eh?" He gestured at where Hermione had left. "Too bad she doesn't talk much,"

"Well, she is from Durmstrang," Lestrange mused, flipping through The Daily Prophet, "I don't imagine they get a healthy dose of communication there. At least she can speak English. My father introduced me to a girl there two summers back, and trying to converse with her was excruciating." He snorted unceremoniously.

Rosier smiled. "Did you at least have fun with her?"

"Fortunately, no," Lestrange wrinkled his nose in disgust, "She reminds me of a block of wood. Literally." The group erupted with chuckles at the comment.

Tom placed a blueberry in his mouth, reflecting quietly to himself. He deduced that Granger must either suffer from some sort of undiagnosed social anxiety, or was harboring some sort of mysterious hostility towards the students. Come to think of it, the only time he had witnessed her interacting with students and professors was during class, and only when it was absolutely compulsory. Tom understood the dignified aloofness of the Slytherins, but she was taking it to a next level. Stranger was that despite some students' friendliness toward her, she did not even make the effort to reciprocate. As a newcomer, she kept mostly to herself.

It was rare for a Slytherin girl to enclose herself in some sort of social barricade; as Tom noticed in the six years in Hogwarts, the ascending the social hierarchy seemed to be the favorite pastime of the female population in Slytherin. Not to mention that Granger was the only Slytherin girl that decided to not to return to the comfort of her family's lavish retreats.

Hermione Granger was bizarre, Tom concluded, but not bizarre enough to really hold his concern. Her hermit nature was neither beneficial nor threatening to him. The only characteristic of Hermione Granger that he was interested in was her family and its connections.

"As fascinating as Lestrange's amorous confrontations are, I'm afraid we will have to get back to the issue at hand with the Minister," Tom folded his hands together, "Shall we, gentlemen?"

30 December 1943

Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Hermione chewed on the apple slowly, her hawkish hazel eyes wandering freely around the Great Hall as she watched the pathetically few students – she among them – eat their dinner in a chafed silence.

There were seven at the Gryffindor table, five at Hufflepuff, twelve at Ravenclaw, and herself alone at the Slytherin table. She could feel her cheeks tinge pink slightly at the observation. As expected, Riddle and his disciples were nowhere to be seen. In the duration of the holiday, the only time she has ever caught sight of them was when she had accidentally waltzed in on their rendezvous in the Slytherin Common Room. Sure enough, they had smartly moved their meetings elsewhere after her untimely intrusion. She was only relieved that her imperious curse was potent enough to not have Malfoy blowing his cover in front of Riddle.

Moreover, she couldn't help but go back to the moment when she looked into Tom's olive eyes: bottomless, cold, and yet undeniably magnetic. There was a sort of wildness to them that she had seen before in Grindelwald's aquamarine ones. Tom Riddle reminded her so much of her father, yet in a very, very different way.

For one, she admitted, while her father was gradually descending into madness, Riddle was sane, and alarmingly so. Not to mention Riddle was, literally, a snake. For the past three months, she had observed Tom with almost a manic fascination. She had saw him charm, manipulate, and intimidate both students and professors, altering his dynamic façade to whatever he desired. Grindelwald was slick, but when compared to Riddle, her father more or less a lion. Grindelwald preferred raw power derived as quickly and straightforwardly as possible. His anger was explosive, and despite his endless charms, he was direct.

Hermione conceded that out of all her father's attributes, she had inherited the fiery lioness spirit. This, obviously, needed to be changed if she wanted to deal with Riddle and Dumbledore, both of whom were way too brilliant for her liking.

How bothersome, she thought to herself furiously. Despite the fact that she has managed to acquaint herself with Avery and imperio Malfoy, her progress was still not as impressive as she would have liked.

Much to Hermione's chagrin, it seemed that the only constant in her life was the fact that in the process of obtaining the Stone, she further entangled herself in an inescapable web, woven by Riddle. How a half-blood – out of all the wizards – could have such an ambiguous existence, was beyond her comprehension. He was simply unlike anyone else she had encountered, and Hermione couldn't help but begrudgingly acknowledge that she was, perhaps, too intrigued.

A/N: The playlist for Despotism is finally finished! The link is on my profile. Those are the songs I listen to while writing this story.

And yes, I have defied the norm of Tom-taking-interest-in-the-new-girl-because-she-is-so-mysterious-and-he-wants-to-find-out-more-and-oops-he-accidentally-falls-for-her. I think Hermione would be more interested in Tom at first (at least in this fic), not the other way around.

SO. What is Hermione doing next? What is Tom plotting? Will he ever find out about Abraxas? Dun dun dun. The truth shall come to you soon...maybe.

Also, as a warning: this story will not follow some (but not all) of the events in the HP universe. Everything that had happened prior to Hermione's arrival stay the same (e.g. construction of Nurmengard, opening of the Chamber of Secrets by 5th year Tom and subsequent expulsion of Hagrid, and murders of the Riddles by Tom), but what happens from this point on will almost be set in a parallel universe.

Till next time, and don't forget to let me know what you think!