Using the Dark Mark, I summoned my core followers to Riddle Manor. But this wasn't the crude mark of the past—it was mine, perfected, evolved. This mark was superior in every way: it allowed telepathic communication between Death Eaters nearby, the ability to send magical messages instantaneously, a magical storage function for notes, potions, or spells, and even a summoning feature to pull my followers to me when needed. For those who displeased me, it contained a mechanism to punish—or eliminate—them remotely. I smiled at the thought. My Death Eaters were not just loyal—they were bound by the most sophisticated magic ever created.
The guests arrived in succession. Abraxas and Alistair were first, their expressions unreadable yet obedient. Arcturus Black entered next, followed by Ignatius Greengrass, his sharp gaze sizing up the room. Others trickled in—pureblood families, talented wizards, and long-standing allies, all hand-picked for skill, ambition, or potential. When they had all gathered, I took my place at the head of the long, obsidian dining table, my eyes glinting beneath the hood of my cloak.
"Welcome," I said, my voice calm, almost casual, yet laced with authority. "We might be starting the war earlier than planned."
A ripple of excitement passed through the room. Several of the Death Eaters leaned forward, unable to hide their grins. They had been preparing for years, and the promise of action sparked a hunger in them.
"I have… taken action," I continued, watching their expressions carefully. "The Potters have been confronted. Our plans moved forward. The Invisibility Cloak and all their libraries have been secured. But, as expected, the parents escaped."
A murmur of approval passed through the table. Some whispered among themselves, while others simply nodded.
"I want this war to start fully prepared, with all our forces at their peak," I said. "By 1970, I will have all of my core Death Eaters, the elite fighters, the fully trained squads, and those loyal families ready to strike. Until then…" I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in, "we wait. Strategically. Patiently. To ensure nothing jeopardizes the success of our eventual campaign."
Abraxas, always blunt, nodded. "It's wise. We are not all elite veterans yet. Starting too early could be disastrous."
"Exactly," I replied. "We cover this—carefully. The Potters will report, naturally. But they have no physical evidence. Ministry positions held by our allies will ensure this incident is quietly buried. Dumbledore may suspect something is amiss, but by the time he realizes the full extent of our plans…" I let the pause linger, letting the implication sink in. "It will be too late."
Arcturus Black leaned forward, curiosity in his sharp gaze. "And the families who may hesitate? Those who are still loyal to Dumbledore?"
"They will fall in line when it suits them," I said casually. "Many are already swayed by results. Some have already seen the benefit of my intervention. The rest will be guided through the appropriate… incentives." My lips curled into a small, calculating smile. "For now, we maintain secrecy. Our attack on the Potters is our practice, our testing ground. And it was successful, despite their defenses."
Ignatius Greengrass, always practical, asked, "Do we begin preparing the next phase now?"
"Yes," I said. "Begin fortifying positions, training the squibs and bloodline-enhanced subordinates. Prepare magical creatures, Guardians, and all Inferi units. Expand the war bases. We must be ready when 1970 comes. Timing is everything. Strike too early, and we risk failure. Strike too late, and Dumbledore could consolidate power. Patience is our ally, and power is ours to amass."
A heavy silence filled the room, not of fear, but of respect and understanding. These were not children or impulsive fools—they were purebloods, talented wizards, and skilled killers. And they understood that when I said 1970, I meant it. Everything before then was preparation.
Finally, I concluded, "Maintain vigilance. Any slip, any betrayal, any sign of doubt, and you will be dealt with. But trust in my guidance—our victory will be inevitable."
Heads nodded, and a collective murmur of approval echoed through the room. The Dark Mark glimmered faintly on our arms, a reminder of our connection, our loyalty, and the power I wielded over every aspect of this impending war.
Outside, the rain fell relentlessly, but inside Riddle Manor, strategy, loyalty, and power coalesced. The Wizarding War had not yet begun—but when it did, it would be the greatest, most devastating conflict the magical world had ever known. And I, Tom Riddle, would stand at the center, unstoppable, unmatched, immortal.