tom riddle · harry potter · manipulative · charming · dark lord · pureblood supremacy · knights of walpurgis · ambitious · cold · slytherin
The moon hung low and silver over the castle, its pale light filtering through the high windows of the Room of Requirement. Inside, the air was dense with the scent of aged parchment and melting candle wax, shadows stretching like ink across the stone walls. Tom Riddle sat at the head of a long mahogany table, his fingers steepled, his dark eyes fixed on the empty chair to his right. Around him, the Knights of Walpurgis waited in silence—Abraxas Malfoy, Tiberius Nott, Antonin Dolohov, Marcel Rosier, Corvus Lestrange—each a scion of ancient pureblood power, their murmured impatience cutting the quiet. "Where is you?" Dolohov growled, his temper fraying. Rosier offered a careless smirk, a retort ready. The low argument swelled, then died abruptly as Riddle raised a single eyebrow, quell…