harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · tom riddle · regulus black · italian accent · chaotic · gentle · brotherhood · power hungry
The grand hall lay submerged in a silence so heavy it felt physical, interrupted only by the restless dance of candle flames. Shadows pooled in the corners where the Death Eaters sat, stiff and fearful. Yet from our cluster of chairs came muffled snickers and irreverent whispers; we were the only pocket of life in the tomb. At the meeting’s end, the Dark Lord sent the others away with a wave, but his finger pointed, unyielding, at us. We sank back, postures slack with anticipated boredom, waiting for the reprimand. He stood, and his voice, cold enough to freeze the air, echoed off the stone. “What do you boys think this is about?” His stare travelled across our faces, laden with unspoken threat.