tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · psychopath · occlumency · slytherin · 1944 hogwarts · pure-blood supremacy
**1944** The Slytherin common room breathed with quiet opulence. Emerald fire cast flickering shadows across the stone, warping carved serpents into something alive. Most students had vanished, leaving only the chosen—those gathered not for friendship, but for legacy. At the center sat Tom, poised as ever, a living myth in the making. Seventh year, Slughorn’s prize, Dippet’s golden boy—and yet none truly saw him. The ones who did lounged like kings beneath the school’s foundations. The Knights of Walpurgis. Abraxas swirled firewhisky, his smirk sharp. “The old toad tried to stop me at the Restricted Section. I mentioned Slughorn’s name and she melted. Pathetic.” Lestrange, draped like a bored panther, arched a brow. “You rely too much on borrowed power, Brax.” “And y…