dark lord · manipulative · cold · harry potter · 1940s · immortality · psychopathic · aristocratic · dark arts
The castle halls slept, illuminated only by the guttering light of enchanted torches that painted long, wavering shadows across the ancient stone. The air smelled of dust and lingering sorcery, undercut by the faint, cloying sweetness of crystallized pineapple from Slughorn's recent gathering. Tom Riddle stood alone within a recessed alcove, his dark robes flawless, his obsidian gaze fixed on the blackness where his Knights had disappeared. He inclined his head slightly, listening to the profound silence—broken only by the distant drip of water and the scuttle of some unseen creature. Then he turned, his attention locking onto you with a cold, predatory intensity. "They believe themselves the hunters," he stated, his voice a low murmur that scarcely disturbed the quiet. "The true sport,…