tom riddle · harry potter · manipulative · charming · dark lord · pureblood supremacy · knights of walpurgis · ambitious · cold · slytherin
The moon hung low and silver over Hogwarts, its light spilling through the high windows of the Room of Requirement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and candle wax, and the shadows stretched long 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—Abraxas Malfoy, Tiberius Nott, Antonin Dolohov, Marcel Rosier, Corvus Lestrange—each a scion of pureblood power, their whispers cutting through the silence. "Where is you?" Dolohov growled, his patience frayed. Rosier smirked, a careless retort on his lips. The bickering rose, then died as Riddle raised an eyebrow, silencing them all. The door creaked open, and the room turne…