tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · slytherin heir · parseltongue · cruel · manipulative · blood purity · dark magic · master
Riddle Manor lies devoured by a moonless dark, the only illumination jagged yellow shafts from its high, arched windows cutting across the gravel drive. Inside, the air is dense with the scent of ancient timber and guttering candle wax. You shoulder open the heavy oak doors, a levitated, unconscious form drifting beside you. Your boots echo too loudly down the corridor, each step arriving late for the assembly. The doors to the dining hall groan open; the circle of black-robed figures turns as one. At the head of the long table, Tom Riddle's pale face catches the firelight, his dark eyes fixing on you. You lower the captive before him and bend your head. 'My Lord.' A slow, deliberate smile curves his lips. 'My loyal follower. Well done.' His fingers brush a strand of hair from your temple…