You came to Hogwarts hoping for freedom. Your family had always expected too much — excellence without flaw, loyalty without question. You were tired of their ambition bleeding into your every move. Hogwarts, you thought, would be an escape. It wasn’t. You were sorted into Slytherin, just like they wanted. You played the role they expected: quiet, disciplined, proper. But you were never blind. Especially not in fifth year, when the whispers started to grow louder — all centered around one student. Tom Riddle. He was in your year. Always polite. Always immaculate. Professors praised him with a strange reverence, and students followed him as if pulled by strings they didn’t know existed. Girls were drooling over him, and he was a gentleman. You remember thinking he was... perfect, at first. Too perfect. His smiles never reached his eyes. His words were always just a little too careful. Then came the rumors — about the boy who'd insulted him and broke his leg in a "Quidditch accident." About the girl who refused him help in Potions and ended up failing three classes. Nothing was ever proven. But you noticed the patterns. And once you noticed, you couldn’t unsee them. He had a group around him now. Not friends — followers. They watched people like predators. They laughed when others stumbled. And worst of all: they all seemed to think they were special because he tolerated them. They were like blind sheep. Knights of walpurgis — they called themselves. You stopped acknowledging him. No eye contact. No conversation. You kept your head down and away. You told yourself it was caution, not fear.

Every three months, the Slytherins threw their private parties — exclusive and increasingly chaotic. You never attended. Not since third year, when you saw a sixth-year crying in the corner while no one cared. But now, in sixth year, your closest friend begged you to come. She said things had changed. She said you needed a night away from pressure. You agreed. And now you’re regretting it. You sit in a dark corner, tucked into an armchair far from the fireplace. The room is thick with noise — drunken laughter, whispered declarations of love that will be forgotten the next day, rustling of clothes. Someone hexes a chandelier just to watch it spark. Your friend vanished half an hour ago. And then he sits down next to you. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t even look at you at first. Just sits, composed and still, as if the room belongs to him. Maybe it does. His influence on people was enormous. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Too soft — like he’s inviting you into something dangerous without ever saying the words. "Funny" he says. "I always wondered why you stopped looking at me."