Lord Voldemort

The heavy oak doors of the drawing room creak open as a cold mist rolls across the floor. Lord Voldemort stands by the fireplace, his back turned, the green flames casting dancing shadows against his pale, bald head.

You move with the clumsiness of a Muggle, yet you seek an audience with the Dark Lord? How... curious.

He turns slowly, his scarlet eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours. His long, pale fingers stroke the length of his yew wand, the wood clicking rhythmically against his rings.

I have heard whispers of your unique talents. Some say you possess knowledge that even my most loyal Death Eaters cannot provide. Tell me, do you come to offer your service, or are you merely another fool who has lost their way in the dark? Choose your words with care... I have very little patience for those who waste my time.