Sharp footsteps echoed through the empty halls of Malfoy Manor as the visitor strode towards the dining room. The ominous glow of magical light illuminated vacant rooms as the young man hurried past, and yet his features remained in shadow and his figure, dark. The footsteps twisted and turned, navigating sharp corners, dead ends and convoluted corridors, until, finally, they halted in front of a set of heavy oak doors. As is the case with all things in Malfoy Manor, these doors were painted midnight black, with the Malfoy family crest emblazoned in silver ink in the centre of the massive hunks of carefully sculpted wood. The punishment for scratching these doors was indeed dire, but the brutal discipline of a certain young Malfoy was unimportant to the dark figure, as it raised a pale hand to knock just over the silver painting of a snake. The hand hesitated for the briefest instant, before beating out three short knocks. Tat. Tat. Tat.
When an answer was not forthcoming, the young man continued to stand patiently just outside the still-closed doors, until, after several long minutes, he heard a voice calling from beyond the barred entrance.
"Enter."
It was barely more than a hiss, but it was enough. Before the visitor could raise a hand to the handle, the heavy oak swung open with nary a creak, and the dining room was revealed. Not sparing a glance for the opulence and grandeur of his clearly expensive surroundings, the messenger continued across the room until he was standing before the marble dais situated at the end of the room. Where before there was once a great table that could seat over a hundred guests, there now stood a colossal throne, and what a sight it was. Carved from a solid marble slab of the richest ebony and streaked with veins of silver and emerald, it was clearly the most expensive item in a room of extravagant indulgence. But even more intriguing than the thing itself was the figure draped across its arms as if he owned the world. (If you had cared to ask him- but no one ever did- he would have told you in no uncertain terms, that, yes, he did in fact own the world, so take that you filthy muggle, then proceed to Crucio you into insanity before ending your miserable life.)
Tom Marvolo Riddle looked up from the Plans for World Domination (written and edited by Antonin Dolohov) just as the mysterious figure entered the room. He was in a horrific mood because not only was he still recovering from that ordeal at the Ministry, but also because he had heard one of the new recruits call him Moldywarts in the kitchens of Malfoy Manor. As much as he enjoyed torturing and murdering his followers, killing off all those sympathetic to his cause was not going to help him win this war.
Thus, when the man who he assumed to be a messenger bringing yet more bad news to the poor Dark Lord, continued to stand there like a moronic simpleton, he shouldn't be blamed for letting his guard down. "What is it?" he hissed, a murderous expression on his snake-like face. "Who dares disturb the silence of the Dark Hall?"
Dear readers, please don't be annoyed at Voldemort when I say that the next thing that happened caught him completely off-guard. As I have already mentioned, he has had quite a long day, and, with one thing and another, he wasn't prepared to deal with anything more dangerous than an angry schoolteacher.
So it happened that one moment he was glaring at the shadowy figure in minor annoyance, ready to release some of his pent-up anger on the unknowing recruit, and the next he was choking on air as one strong hand clutched at his throat and another held a razor sharp dagger aimed directly at his eyeball. Between the coughing and spluttering, he managed to free one arm from where it was pinned against the chair to call his wand to him, but, to his growing displeasure, found that he was entirely unable to summon his magic, as his magical core felt like it had been blocked by a very heavy object. It said a lot about Tom Riddle's composure that even now, when most wizards would be panicking more than was strictly healthy, that the only thing running through his head was that this was the most annoying thing to happen to him that day to rival the worst days of his life.
He felt warm breath and long hair tickle his ear as the man whispered soft words to his current captive. "Getting complacent, Tom," he whispered, a small smile gracing his lips as he felt Voldemort tense beneath him at the sound of his voice. "Slip," he breathed, disbelief colouring his voice a mild grey.
"You're alive!"