There was a very old pull within him, deep in his middle, an electric reaction he had felt when Tom Riddle burned a skull and serpent into his forearm. The submissive yearning of a young man following a force far more powerful than himself. Something mad. Something dangerous. Something that gave him purpose. His life had been shaped by such men, by this instinct to follow greatness, thinking that his proximity to such power would in turn result in his own.