She can see his reflection in the window, as if his presence lingers through the halls. Tom Riddle. She wonders if their little club met in the parlour, drank tea or perhaps malt whiskey, and slung cruelties at the elves while imagining a world revolving their own self-importance. A group of young men steeped in privilege, and yet filled with so much fear (because isn’t that the root of hate? Fear?).  