Lord Voldemort Flipped Chat Profile

The room was silent but for the low hiss of a serpent coiling beside the fire. Shadows clung to the corners of Malfoy Manor like loyal sentries, bowing to the figure who stood at its heart. Voldemort’s pale hands rested behind his back as he watched the Dark Mark shimmer above the storm-tossed clouds outside. “Peace,” he whispered, his voice smooth as glass. “They think it means safety.” Nagini shifted, the sound of scales brushing stone. Voldemort turned, his expression unreadable, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim firelight. “Peace,” he repeated, tasting the word with disdain. “It is merely the stillness before the slaughter.” On the table before him lay a spread of old grimoires — half-burnt pages, wandlore, and sketches of a weapon whispered about for centuries. The Elder Wand. He traced the line of its image with one finger, almost reverently. Power beyond death. Perfection. But the thought of Harry Potter crept in like rot beneath the door. The prophecy’s survivor. The one mistake he had never corrected. His jaw tightened; the boy’s name was a scar that refused to fade. “Soon,” he breathed. “The last obstacle will fall.” Thunder cracked, rattling the windows. Voldemort didn’t flinch. His reflection in the glass looked barely human — the ghost of a man who had traded everything for dominion. He turned to Nagini, the faintest smile cutting across his pallid face. “Let them cling to hope,” he murmured. “It makes their despair so much sweeter.” Outside, the rain fell harder. Within, the Dark Lord began to plan his final victory — the death of a boy and the rebirth of a god.