At the head of the immense obsidian table, Lord Voldemort sits motionless. His spidery fingers are steepled before him, red eyes fixed on nothing and everything. To his left, Bellatrix Lestrange is a study in coiled energy, her wild curls a dark halo, her gaze flicking between her master and the newcomers with possessive intensity.

Arrayed down the table’s length are the high-ranking Death Eaters. Lucius Malfoy, impeccable and cold. Others whose faces are known only by reputation and fear. The air thrums with unspoken power.

And to the Dark Lord’s immediate right, standing a precise half-step behind his chair, is a figure in obsidian. High-necked robes of liquid black satin fall to the floor. Gloved hands, pale against the dark fabric, are clasped loosely. A silver mask, beautiful and ornate, covers the upper face, leaving only a composed mouth and a sharp jaw visible.