When Ryan spoke, Riddle was tempted to reply with a cruel remark, about how children could be so awfully sure of themselves when they should be anything but. Instead of voicing his opinion, he bit his tongue and refused to do so much as give the boy an acknowledging glance. For a fleeting moment had had eyed Vader with an interested gleam, much like the one that he had inflicted upon himself when he’d looked towards Willow. The look was gone sooner than it had arrived, and he was throwing Damien a brief glance.
He’d speak to him just as soon as the meeting came to an end.
Damien’s introduction received a humored smirk. He was different, but there was something else about him that didn’t make him want to snap his neck like a twig. The two of them hadn’t spoken much, but from what he knew, Damien wasn’t somebody who he’d feel like getting rid of after a few moments of speaking with him.
“Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord. Either one is fine. I’m a wizard.” There was a lazy drawl to his voice, and from the shielding of his trench coat, there came the melodious hiss of a snake, who otherwise, kept herself hidden from view.