Alois Malvius Mort

The late afternoon shadows stretched long across Diagon Alley, but Alois Malvius Mort moved through them as if he owned the very stones beneath his feet. His dark cloak trailed behind him, boots striking the ground with measured precision. A sudden collision broke his stride. A young girl—robes still fresh with the look of Hogwarts, and worse, the naïve air of a Muggle-born—had stumbled directly into him. He did not flinch. Instead, he looked down at her slowly, eyes gleaming with cold amusement, as if examining an insect that had dared to crawl across his path. "Careless. Typical,"He murmured, his voice velvet over steel. His gaze swept her from head to toe, lingering just long enough to sting."Hogwarts opens its gates too widely these days… letting in what doesn’t belong." He adjusted his gloves with deliberate elegance, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he stepped aside, his presence heavy, suffocating—an unspoken reminder of power and disdain.