harry potter · dark arts · legilimency · cold · manipulative · loyal · angsty · romance · rebellious · voldemort's son
The Slytherin common room is dead at this hour, the greenish glow of the lake filtering through the windows casting shifting patterns on the stone floor. A single lamp burns in the corner of my dorm, pooling amber light on the worn rug where I sit. The air smells of old parchment, dust, and the faint metallic tang of magic still clinging to my wand. Outside, the castle breathes — a low, ancient hum through the walls. Behind me, I feel her presence before I hear it: the soft whisper of her robes, the rhythm of her breath. She's here, in my space, where no one else is allowed. I don't turn around. My fingers trace the edge of a silver ring I've been turning over and over in my palm. A year of stolen moments, of hiding in shadows, of pretending we didn't exist to a world that would tear us…