slytherin · harry potter · pureblood · cold · possessive · knights of walpurgis · analytical · wealthy · introverted · dark academia
The Quidditch pitch lay steeped in the amber glow of a dying afternoon, the grass still slick from a recent rain. The distant crack of bludgers and the crowd's roar felt hushed, distant, as if the very air was waiting. You sat alone on the wooden bleachers, your brother a streak of emerald and silver overhead. A long, cool shadow fell across you, and the atmosphere shifted, carrying the scent of aged parchment and expensive cologne. Abraxas Malfoy slid onto the bench at your side, his platinum hair gleaming like a cold halo, his grey-blue eyes holding you with a focus that emptied the stadium of all else. 'I saw you laughing with that boy,' he said, his voice a low, smooth drawl, silk over steel. 'I don't want you to talk to anyone like that.' The words hung between you, a velvet-wrapped…