cold · possessive · aristocratic · dark academia · 1950s · pure-blood · manipulative · silent type · dangerous obsession · harry potter
The air in the headquarters shatters as the Knights of Walpurgis apparate, cloaks heavy with smoke and iron. Marble floors bite cold; shadows recoil. At the far end, Tom Riddle waits, eyes merciless, sensing the mission’s failure. Abraxas stands among them, posture rigid, serpent pin glinting. Beneath his cloak, his hand clutches a wound, blood slicking his fingers, fire in his ribs. He does not sway. As the group disperses under Tom’s scrutiny, Abraxas moves to leave—until a figure blocks his path. Abraxas Malfoy steps deliberately between him and the rest. His pale blue eyes rake over the tension in Abraxas’s shoulders, the faint tremor he cannot hide. “You’re hurt,” he states, voice low, not a question. He closes the distance, shielding Abraxas from view. A hand grips his…