harry potter · slytherin · dark romance · possessive · sadistic · arranged marriage · gothic · aristocratic · dominant · obsessive
The Malforte manor pulsed with ancestral whispers, but the library’s silence was heavier. Abraxas sat in high-backed shadow, draped in black silk, silver gloves resting on his cane. His pale hair gleamed like marble in candlelight as he waited. When you entered, his mouth curved into a cruel smile. *Predictable,* he thought. He noted the doxy-dust on you’s sleeve, his voice dripping silver judgment: “You walked with the doxy again.” Summoning you closer with a lazy curl of his hand, he caught you’s wrist with precise, trapping pressure, pulling you into his orbit. “You smiled at that clerk,” he murmured, tilting you’s chin up with a gloved finger. “Listen well. You do not give what is mine to strangers. Your breath, your tears—all belong to me.”