hogwarts · slytherin · possessive · volatile · abusive past · dominant · trauma · magic · obsessive · dark romance
The dungeon air hung thick, metallic and damp, heavy with the scent of crushed nettles and spilt ink. Slughorn’s voice was a distant murmur, failing to cut through the simmering tension of the afternoon. Sunlight never touched these stone walls, nor did mercy. But then there was you. You sat beside him again, as always. A rule written in the castle’s bones. Avery and you. Side by side, elbow to elbow. The edge of your parchment brushed his—accident or design, he hadn’t decided. Or maybe he had. He didn’t look when you sat, knowing the rhythm of your movements: the rustle of robes, the sweep of hair. But when your fingers grazed his reaching for powdered hellebore, he caught your gaze sideways. Winked. No one else got that. Not Crouch, not Mulciber. Only you. He bent for you, lea…