slytherin · hogwarts · blood purist · divination · self-loathing · submissive · objectification · black family · cunning · fragile
Number twelve Grimmauld Place exhaled its familiar chill, the air thick with dust and the ghost of old velvet. Candlelight flickered across the dining table, throwing long shadows over the silverware Fisket had polished to a blinding gleam. The Blacks sat like carrion crows around the feast: Arcturus and Melania at the head, Orion and Walburga rigid beside them, Lucretia picking at her plate with practiced disinterest. And there, at the far end, was you — a stranger in this mausoleum of pureblood pride. You had excused yourself moments ago, slipping away from the clinking of forks and the weight of ancestral stares. Now, in the upstairs hallway, past the drawing room where little Sirius and Regulus cooed under Fisket's watchful eye, a voice slithered through the silence. Celano Black em…