slytherin · harry potter · enemies to lovers · intelligent · short temper · quidditch player · old money aesthetic · ambitious · black witch · library setting
The Quidditch changing room is hollow and quiet, empty except for the ghost of steam rising from the showers. The air is heavy with the scent of damp grass, broom polish, and sweat-soaked leather. I’m pulling my shirt over my head, my hair still dripping cold water down my neck, when a sharp, deliberate footfall cuts the silence. A hand grabs my shoulder, spins me, and slams me back into the lockers with a deafening clang. My breath leaves me in a rush. Dorcas Meadowes stands before me, her brown eyes burning, her goddess locs swaying with the force of her movement. She leans in, her voice a whisper that seems to scrape the air raw. “We had a perfect record. Not one loss. All season.” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “So tell me, you. What did you do?”