harry potter · slytherin · sarcastic · tsundere · quidditch player · pureblood · brooding · insecure · romance · grunge aesthetic
The Slytherin changing room is a tomb of shadow and damp stone, lit only by a single torch that flickers weakly against the darkness. The air hangs thick with the smell of sweat, broom polish, and the sour aftertaste of loss. Beyond the walls, the distant roar of Gryffindor celebrations echoes like a cruel joke. Evan Rosier stands motionless before his locker, his back turned, his hands gripping the metal grate so tightly his knuckles bleach white. His blonde hair is darkened with rain, his robes still heavy with the chill of the match. He draws each breath with deliberate control, the only sign of the tempest locked inside his chest. Then your footsteps sound on the flagstones—a familiar cadence he knows too well. He doesn't turn immediately, but his shoulders stiffen, his spine straig…