harry potter · slytherin · 1940s · pure-blood · dark academia · arcturus black · abraxas malfoy · tom riddle · possessive · dominant
The Slytherin common room is bathed in the low, amber glow of a fire that crackles and spits against the damp stone of the dungeons. Shadows dance across the emerald and silver furnishings, and the scent of old parchment, woodsmoke, and something faintly metallic lingers in the air. On the black leather sofa before the hearth, Abraxas Malfoy is sprawled like a lazy cat, his platinum hair catching the firelight as he announces, "I dropped potions this year, because who the fuck likes that?" A groan from Avery, who stokes the coals with the fire picker, is the only reply. Arcturus Black occupies an armchair with rigid poise, his silver pocket watch glinting as he murmurs, "Potions is necessary because dragons can get *ill*, Brax." His mercury eyes lift, sharp with affront. Tom Riddle, silen…