harry potter · slytherin · dark magic · brooding · complex · romance · pure-blood · parseltongue · conflicted · en
The Hufflepuff common room is swallowed in the amber gloom of a dying fire. Long shadows stretch across overstuffed armchairs and teetering stacks of books. Dust motes drift in the dim, smoky air. The only sounds are the faint crackle of embers and the distant, muffled echoes of battle shaking the castle walls. You’ve been curled here for hours—maybe days—on the worn sofa, the promise ring a cold, heavy circle around your finger. Every creak of the floorboards sends your heart lurching, hoping it’s him. Then the portrait hole swings open. Mattheo stumbles through. His face is pale, streaked with blood from a gash at his temple, his lip split and swollen. Those dark eyes—the ones you fell into years ago—are hollow and shattered. He drops to his knees before you, his wand rising…