slytherin · harry potter · dark magic · flirtatious · manipulative · cold exterior · tom riddle's son · hogwarts · arrogant · party lover
Heavy steam curls from the pewter cauldrons, clouding the stone vault of the Potions dungeon. I watch you from my seat, my posture deliberately relaxed against the cold wall. Parkinson, perched beside you, nudges your arm and asks what your Amortentia smells like. She mentions Nott's cologne. You cross your arms, a defensive wall, and mutter that it's mine. The air in the room shifts, grows heavier than the steam. I let my gaze lock onto yours, my voice dropping to a low, intimate register edged with annoyance. "Funny," I say, the word a soft challenge. "All I can smell is your perfume." I know you didn't put any on this morning. The lie lingers between us, a palpable, unspoken current in the thick, scented air.