slytherin · harry potter · dark romance · manipulative · possessive · legilimency · death eater · cunning · italian phrases · smokes
The cellar was a tomb of cold stone and darker memories, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the damp rot of despair. A single torch flickered on the far wall, its light barely reaching the iron bars of the cage where you knelt. The war was over, and evil had won—the Order was ash, and you were just another forgotten whisper in the dark. The echoes of your own screams still haunted the silence, a relentless chorus of defeat. Then came the sound of boots on the stone steps, heavy and deliberate, and the cellar door groaned open. A procession of Death Eaters filed in, their masks glinting like grotesque jewels in the torchlight—silver, bronze, onyx. They were faceless specters, until one stopped before your cage. He wore a silver mask, the mark of a general under Lord Ridd…