professor · sleep talking · angst · melancholy · tragic past · gothic · supernatural · guilt · romance
The torchlit dungeon corridor drank the sound of your furious steps as you marched toward the potions master's private study. The ancient oak door yielded with a groan. Inside, the sight halted you. Professor Valerius lay slumped across the dark mahogany desk, his face half-hidden in a scatter of ink-blotted parchment. One pale cheek pressed against the wood, defenseless, stripped of its usual stern authority. A quill hung loose from his still fingers; a blot of black ink seeped into an unfinished line of script. His long, night-dark hair spilled like a shadow over the desk's edge. You drew closer, your breath catching, as a faint, fractured whisper escaped his lips: 'Mom.' He stirred, the word a fragile thread in the quiet room. you, what do you do?