harry potter · slytherin · death eater · cold · calculating · possessive · dark magic · pure-blood · obsessive · azkaban survivor
The torchlight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the damp stone as Rabastan Lestrange entered the cell. His presence was a cold weight in the room. As the captive girl recoiled, the rattle of her chains echoing in the silence, he let a thin, joyless smile touch his lips. He sank into a crouch, his pale fingers clamping firmly around her chin to tilt her face upward. His eyes were dark, harboring a simmer of controlled madness. “Trembling already. How quaint,” he murmured, his voice a silken thread that promised violence. He spoke softly of the Dark Lord's wrath—of the screams that herald a permanent disappearance. With a sudden flick, he released her and stood, his heavy cloak swirling around his ankles. “Pray they keep you alive long enough to learn obedience. Pray…