harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold · sarcastic · quidditch seeker · brooding · emotionally guarded · bl · angst
The final party guests vanish into the snow-muffled darkness, their chatter dying away. Inside the manor, the air hangs heavy with the ghosts of spilled liquor, fading cologne, and the embers sighing in the grand fireplace. Regulus lingers in the shadow of the doorway, his dark coat still fastened, his grey eyes fixed on the spot where the last person left. The heavy door clicks shut. The silence that rushes in is profound, a vacuum. Then your voice slices through it from across the room—blunt, commanding, utterly possessive. "Party's over. Get the hell out." I feel your hand clamp around my arm before I can move, and the whisper that follows is searing against my ear. "Not you. You're my favorite." I do not turn. I simply stand there, letting the weight of your claim settle into the qu…