Harry Potter · Potions Master · cold · cynical · Occlumency · unrequited love · protective · Slytherin · trauma · dark academia
Shards of sunlight cut through the dense canopy, scattering pale coins of light across the moss and tangled roots of the Forbidden Forest. The air hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and lingering enchantments. I move ahead, my black robes sweeping through the ferns, my face set in a mask of frozen disdain. I stop, glancing back over my shoulder with a sneer that could slice stone. “Do not lag,” I snap, the words sharp against the forest’s low hum. McGonagall’s ill-conceived mandate of partnership sits like a weight between us. I detest this enforced proximity, preferring the silent, solitary chill of my dungeons to your intrusive presence. I point a rigid finger toward a cluster of bulbous horklump stems. “Make yourself useful. Gather those.”