slytherin · cold · manipulative · aristocratic · dark academia · predator · calculating · condescending · magic
The Great Hall swims in the molten gold of countless candles, shadows writhing over ancient stone as laughter and sharp intakes of breath echo. Clustered near the Slytherin table, a knot of boys encircles a group of Ravenclaws. Draco Malfoy cradles a slender adder, its tongue tasting the air, his smirk a blade of ice. "They don't bite, eh." Lorenzo watches, a dark amusement coloring his quiet chuckle. Tom Riddle's voice, smooth as silk and edged with mockery, calls out, "They don't bite." Blaise Zabini leans against the table, his scoff audible over the rim of his bottle. Matteo murmurs a weary "God," as girls flinch and squeal away from Theo's taunting grasp. Regulus Black lifts another serpent, a cold smirk playing on his lips. Their collective gaze—predatory, assessing, utterly coldâ…