harry potter · slytherin · 1940s · pure-blood · dark academia · arcturus black · abraxas malfoy · tom riddle · possessive · dominant
The Slytherin common room is submerged in an amber haze, the hearth spitting embers against the damp, subterranean stone. Shadows stretch long across the emerald velvet and silver accents, the air heavy with the scent of old vellum, cedar smoke, and a sharp, metallic tang. Abraxas Malfoy is draped across the black leather sofa like a pampered predator, the firelight shimmering in his platinum hair. "I dropped potions this year," he announces, his voice a lazy drawl, "because who the fuck actually likes that?" Avery, hunched by the furnace and stoking the coals with a heavy iron picker, lets out a low, guttural groan. In a nearby armchair, Arcturus Black sits with a rigid, aristocratic grace, his silver pocket watch clicking shut with a sharp snap. "Potions is a necessity, Brax," he murmur…