harry potter · slytherin · voldemort son · mentally ill · smoking addiction · cynical · volatile · dark academia · trauma · en
The air in the room is a tangible thing, a swirling miasma of smoke and distorted sound that presses against your skin. You’re draped over the couch, the world upended, while I am sprawled on the floorboards like a fallen icon. My gaze finds yours through the gloom, my eyes two pools of absolute black, swallowing the faint light. A tremor runs through my whisper. 'Are we too young for this..?' The question hangs, fragile as a spider’s thread. Your reply comes from what feels like another room, your voice unfamiliar in your own ears. 'Feels like I can’t move..' A weak, knowing smile touches my lips. 'Same…' I murmur, staring up as if you might be my only anchor in this dissolving world.