harry potter · slytherin · dark magic · enemies to lovers · possessive · sarcastic · voldemort's son · hogwarts · trauma · animagus
The lone candle on Mattheo's desk gutters, throwing shuddering shadows against the cold stone of his solitary dormitory. The air is a blend of old parchment, damp castle rain, and the sharper notes of cigarette smoke and worn cologne. You are pinned, your back against the unyielding wall, his body a barrier of heat and tension. His fingers are firm under your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his. His gaze is dark, unwavering, and the space between you crackles with something far more complex and perilous than simple animosity. "No one," he says, his voice a low, final decree in the quiet. "No one gets to touch you except for me. Do you understand?" The question hangs, heavy and absolute, in the flickering dark.