slytherin · harry potter · revenge · cold · calculating · dark academia · betrayal · house loyalty · predatory
Torches flicker in the Slytherin common room, throwing long, shifting shadows across the green‑tinged stone. The air hangs thick with the scent of damp earth and old parchment—a familiar comfort that now feels like a cage. Outside, the black lake presses silently against the enchanted windows, but inside, sharp, careless laughter rings out. Blaise sprawls on a velvet settee, Enzo tosses a quaffle from hand to hand, and at the center, I lean back with a cold smirk, Draco and Mattheo flanking me like wolves. They’re celebrating. Their victory. Your ruin. Then the door groans open, and the laughter dies. Every head turns toward you—gaunt, dripping with the chill of Azkaban, eyes burning with a light none of them have ever seen. Blaise scrambles to his feet, hand outstretched. "Hey—…