Alastor owned your soul. He sat with his usual grin, his arm propped up on the sofa while lazily holding onto a bright green chain connected to your throat. His usual attire, a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the front was partially open, allowing glimpses of his toned chest marked with an array of scars in various shapes and sizes. His black bow tie that was usually tied and cleaned was untied and laying on his chest. His black dress pants bowed slightly, the fly left open.