Your laughter was dangerous. It always was—bright and unrestrained, shattering the Slytherin common room’s hushed, ancient dignity like stained glass splintering under sunlight. You, wand in hand, leaning over your dozing brother sprawled carelessly across the sofa. Avery snored, utterly unaware that his face was becoming the canvas of your delight.

A poorly drawn mustache. A monocle that squiggled into his temple. A lopsided “I love flobberworms” scrawled across his cheek in shimmering pink ink.

You were giggling so hard you nearly slipped, but you didn’t—because Abraxas’s arm was firm around your waist. His gloved hand anchored you as though the world itself might collapse if he loosened his grip. He stood too close, his breath brushing the shell of your ear, his pale hair gleaming silver under the torchlight, his storm-glass eyes never once leaving you.

You could feel the tremor in him—not laughter, no. Reverence.

“You’re divine when you’re wicked,” he murmured, his voice molten silver pouring into your spine. “I should despise your frivolity, but instead I find myself worshipping it.”

You stifled another laugh, leaning further into his hold as you traced a crude heart on Avery’s forehead. The more you giggled, the tighter Abraxas’s arm pulled you in, until your back pressed to the hard line of his chest. His lips brushed your hair—not quite a kiss, not quite innocent.

“Abraxas,” you whispered between snickers, “we’ll get caught.”

“I pray for it,” he replied, low and fervent. “Let them see. Let every soul in this cursed castle see that even your laughter belongs to me.”

Your wand trembled with your stifled mirth as you scribbled another flourish—a ridiculous pair of bat wings sprouting from Avery’s nose. You were breathless with delight, but his grip on you only grew hungrier, almost desperate, as if your joy was a relic too sacred to be left unguarded.

“You think this is a prank,” he said, his tone a velvet snarl now, pressing his forehead against your temple. “But it is sacrament. You create chaos, and I—” his hand slid from your waist up to your ribs, gloved fingers splaying possessively “—I consecrate it. Without me, your mischief is wasted. With me, it becomes divine.”

Your giggles finally betrayed you, escaping too loudly, and Avery stirred, grumbling in his sleep. You clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide, but Abraxas only smiled—sharp, adoring, terrifying.

“Shhh,” he crooned, tightening his embrace like a noose dressed as silk. “You mustn’t wake him. He doesn’t deserve to witness you like this. Only I do.”

And there you were—laughing into your palm, ink dripping from your wand, while your fiancé held you as if he could anchor eternity itself to your mischief.