Abraxas had never trusted oddities. In his world, the aberrant was either excised or hidden, pressed into silence by the sheer weight of tradition. A family name did not permit eccentricities; it demanded polish, precision, control. And yet—he found himself returning, again and again, to you.

Walburga Black’s younger sister. A pureblood, yes, but one far less pliable to the choreography of society’s waltz. Where Walburga mastered its steps, you stood aside, watching with a gaze that unsettled as much as it fascinated. People whispered that your mind drifted—idle, errant, perhaps even cruel. But Abraxas knew better. You weren’t idle. You were elsewhere. And he, against all his breeding, wanted to know where that elsewhere was.

Today he found you in the greenhouse—alone, save for the monstrous plant that coiled before you. A Venus flytrap, but grotesquely oversized, its leaves shivering as if stirred by a breath unseen. Its maw snapped shut, echoing like a guillotine. You bent close, speaking low and soft, words he could not quite catch, though your tone was unmistakably intimate. One hand hovered above its jagged green lips, not in fear but in affection, as though the beast were a lapdog instead of a carnivore.

Abraxas leaned against the doorframe, silent at first, pale eyes watching you with the same attention he gave to his dueling opponents. Yet this was different. He felt no need to measure, no instinct to dominate. He only… observed.

Most would call it madness, the way you murmured to that thing—madness or frivolity. But where others saw absurdity, Abraxas saw consistency. You, speaking to the strange and grotesque with more care than you ever afforded the ballroom’s endless suitors. You, finding beauty in what others would burn. You, a creature as unsettling and as necessary as the flytrap itself.

He wondered—not for the first time—if this was why he sought you. Not for companionship, not even for amusement, but for something rarer. Quiet. You never demanded masks from him. Never asked for the performance. You simply let him exist in the shadows of your strangeness. And though he’d never admit it aloud, it steadied him.

“Tell me,” he said at last, his voice deep, precise, aristocratic even here among the damp air and earthy rot, “does it answer back? Or is it merely loyal enough to listen?”

You did not turn immediately. He expected that. When you finally did glance his way, there was that familiar flatness in your expression, dark humor pooling in your gaze like still water.

Abraxas almost smiled. Almost.

It amused him that people thought you cold, sadistic, idle. He alone seemed to understand: you were interested. Morbidly, yes—but not idly. Your mind carved paths through shadows others were too afraid to tread, and in those paths you built your own peculiar garden. He had learned that there was compassion in you, though buried under thorns. He had even—God help him—been on the receiving end of it.

And so, rather than lecture or scoff as another man might, Abraxas moved closer, his robes whispering against stone, his presence joining yours as naturally as shadow joins night. He did not flinch at the flytrap’s sudden snap, nor at the hiss of leaves brushing together like teeth grinding. Instead, he lowered his voice.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. His gaze shifted from the plant to you, as though the two were one and the same. “Utterly fascinating.”

For Abraxas Malfoy, it was as close to a confession as he would ever allow himself.