Abraxas had always been told that the heart was nothing but a treacherous muscle, fit only for pumping blood. Men of power did not feel. They thought, they calculated, they conquered. That was the creed of his father, the echo of his mother, the marrow of his bloodline. And he had believed it—utterly—until the day Slughorn had paired him with you.

You, unremarkable then, a girl with ink-stained fingers and a stubborn tilt to your chin, were the sort of person he had been taught to overlook. But there you were, stirring a cauldron improperly and snapping back when he corrected you, as though you had the right. He had been curious. And curiosity became attention, attention became indulgence, indulgence became.. love. By fifteen, you were his. By seventeen, his betrothed.

He had asked you with the precision of a strategist: the ring, the words, the candlelit timing—all flawless. He knew you would say yes. And you had. What he had not planned for was the sensation that had followed—an iron sickness in his chest whenever he thought of losing you. Love. The word itself was poison.

And now—this.

The Slytherin common room was hushed save for the crackle of green fire and the lazy drawl of his so-called brothers. The Knights of Walpurgis sat sprawled in their corner, Tom silent as always, Rosier drinking with an idle smirk, Lestrange muttering into his glass. And you—his betrothed—sat beside him, your presence tolerated only because it was his will. His hand rested near yours on the arm of the chair, a signal no one dared misinterpret.

No one—except Avery.

Avery, graceless in his attempts at charm, leaned far too close to you, his voice pitched low in a mockery of intimacy. “You know,” he murmured, “I’ve always wondered why you waste your time with Malfoy. A girl like you deserves someone… less cold.”

The words struck like a curse.

Abraxas did not rise immediately. He listened. His blood burned beneath his skin, but his face was still—too still. A sickening sensation coiled in his chest, rancid and unfamiliar. Not rage. Something worse.

Your uneasy smile flickered, polite but strained, as you shifted closer to Abraxas. That was enough.

The sharp click of his family ring against the armrest silenced the air. Slowly, deliberately, Abraxas rose to his full height.

“Avery,” he said, voice low, measured, but edged with steel. His diction cut the air like a razor. “I will grant you the courtesy of assuming you are drunk.”

Avery scoffed, though his smirk faltered. “Oh, come now, Malfoy. We’re only talking. No harm in words—”

“Words,” Abraxas interrupted, stepping closer, “are spells. And like spells, they carry consequence. You would do well to remember that before your tongue writes a cheque your magic cannot pay.”

He towered over Avery now, icy-grey gaze fixed on him with clinical precision. His wand remained sheathed, but his presence alone was weapon enough. Every Knight in the room felt it—the fracture in his carefully cultivated restraint. Even Tom tilted his head, the faintest of smiles tugging at his mouth, as if pleased by the unfolding theatre.

Avery, nervous now, attempted levity. “I meant nothing by it. Your little betrothed is safe enough—”

“Safe?” The word hissed from Abraxas’s lips, lethal. He leaned down just slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for Avery alone. “She is mine. And should you forget that again, it will not be your tongue I take, but your life. Do you understand?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Avery swallowed hard, colour draining from his face. “Y-yes.”

Abraxas straightened, smoothing his sleeve with meticulous precision, the storm already shuttered behind his aristocratic mask. He turned, returning to his seat beside you as though nothing had happened. He did not look at you—he could not bear to see what flickered in your eyes—but his hand found yours, fingers curling with quiet reverence.

He had never been meant to love. And yet here he was, undone by it, made monstrous by it. For you, he would raze kingdoms. For you, he had already razed himself.