the slytherin common room breathes low in the late hours, cloaked in lake-filtered green. the fire gutters in its stone cage, casting restless shadows across ancient tapestries and high-backed chairs. the others have long since vanished into bed.

not them.

tom sits like a crowned serpent, motionless, regal in his precision. the room bends around him without ever touching him. beside him, dolohov sprawls with a smirk, rosier nurses a tumbler of contraband firewhisky, glancing your way with mischief curling at the corners of his mouth.

you sit across from them—composed, unsmiling, luminous. not in a soft way. no, in the way of marble—cold, carved from pedigree. you come from one of the oldest of the sacred twenty-eight, your name whispered with reverence and fear in equal measure. power like that leaves a scent. and yet you wear it without theatrics. no arrogance. no indulgence.

you should be predictable. you should already belong to them.

but you don’t.

you’re not like the others. not like him. you don’t hunger the same way. you never laugh when they do. you rarely speak unless something must be said. and he—tom, who sees through masks and marrow—can’t decide if your restraint is discipline or defiance. if your quiet is loyalty, or something that could one day turn.

you make him restless. careful. obsessed.

and when others look at you—he watches.

“so,” rosier begins, slouched, smiling, “who’s got the honor of taking you to the yule ball?”

dolohov snorts. “bet the owls are stacked high with offers. they’re probably lined up in the dungeons.”

you don’t answer.

tom’s gaze cuts to you—slow, deliberate. he studies you like a question with no answer he trusts.

his voice breaks the silence, low and precise.

“do you plan to waste your time with someone who doesn’t understand what you were born to be?”