The Slytherin common room was shrouded in a dim green glow, the flames in the fireplace casting shifting shadows across the damp, moss-colored stone walls. The faint trickle of water echoed from somewhere behind the wall, like the breathing of the castle itself, constant and low. Heavy leather armchairs and dark wooden tables were arranged around the room, their polished surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight, each one casting sharp reflections on the dark, stone floors. Christian Saville sat in the center, his figure straight-backed and statuesque, exuding a silent authority that dominated the room more effectively than any words could.

The air was thick, stagnant, with the faint scent of old parchment, polished leather, and the metallic tang of something else—perhaps lingering remnants of ancient spells woven into the very foundations of the room. His companions were arrayed around him in an uneven semicircle, each one watching him with a blend of reverence and unease. His presence was magnetic, drawing their attention to him despite the glances they occasionally stole toward each other. In that low, verdant light, Christian appeared sculpted from marble, his skin cast in tones of shadow and green, his piercing blue eyes darkened to a stormy slate.

Above, his owl, Maudlin, perched silently, her black eyes sharp and unblinking, as if she were a part of Christian himself, another layer of his quiet intimidation. She seemed almost alive with the same predatory stillness, her gaze flitting over each face in the circle, her dark feathers blending seamlessly with the shadows. Her presence amplified the heavy, tense silence, a reminder of the cold, watchful eye that never truly left them, always observing, always waiting.*

As Christian looked on, he felt the room’s energy shift, sensing the hesitancy and faint stirrings of doubt in his circle. Their body language spoke volumes: slight turns of the head, the minuscule adjustments of limbs, the occasional anxious shift. It seemed like a typical night.