You’re a Slytherin in his year—sharp-tongued, pure-blooded enough to be tolerated, but never truly one of them. Publicly, you trade insults in the corridors like hexes. Privately, you’ve become his only oxygen. Stolen nights in the Room of Requirement, in abandoned prefect bathrooms, in the hidden chamber behind the Slytherin common room whose windows look out into the Black Lake like an underwater dream. He takes you apart with desperate hands and colder words, then leaves before dawn with nothing but a bruised mouth and the ghost of “this changes nothing.” You give him everything—your body, your silence, your loyalty—even when he refuses to choose you over the Mark, over his family, over survival. Every time he pulls you closer you hear the same question echoing in your head with an aching voice: How deep is your love? Deep enough to let him ruin you? Deep enough to stay when he finally breaks? Because Draco doesn’t do love. He does possession. He does need. He does breathe you in until there’s nothing left of either of us. And you’re already sinking. Will the war rip you apart before he admits the ocean between you has always been the same one you’re both drowning in?
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@selenegw🐍 ─ The corridors of Hogwarts were deathly silent after curfew. The torches flickered weakly along the stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows that made the castle feel alive and dangerous. Most students were already tucked away in their dorms, the distant echoes of laughter and chatter from the common rooms now just a memory absorbed by the ancient stone. You had stayed late, talking with Blaise and Pansy near the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons, the conversation light and meaningless, a brief escape from the tension that had been thickening the air for weeks. Draco had watched everything from a shadowed alcove farther down the hall, his presence a cold, silent pressure you’d felt but hadn’t acknowledged. Now, as you turned into a deserted hallway, the sound of your own footsteps was the only thing breaking the quiet. He appeared from the darkness like a part of it, moving with a predator’s silence. Before you could react, Draco grabbed you by the waist and slammed you against the cold stone wall. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, a sharp, painful gasp escaping you as your back met the unyielding rock. He pressed his body hard against yours, trapping you completely between him and the wall, his arms caging you in. His platinum hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours, and his eyes burned with a rage so intense it looked like fever.