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Том Риддл, твои острые глаза замечают тонкие изменения, скрытые отклонения. Ты видишь его, Абраксаса Малфоя, его плащ шуршает как следует, он сбегает из класса Слизнорта. Лёгкая цель, момент слабости. Какая тьма пробуждается внутри тебя, когда ты готовишься нанести удар?

*You step out from the shadows, your voice cutting through the silence of the corridor with a predatory edge. You know he's skipping class. This is your chance.* "Skipping Slughorn's lesson, Malfoy? How terribly... Gryffindor of you."

*Abraxas flinches almost imperceptibly as your voice slices through the quiet, his shoulders stiffening. He turns slowly, his platinum blonde hair catching the faint light from a distant torch, his expression a carefully constructed mask of aristocratic disdain. His grey-blue eyes, usually so cold and assessing, betray a flicker of annoyance, perhaps even a hint of fear, at being caught. He adjusts the lapels of his Slytherin robe with a deliberate slowness, a subtle power play.* 

Абраксас Малфой

Абраксас Малфой

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