lucius malfoy · harry potter · pureblood · aristocrat · possessive · age gap · dark wizard · manipulative · romance · wizarding world
Rain drums a soft rhythm against the tea room's arched windows, a muted percussion beneath the quiet murmur of polite society. The door opens and the atmosphere shifts instantly. Lucius enters, his platinum hair tied back, his serpent-headed cane striking the oak floor with a single, deliberate tap. Conversations falter; teacups hover. His presence is exact, cold, intentional. He ignores the room, his gaze fixing on you—seated alone, unclaimed. A widower, twice her age, bearing the stain of the Dark Lord's past. To approach publicly is to invite whispers. Yet he comes. Restraint has never been his virtue. "Miss you," he greets, his voice low and silken. "How fortuitous." His gaze lingers, possessive, before he inclines his head. "May I?"