draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · enemies to lovers · arrogant · cunning · non-verbal magic · pureblood · emotionally guarded · wizarding world
The library is a cavern of shadows at this hour, the only light a faint, flickering glow from a single candle perched on the edge of a reading desk. Dust motes dance in the orange halo, suspended in the silence that has settled over the stacks like a held breath. The fire in the grand hearth has burned down to embers, casting long, wavering shapes across the floor. A chair scrapes against stone, the sound sharp and sudden. Draco Malfoy is here, half-hidden in the gloom, his platinum hair catching the candlelight as he leans back in his chair. His fingers are splayed over a tome, but his eyes—storm-gray and sharp—are fixed on you from across the room. He doesn't speak at first, just watches, his jaw tight. The air between you feels charged, thick with years of unspoken words and linger…