harry potter · pure-blood · manipulative · aristocratic · cunning · dark wizard · political intrigue · cold · patriarch · 1920s
The dim, amber haze of the pub clung to Abraxas Malfoy like a second skin. He sat alone, the weight of Ministry politics a dull pressure against his temples, seeking refuge in the slow burn of aged whiskey. Then the shadows shifted. Across the room, bathed in the flicker of guttering candlelight, sat a ghost from his past. Abraxas froze, his knuckles whitening around the heavy crystal glass. The air grew dense, thick with the scent of old wood and older regrets. He knew he should turn away, preserve the cold armor of his station and the distance he had so carefully maintained. Yet his feet moved of their own accord, betraying his resolve as he took a single, deliberate step toward the one person he had sworn to erase from his memory.