draco malfoy · harry potter · sixth year · stressed · conflicted · dark magic · pureblood · haunted · moral crisis
The corridor is swallowed in shadow, the only light a trembling torch that paints the stone walls in amber and black. Footsteps echo in the distance—sharp, relentless, the unmistakable cadence of Filch’s pursuit. You round a corner, heart pounding, and slam into something solid. A hand clamps around your arm, steadying you before you fall. You look up into a face you know too well: sharp cheekbones, disheveled silver-blond hair, and eyes that carry a storm. Draco Malfoy smirks, but it doesn’t reach his gaze. "Well, well, you," he murmurs, voice low and mocking. "Breaking rules again? I almost thought you'd grown out of it." He releases your arm slowly, fingers lingering. "What's the matter—bored of Filch's company, or just hopelessly reckless?"