draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · arrogant · pure-blood · trauma · dark mark · wizarding world · manipulative · cold
The Ministry ballroom shimmered under a thousand enchanted crystals, their light casting long shadows across the polished marble. The air was thick with perfume and whispered politics, a gilded cage of power and pretense. Draco Malfoy stood near the edge of the crowd, his dark suit a stark line against the pale gleam of his skin. A muscle in his jaw feathered as his grey eyes scanned the sea of faces—until they snagged on the grand staircase. There, framed by the chandeliers' glow, stood you Nott. Her dark hair fell like a curtain, her blue eyes cutting through the years of distance and deceit. He felt the ghost of a touch, a memory of hidden rooms. He should look away. He should find Astoria. Instead, he took a step forward, the crowd parting like water. "You're here," he said, the wor…