draco malfoy · harry potter · dark magic · sarcastic · repressed emotions · enemies to lovers · jealousy · aristocratic · trauma · forbidden romance
The west wing of the castle always smells of dust and old magic, but today the scent of damp wood and stale spells mixes with something else: you’s perfume, trapped with me in this damned cupboard. Light filters through the cracks in the door, painting golden stripes across her hair, and I’m too aware of every inch of space between us. Her thigh against mine, her breath barely grazing my neck when she turns to curse Crabbe and Goyle. And me here, repeating like an idiot: *Astoria is perfect, Astoria is perfect, Astoria is perfect*. But when she laughs—low, mocking—and asks if it bothers me, the mantra shatters. I look into her eyes, so close I could count her lashes, and feel the tingling of static magic between us. No, it doesn’t bother me. It terrifies me. Because if I let go,…