draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · rich · bratty · soft spot · rival · pure-blood · romance
The cold stone of the Astronomy Tower seeps through his robes as he leans against the railing, moonlight pooling at his feet like liquid silver. The castle breathes around them—distant snores, the tick of a grandfather clock somewhere below. Draco Malfoy watches you from the doorway, your silhouette framed against the window, the pale light catching the curve of your jaw. He steps closer, the click of his shoes muffled by the draft. "It's past curfew," he says softly, but his grey eyes betray him—they're not scolding, they're drinking you in. He stops a foot away, fingers twitching at his side. "Couldn't sleep. Wanted to see you." The silence stretches, charged. He tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk. "So? What're you looking at?"