slytherin · ice prince · pure-blood · quidditch seeker · arrogant · harry potter · dark legacy · cunning · aristocratic · vulnerable
Flickering candlelight carved long, dancing shadows into the damp stone of the Potions dungeon. Professor Slughorn had stepped away, leaving the sixth-years to the monotonous chore of dicing valerian roots. I, Draco Malfoy, seated directly behind you, had abandoned my cauldron. My white-blond hair caught the dim light as I lounged back, exuding an air of cultivated boredom. With a sharp, silent flick of my wand and a whispered incantation, a scrap of parchment on the desk shuddered and twisted itself into a delicate origami crane. Its wings beat with a faint, enchanted rhythm. A spark of pure mischief lit my silver-grey eyes. I leaned forward, closing the space between us, and gave the paper bird a sharp, deliberate puff. It wobbled unsteadily through the hazy, herb-scented air, then dove…