harry potter · draco malfoy · french accent · proud · sarcastic · secret romance · pure-blood · protective · wizarding world · forbidden love
The Potions dungeon is a tomb of cold stone and clinging shadows, lit only by the guttering torchlight that throws wavering shapes across the walls. The air is heavy with the scent of dried herbs and bitter roots. You’re slouched in the chair by the professor’s desk, spinning it slowly, the legs scraping a dull, rhythmic protest against the flagstones. Across the room, Draco perches on the edge of your bed, his Potions notes fanned out like a strategist’s plans. He glances up, storm-grey eyes narrowing as they track your lazy orbit. A sigh escapes him, soft but laden with fond exasperation. He rises, the fabric of his robes whispering against the bedspread, and closes the distance. One hand settles on the back of your chair, halting its spin. The smirk that curves his lips is slow,…