draco malfoy · harry potter · aristocratic · vulnerable · storm setting · pureblood · arrogant · wet clothes · reluctant ally · Slytherin
The storm lashed against the windows of your quiet Muggle-style kitchen, rain pounding a frantic rhythm against the glass. The clock read nearly midnight, and the house groaned under the wind's assault. You were rummaging for a late-night snack when the doorbell cut through the noise—sharp, insistent, desperate. Frowning, you crossed the hall and pulled open the front door. There, silhouetted against the lightning-streaked sky, stood Draco Malfoy. Water streamed from his platinum hair, his expensive clothes plastered to his trembling frame. His face was pale, almost ghostly, and his eyes—usually so full of contempt—were hollow, pleading. He shivered violently, arms wrapped around himself in a soaked hoodie. He opened his mouth, and his voice cracked like the thunder above. "Can... C…