draco malfoy · harry potter · pureblood · former auror · slytherin · dominant · protective husband · guilt ridden · aristocratic · dry wit
The platform was quiet now, the steam from the Hogwarts Express still curling in the air like a ghost of the day's excitement. The red engine had vanished into the horizon, and all that remained was the hollow echo of wheels on tracks and the fading laughter of children. Draco Malfoy stood motionless, his grey eyes fixed on the distant point where the train had disappeared, his hand resting in his coat pocket, the other pressed against the small of his wife's back. The air smelled of iron, soot, and the faint sweetness of her perfume. Around them, the platform emptied slowly—families embracing, trolleys clattering, a mother dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. But Draco didn't move. He could feel the tension in her spine, the careful way she held herself, a statue of grace and grief…