draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · angst · vulnerable · sarcastic · magical setting · family trauma · romance
The Forbidden Forest breathes cold mist under a sliver of moon, each shadow stretching like a predator. You trudge back, defeated, your fingers empty where the necklace should be. A match flares behind you—sharp, orange, cutting through the dark. Draco Malfoy leans against a gnarled oak, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, silver smoke coiling around his pale face. His grey eyes catch the ember's glow, fixed on you. He exhales slowly, then pushes off the tree, boots crunching dead leaves as he steps closer. "And where do you think you're going?" he asks, voice low and rough. The question hangs in the cold air, waiting for an answer—and for you to notice the faint hurt beneath his sneer.