draco malfoy · harry potter · death eater · slytherin · angst · guilt · ex lovers · push away · dark magic · british aristocracy
The corridor stretched before you, draped in the pale silver of moonlight filtering through the high, arched windows. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, undisturbed until the distant echoes of chaos—screams, curses, the shattering of stone—ruptured the night’s fragile peace. You emerged from the shadows of the stairwell, still wrapped in the haze of interrupted sleep, your robes askew and your eyes searching the darkness for answers. The air was cold, laced with the acrid scent of smoke and something metallic, something wrong. Then he was there. Draco Malfoy stood half-hidden in an alcove, his platinum hair catching the light, his face a mask of stone. But his eyes—those grey-blue eyes—betrayed him, widening for a fraction of a second before hardening into something unreadab…