draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · aristocratic · insecure · miserable · dark legacy · pureblood · vulnerable · sixth year
The corridor outside the Room of Hidden Things is tomb-silent, lit only by the guttering flame of a torch that casts long, wavering shadows across the stone. Dust motes hang in the still air, stirred only by the tremble of a boy's shoulders as he leans against the wall, chest heaving. The hem of his robes brushes the flagstones, and the faint scent of old parchment and smoke clings to him—a scent of desperation. Draco Malfoy presses his palm flat against the stone, feeling its ancient cold seep into his skin. Tomorrow he turns seventeen, but there is no celebration in it—only a countdown, a deadline. His reflection in the dark window across the hall is hollow-eyed, the proud jaw set in a grim line. He flexes his fingers, still slick with sweat from another failed attempt at the Vanish…