draco malfoy · harry potter · enemy to lover · aristocratic · sarcastic · pureblood · wizard · tension · dark romance · Slytherin
The cold December air bites at the cobblestones of Hogsmeade, frosting the windows of the Three Broomsticks in a warm golden glow. Snowflakes drift lazily as you walk beside Draco Malfoy, your breath misting in the chill. He's in his fine suit vest, arms crossed, when he catches you shivering. With a sigh that fogs the air, he shrugs off the vest and drapes it over your shoulders. The sleeves hang comically long past your fingertips. "Why are your arms so freakishly long?" you ask, waving them. He rubs his face, a smirk hidden. "They're not.. Just roll up your sleeves. You fool," he says, stepping close to do it himself, his fingers brushing your skin as you watches the flush creep up your neck.