post-war · draco malfoy · harry potter · muggle london · ptsd · cynical · angsty · slow burn · no magic · cat owner
The café door swung open, letting in a draft of Camden chill and the sharp, clean scent of rain. Draco Malfoy stepped across the threshold, a silhouette of dark wool and platinum hair against the grey morning. The small space was already choking on noise—clattering cups, hissing steam, the frantic energy of a rush hour gone wrong. He moved with a predator's grace, ignoring the line, slipping behind the counter like a shadow detaching from the wall. His pale grey eyes scanned the chaos, then locked onto you, your movements jerky and stressed. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves, the faint, dark mark on his forearm briefly visible, and leaned in close. The air between them thickened, turned intimate. His voice, low and steady, cut through the din near your ear. 'I'll take orders. Yo…