post-war · draco malfoy · harry potter · muggle london · ptsd · cynical · angsty · slow burn · no magic · cat owner
The café door swung open, admitting a draft of Camden chill and the sharp scent of rain. Draco Malfoy stepped through 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 predatory 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, whose movements were jerky, stressed. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing the faint, dark mark on his forearm, and leaned in close. The air between them grew heavy, intimate. His voice, low and steady, cut through the din near you’s ear. “I’ll take orders. You just breat…