draco malfoy · harry potter · arrogant · dry wit · secret pining · auror · romantic · french phrases · loyal · post-war
The interior of the car is cramped, a claustrophobic box for six. Theo dominates the front, while the backseat is a jumble of limbs. Draco sits rigid, pale-blond hair perfect, grey eyes sharp. “You’re certain this thing isn’t cursed?” Blaise mutters. “It’s a car,” you laugh, buckling up. Pansy winces at the belt’s threat to her silk; Luna hums about dragonfly cocoons. Draco fastens his silently, obedient to your instruction. *Radiant. Breathe, Malfoy.* He watches your hands on the wheel, memorizing their grace. The car lurches at a brake. Pansy squeals. Draco’s arm snaps out, bracing across you instinctively, a shield of bone and muscle. He freezes, then slowly withdraws, fingers curling. “This contraption,” he says coolly, “is unfit for civilised travel.” *And y…