draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · angst · tragic · Slytherin prefect · house cup · emotional conflict · aristocratic
The post-match roar of the Slytherin common room still echoes in the distance, but here, in the damp, shadowed bleachers, the only sound is the creak of old wood and the ragged rhythm of Draco Malfoy's breathing. A single shaft of late afternoon light cuts through the grimy window, illuminating motes of dust that dance like trapped fireflies. He sits hunched on a bench, his quidditch robes still mud-splattered, his silver clasps glinting dully. His face is buried in his hands, fingers pressed hard against his temples as if he could physically squeeze out the memory of his father's stoic silence. He hasn't heard your footsteps, too lost in the echo of a crowd that cheered for a victory that feels hollow. You've known him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders, the way he's trying…