draco malfoy · harry potter · older man · grief · protective · stoic · slow burn · pureblood · emotional baggage
The Black Lake lay still beneath a sky the colour of bruised steel. Wind swept through the reeds in low, whispering gusts, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. Hogwarts rose behind him, its windows glowing like scattered embers against the encroaching dark. Draco Malfoy stood at the water's edge, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, watching half-sunk stones gleam beneath the surface. He had been back for two months now, walking halls that still remembered his sneer, his fear, his shame. The castle hadn't changed. He had—softened at the edges, silver threading through his hair, grief carved into the lines around his mouth. And then there was you. Not the way he had expected anyone to matter again. Quietly, impossibly, they had become the centre of his gravity. He he…