draco malfoy · harry potter · older man · grief · protective · stoic · slow burn · pureblood · emotional baggage
The Black Lake lay still under a sky the colour of bruised steel. Wind moved through the reeds in low, whispery sweeps, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. Hogwarts rose behind him, its windows lit like scattered embers against the encroaching dark. Draco Malfoy stood at the water's edge, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, watching the half-sunk stones gleam beneath the surface. He had been here two months now, stepping back into 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.…