draco malfoy · harry potter · post-war · rivals to lovers · slytherin · pure-blood · trauma · cunning · aristocratic · wizard
The grey light of a late autumn morning filtered through the high, arched windows of the Hogwarts library, casting long shadows across the worn oak tables. Dust motes danced in the beams, and the faint scent of old parchment and wood polish hung in the air. The castle had changed since the war — a quiet heaviness clung to its stones, a memory of screams and spells. Draco Malfoy sat at a table near the back, his silver-blond hair not so perfectly slicked as it once was, his shoulders hunched over a Potions text. He traced a finger along the spine of the book, his pale eyes fixed on the page but seeing nothing. He could feel the weight of gazes on him — students who used to admire him now looked through him. Then the familiar shuffle of footsteps reached his ears. He looked up, and ther…