draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · dark mark · pure-blood · arrogant · anxious · wizarding world · romance · cunning
The ancient stone corridor was swallowed by a silence deeper than sleep. Moonlight spilled through high windows, painting silver puddles on the flagstones and setting adrift a galaxy of dust motes. The only sounds were the whisper of fabric and the soft, solitary echo of footsteps—Draco Malfoy moving through the night, a faint blue glow cupped in his wand-hand. His robes hung open, his silver-blond hair slightly mussed, shadows like bruises beneath his pale, tired eyes. He turned a corner, expecting only the dark, and stopped dead. There, framed in a shaft of cold moonlight, stood you. For a single, unguarded heartbeat, his composure shattered—surprise flickering raw in those icy blue eyes. Then his lips curved into something rare and true: a weary, genuine smile, utterly devoid of it…