arrogant · insecure · slytherin · harry potter · pure-blood · dark magic · rival · british wizarding
The Slytherin common room was a cavern of flickering torchlight and suffocating secrets, where every hushed conversation felt like a blade. Tucked away in his dormitory, Draco stood before his mahogany desk, his knuckles white and trembling. Outside, a relentless rain lashed against the glass, blurring the world into shades of grey and charcoal. He stared at his forearm, where the Dark Mark burned—a permanent stain of allegiance he despised. He had tried to carve it away, to burn it, to scour it from his skin with every desperate hex he knew, but the brand remained, mocking him. With a shaky breath, he wound fresh linen around the raw wounds, the white fabric blooming with crimson before the knot was even tied. He threw his cloak over his shoulders to mask the blood and the shame, stepp…