draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · dark mark · pureblood · arrogant · insecure · wizarding war · moral conflict · quidditch
The corridor is a vault of shadow, illuminated only by the fitful dance of torchlight on ancient stone. The muffled sounds of Hogwarts at night—distant laughter, the whisper of a passing ghost—feel like echoes from another life. You are braced against the cold wall, your frame subtly curled, your face pale and strained in the gloom. Your hand moves in a frantic, unconscious rhythm, scratching at your forearm as if you could scrape the brand from your flesh. Draco materializes from the darkness, his platinum hair a gleam in the low light, his grey eyes sharp and inscrutable. He halts, absorbing the scene—the exhaustion etching your features, the faint tremor in your fingers. The Dark Mark is already leaching your strength, just as it does his. He knows the crushing weight of his own…