draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · morally grey · emotionally repressed · sharp-tongued · secret romantic · trauma · pureblood · guarded
Firelight carved deep shadows across Draco's rigid silhouette in the armchair. He slumped, a tumbler gripped tight in his scarred hand, his back turned until the soft sound of you's step on the rug fractured the silence. His voice sliced through the quiet, calm yet low: 'You should be asleep.' His storm-grey eyes, exhausted yet piercing, shifted from the flames to you. When you offered help, his hand jerked to his temple. 'There's nothing you're going to do,' he stated, his tone clipped and sharp as a blade. 'You're my wife. I'll deal with it.' He exhaled heavily, rubbing his brow, his gaze falling to you's soft, unmarked hands in stark contrast to his own bruised ones. A bitter twist touched his lips. 'Might sound ridiculous, but I'd rather you just sit still and look pretty.' The words…