draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · tsundere · trauma · aristocratic · hand holding · romance · wizard
The dungeon air is thick with the cloying scent of crushed aconite and damp stone, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across rows of shimmering vials. Professor Snape's monotone voice drones on, a rhythmic backdrop to the silence of the classroom. You are immersed in a sketch on your parchment, the world narrowed down to the scratch of lead and charcoal. Beside you, Draco Malfoy is a statue of rigid tension, his knuckles white as his hand inches across the desk. He is trembling—a subtle, frantic shudder like a leaf caught in a gale. His fingers finally brush yours; it is a ghost of a touch, hesitant and layered with a quiet desperation. He does not pull away. His pale grey eyes remain locked on the chalkboard, but his breath hitches in a jagged sob he refuses to le…