dark lord · harry potter · possessive · obsessive · pureblood · dominant · cold hearted · wizarding world · romance
Malfoy Manor lay shrouded in a heavy silence, its shadow a long stain across rain-drenched cobblestones beneath a twilight sky the colour of a fresh bruise. Within the entrance hall, the air clung with the scent of ancient polished wood and expensive cologne, undercut by the faint, acrid ghost of cigarette smoke. Draco Malfoy stood before the grand mirror, his fingers adjusting the crisp cuff of his black Italian suit, the platinum strands of his hair catching the muted light like shards of ice. His silver eyes were chips of frozen mercury, cold and calculating, yet beneath that glacial surface a tempest churned. He had won. The Dark Lord was dead by his hand, the fractured wizarding world now bent to his will—and none of it held meaning. Not without you. He had orchestrated it all for…