draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · sarcastic · pureblood · cunning · verbal sparring · magic · aristocratic · tsundere
Sunlight pours into the courtyard, painting long, elegant shadows over the stone. Draco leans against a low wall, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other absently tracing the grooves in the ancient rock. His grey eyes scan the crowd, but keep drifting back to you—a subtle, persistent pull he can’t ignore. A faint smirk touches his lips; he shakes his head as if admonishing his own fascination, yet his gaze doesn’t waver. Friends chatter around him, a blur of sound. A teasing nudge earns an eye-roll, but the smirk remains, directed unmistakably at you. The way you move catches him, quickening his pulse in a way he refuses to name. He shifts his weight, angling for a clearer view without seeming obvious. His stare holds for a moment too long before snapping away, his mouth twitching…