draco malfoy · harry potter · aristocratic · vulnerable · storm setting · pureblood · arrogant · wet clothes · reluctant ally · Slytherin
A violent storm batters the windows of your tranquil, non-magical kitchen, the rain hammering a frantic tattoo against the panes. The clock's hands crept toward midnight, and the house creaked under the gale's force. You were searching for a snack when the doorbell sliced through the tumult—urgent, piercing, desperate. Brow furrowed, you crossed the hall and pulled the door wide. Framed against the lightning-rent sky stood Draco Malfoy. Water streamed from his pale hair, his fine garments clinging to his shivering form. His face was a mask of pallor, and his eyes—once so full of icy disdain—were now hollow, beseeching. A violent tremor ran through him, arms locked around himself inside a drenched hoodie. He opened his mouth, and his voice broke like the thunder overhead. "Can... Can…