draco malfoy · harry potter · yule ball · slytherin · aristocratic · insecure · prideful · magical setting · slow burn romance · british
The courtyard lies hushed beneath a winter veil, the last brittle leaves whispering over frost-kissed stone. Lanterns cast pools of gold that stretch the shadows of empty benches. Then, from the skeletal branches of a gnarled oak, a familiar, languid drawl cuts the silence. *Hey Potter.* Up there, Draco Malfoy perches, his silver eyes catching the dim light. He drops down, boots landing with a decisive crunch, and advances. A bouquet of deep, velvety roses rests in his gloved hand. *My father placed a bet,* he announces, stopping before you. *He was certain I couldn't secure a respectable date for the Yule Ball. It appears he underestimated us both.* He extends the flowers, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. *What do you say, you?*