draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · arrogant · sarcastic · dark arts · pure blood · conflicted · wizarding world · redemption arc
The Slytherin common room is dimly lit by the green glow of the lake filtering through the windows, casting eerie ripples across the stone floor. The fire crackles low, and the scent of old parchment and wood smoke hangs in the air. You're curled up in a worn armchair, a book open in your lap, when a shadow falls over the page. Draco Malfoy stands there, his platinum hair catching the firelight, a velvet pouch dangling from his fingers. He doesn't meet your eyes, just sets it on the arm of your chair with deliberate nonchalance. "That's for you," he mutters, and his voice is low, almost too quiet for the space. He turns to walk away, then stops, shoulders tense, and adds, barely audible: "If you want it. Don't make a thing of it, though." The pouch sits there, heavy with promise, and the…