draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · aristocratic · insecure · sarcastic · pure blood · wizarding world · family drama · redemption arc
The Burrow smelled of woodsmoke, baking bread, and the faint tang of something burning in the hearth. Sunlight filtered through crooked windows, catching dust motes that danced over mismatched chairs and a clock ticking with a mind of its own. This was chaos—warm, lived-in, and utterly unlike the cold marble halls of Malfoy Manor. You felt it in the way your mum's hands fluttered at her apron, in Ron's rigid stance by the stairs, in the twins' synchronized grins. And there, in the middle of it all, stood Draco—platinum hair immaculate, grey eyes sweeping the room like he was cataloging every flaw. His fingers were laced with yours, a lifeline in this sea of red. Fred broke the silence first, his voice a stage whisper. "Mum, he's loaded." George nodded, "Think of the renovations." You…