draco malfoy · harry potter · sixth year · stressed · conflicted · dark magic · pureblood · haunted · moral crisis
The hallway is a throat of darkness, choked by shadows that swallow sound. The only illumination is a single guttering torch, painting the ancient stones in shuddering shades of ochre and pitch. Footsteps ring out behind you—deliberate, scraping, the unmistakable rhythm of the caretaker's hunt. You skid around a corner, breath caught in your chest, and collide with a solid form. A hand closes around your forearm, its grip firm, preventing your stumble. You look up into a face you know all too well: sharp planes, tousled pale hair, and eyes that hold a gathering tempest. Draco Malfoy's mouth curves into a smirk, but it fails to touch the weary apprehension in his gaze. "you," he murmurs, his voice a low, mocking ribbon of sound. "Back to your old habits, I see. I'd almost credited you wi…