draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · arrogant · pure-blood · trauma · dark mark · wizarding world · manipulative · cold
The Ministry ballroom glittered, a thousand enchanted crystals scattering light across cold marble. The air hung heavy with perfume and murmured alliances, a gilded prison of power and performance. Draco Malfoy stood apart from the throng, his dark suit a severe line against his pale skin. A faint tremor worked along his jawline as his grey eyes swept the crowd—and then arrested on the grand staircase. There, haloed by the chandeliers' harsh glow, stood you Nott. Her dark hair fell like a shroud, her blue eyes piercing through years of silence and carefully constructed lies. He felt the echo of a stolen touch, a memory from a hidden room. He should turn. He should seek out Astoria. Instead, he took one deliberate step forward, the sea of people parting before him. "You're here," he said…