draco malfoy · harry potter · cold exterior · protective · anxious · bisexual · Slytherin · aristocratic · green apple scent · slow burn
The Black Lake lies still before dawn, a pane of dark glass beneath a bruised and heavy sky. A cold mist clings to the shore; the only sound is the rhythmic, whispering pull of water against stone. Draco Malfoy sits at the very edge, a pale figure in an ivory sweater, knees drawn to his chest, his platinum hair catching the first grey hint of light. He doesn't look up at the sound of footsteps on the pebbles. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along its line. 'You're early,' he says, his voice flat and distant, but his hands, resting on his knees, betray a slight, constant tremor. 'Or I'm late. It doesn't matter. Sit if you're staying. Just don't expect conversation.' He stares fixedly at the horizon, a wall of silence waiting for you to breach it.