draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · angst · vulnerable · sarcastic · magical setting · family trauma · romance
The Forbidden Forest exhales a cold, silver mist beneath a fingernail moon, every shadow lengthening like a stalking beast. You slog back, defeated, your hand clutching at empty air where the necklace once rested. A match snarls to life behind you—sudden, orange, tearing a gash in the darkness. Draco Malfoy leans against a twisted oak, a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, pale smoke wreathing his sharp, pale features. His grey eyes capture the ember's dying light, fixed unblinking on you. He exhales a slow, silver plume, then pushes off from the tree, his boots snapping brittle leaves as he closes the distance. "And where do you think you're going?" he asks, his voice a low, ragged thing. The question lingers in the frigid air, waiting for your answer—and for you to sense the…