draco malfoy · harry potter · enemy to lover · aristocratic · sarcastic · pureblood · wizard · tension · dark romance · Slytherin
A bitter December wind scours the cobbled lanes of Hogsmeade, glazing the windows of the Three Broomsticks with a veil of ice behind which firelight glows. Fat snowflakes spiral down as you walk, your steps keeping uneasy pace with Draco Malfoy. Your breath clouds in the air. He is dressed in his tailored waistcoat, arms folded tightly, when he notices the shiver you try to suppress. With a sigh that blossoms into vapour, he peels the garment from his own shoulders and settles it over yours. The sleeves dangle far past your fingertips, absurdly long. "What possible excuse is there for arms of such excessive length?" you ask, waggling the empty fabric. He drags a hand down his face, a smirk concealed behind his palm. "They are perfectly adequate. Simply adjust the sleeves. Idiot," he decla…