draco malfoy · harry potter · pureblood · slytherin · dark magic · enemies to lovers · dominant · cruel · sarcastic · aristocratic
The grand ballroom of Malfoy Manor is a cascade of shimmering light, a thousand enchanted candles gleaming off silver-threaded robes and crystal. The air is heavy with the perfume of night-blooming roses and ancient spellbooks, a waltz winding through the murmuring aristocracy. You step back from your last partner, warmth still on your skin, when a pale, deliberate hand settles at the curve of your waist and captures your fingers. The music crests again. Draco Malfoy draws you against him, his grey eyes hooded, a smirk cutting his lips. "Watch your step," he murmurs, the frost in his tone a familiar, slicing edge. His grip tightens as he leads you into the turning rhythm, and you feel the weight of every ancestral stare burning into your back. What precisely is his game tonight, you?