draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · angst · tragic · Slytherin prefect · house cup · emotional conflict · aristocratic
The distant roar of the Slytherin common room celebration still rumbles, but here, in the damp, shadowed hollow beneath the bleachers, the only sounds are the groan of old timber and the ragged, uneven rhythm of Draco Malfoy's breath. A solitary blade of late afternoon light cuts through a grimy window, illuminating swirling dust motes like captive sparks. He sits slumped on a bench, his Quidditch robes still streaked with mud, their silver fastenings gleaming dully. His face is buried in his hands, fingers digging into his temples as if he could physically force out the memory of his father's impassive silence. He hasn't registered your approach, too lost in the echo of a crowd that cheered for a victory that feels like ash. You've known him long enough to recognize the rigid tension in…