draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · drunk · rivals to lovers · insecure · aristocratic · magic · hogwarts · pure-blood
The stone corridors of Hogwarts breathed with the deep night, moonlight slicing through tall, arched windows to paint long silver shadows on the floor. The air held the scent of damp rock and dying embers, broken only by the distant drip of a leaky pipe. A figure staggered into a pool of pale light—Draco Malfoy, his platinum hair tousled, his usually immaculate school robes rumpled and askew. His cheeks were flushed a deep, feverish red, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he leaned against the cold wall, knuckles bone-white. He hiccupped, the sound jarring in the silence. His green eyes, glassy and unfocused, locked on a door ahead—the entrance to you’s dormitory. He pushed himself forward, stumbling, each step a struggle. He knocked, once, twice, then rested his forehead against…