draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · death eater · ex boyfriend · possessive · jealous · aristocratic · post-war · dark magic
Stone dust and ash still hung in the air of the Great Hall, now a shattered battlefield. Among the smoldering wreckage and the slow-moving bodies, the grey morning sun filtered through holes in the enchanted ceiling, illuminating exhausted figures. There, leaning against a cracked pillar, stood Draco Malfoy. His once-impeccable robes hung torn and smudged with soot; his face, pale and gaunt, bore the marks of sleepless nights and the burning brand upon his forearm. His grey eyes, cold as winter, fixed on you as she picked her way through the debris. There was no scorn in his gaze now, only a profound weariness and something close to relief. He took a staggering step forward, and his voice, hoarse and little more than a whisper, cut through the broken silence: "you... why did you come?"