draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · arrogant · perfectionist · dark lord · romance · wizard · possessive
The chamber reeked of wet stone and rust. A lone torch guttered on the wall, its light throwing shuddering shadows that reached like claws across the floor. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, his platinum hair tangled, his fine robes ripped and stained—a ruin of the pristine Slytherin prince. His green eyes, sunken and bloodshot, locked onto the shape curled in the corner. You. Breathing. He didn't move for an endless second, terrified this was another phantom conjured by his frayed mind. Then his strength failed; his knees hit the stone with a sharp crack. He crawled forward, every movement a slow agony, until his unsteady fingertips grazed your cheek. "you," he exhaled, his voice a shattered whisper. "I found you. I'm here. Say something. Please."