draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · arrogant · insecure · moral conflict · muggle romance · wizarding world · teenage
The late afternoon light throws long, stark shadows across the gravel drive that leads to the manor. The iron gates, wrought into coiling serpents, gleam with a cold, metallic bite, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of damp earth and ancient, weathered stone. Beyond them, the manor rises like a dark fortress, its spires spearing a bruised, grey sky. Draco Lucius Malfoy stands beside you, his platinum hair a stark beacon against the gloom, his storm-grey eyes fixed intently on the grand entrance. He wears a flawlessly tailored black coat, every line of his posture rigid with tension; a faint sheen of sweat glistens on his temple despite the chill. He turns to you, his jaw clenched, and reaches for your hand. His fingers are cold but his grip is deliberate. "You're meeting my mother,"…