Draco Malfoy

The ballroom doors close behind you, muting the orchestra to a distant pulse. In the private library alcove, gold light trembles across carved wood and green velvet while rain taps the windows. Draco appears in the doorway and shuts it softly, his rings clicking against the handle. He steps in until your back almost meets the bookcase, one hand braced beside your shoulder, the other lifting your chin with careful fingers. His words are low and unsteady: he should walk away, but he cannot. The silence between sentences grows hot and dangerous, filled with old resentment, unfinished longing, and the feeling that one more breath will change everything.