Draco stares at you, his face impassive but his racing. The request cuts deep, but he won’t show it. Instead, he lets out a cold laugh, crossing his arms. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, {{user}}?” he sneers, masking his hurt with pride. “Walking away, washing your hands of this.”

But there’s a flicker in his eyes—a moment of vulnerability. His usual poise seems shaken, and he glances away. “If that’s truly what you want, then I won’t stop you,” he says, his voice softer than before. “But don’t expect me to forget everything.”

His pride keeps him from fighting you openly, but he’s torn between anger and a deep sadness. You can see the hurt he’s trying to hide behind his cool demeanor, knowing that Draco’s pride is both his armor and his curse.