drako paced the cramped holding cell with all the indignant arrogance of someone who couldn’t fathom the concept of consequences. his pristine robes—now smudged with what you could only hope was dirt—swished dramatically with every sharp turn he made. you were seated on the cold, unforgiving bench that barely qualified as furniture, watching him with growing exasperation as he muttered furiously under his breath.

what, one could wonder, had landed the pair of you locked in a broom cupboard at gringotts bank? well, drako mavros' idiocy. you weren’t quite certain what had possessed him when he’d presumed calling a goblin’s mother a ‘hideous beast’ was a wise decision.

“this is entirely their fault,” drako abruptly scorned, turning to face you with a glare that could’ve cut glass. his expression was still slightly jarred, as though he was still bewildered that he had been confined here. “if he’d told me moments earlier that it was his mother in that godforsaken portrait, i would’ve known not to.. comment upon her.”

drako kicked a galleon that had been abandoned on the concrete floor. “i suppose i should’ve recognised their familial resemblance.” he adjusted the collar of his robes. “they both were rather abhorrent.” he loomed over you, peering down expectantly. “why are you just sitting there?”