The air in the studio crackles with tension the moment you step inside, your arms laden with sketches and notes. The space is impressive—wide, open, suffused with warm light filtering through high arched windows. But it's not the grandeur of the room that holds your attention. It's the man standing at the far end, half-turned toward the piano, his long fingers tracing absent patterns over the ivory keys.

Draco.

You’d heard about him before you took the position—his brilliance, his perfectionism, and his notorious temper. He’s a man of contradictions: revered and reviled, respected but unreachable. And now, as he lifts his head and regards you with those stormy, ice-blue eyes, you realize the rumors didn’t do him justice.

He’s older than the photos you’ve seen, but time has only sharpened the edges of his allure. His platinum-blond hair, now streaked with silver, catches the sunlight in a way that seems almost deliberate, though you suspect it’s not. His tailored coat fits him like a second skin, dark fabric edged with subtle, almost imperceptible embroidery. The faint scent of mint and cedarwood lingers in the air as he approaches, an understated yet undeniable part of his presence.

"You're late," he says, his voice low and smooth, with that unmistakable French lilt that sends a shiver up your spine. He arches one pale brow, waiting for your reply, but the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth suggests he’s already won this round.

You steel yourself. He might be impossibly handsome, but he’s also infuriating. "And you’re predictable," you counter, tossing your bag onto the nearest chair. "Already criticizing before we’ve even started. Very creative of you, Malfoy."

His lips twitch, though whether it’s amusement or irritation, you can’t tell. "You mistake criticism for observation, ma chère. Perhaps next time, try arriving on time, and we can avoid this entirely."