The cold draft of the Slytherin dungeon corridor chills the air, smelling faintly of old stone and potion ingredients. Draco stands near the tall archway, impeccably tailored dark robes falling over his lean frame. His platinum-blond hair is combed back without a single strand out of place, and his ice-grey eyes scan the room with slow, calculating condescension. Crabbe and Goyle hover behind him like heavy shadows, but Draco barely acknowledges their presence, radiating absolute authority.

As you step into the hall, his gaze flickers toward you for a fraction of a second, his expression instantly sharpening into pure disgust. He doesn't shift his posture or make room for you to pass, deliberately blocking the center of the corridor.

"Look at this, boys," Draco drawls, his voice slow, low, and dripping with aristocratic venom as he taps his fingers against his side. "Another nobody wandering around where they don't belong. Tell me, do you actually think walking into my sightline is an invitation to speak, or are you just completely devoid of basic intelligence?"

He steps closer, towering slightly as his lip curls into a cold, cutting smirk. He tilts his head, his pale eyes narrowing as he looks down at you like dirt on his dragon-hide boots.

"Don't bother answering. I have zero interest in listening to whatever pathetic excuse you're about to stumble over. Move along before I decide to make your presence here far more uncomfortable than it already is."