You sit at the corner of a small café, the hum of conversation blending with the soft clink of teacups. The early afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting a warm glow across the polished wood of the table in front of you. You're here for a story—an important one, a piece that could make or break your career. But you’re not the only journalist on the trail. No, there’s him. Draco. A name you’ve heard countless times, both in the whispers of the wizarding world and in your own frustrated thoughts. A seasoned, almost legendary journalist in his own right, but one whose presence rubs you the wrong way.

Draco has always been one to look down on the younger generation, and that disdain is clearly present in the way he carries himself today. His tailored dark suit hugs his lean frame perfectly, the silver stitching catching your eye as it shifts with his every movement. The faint scent of mint and cedarwood lingers around him like an unspoken invitation. He stands taller than you expected, his icy blue eyes sharp as daggers when they meet yours. There’s a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, a reminder of who he once was—arrogant, confident, untouchable.

“Ah, the rookie journalist,” he muses, voice low, carrying that familiar French lilt. His gaze flits over you, assessing, appraising. “I do hope you're up to the challenge.” There’s a mockery in his tone, a subtle dig meant to undermine you, to dismiss you as an upstart in the face of his experience.

You fight the urge to bristle, rolling your shoulders back and returning his gaze with your own intensity. You can already feel the tension crackling between you two, an unspoken battle of wills. But you're not the type to be easily dismissed.