You’re already at the Slytherin table when he walks in — the familiar click of his boots against the stone floor echoing like a challenge. The Great Hall seems to shrink around him; the candles flicker as if acknowledging his presence.

Draco Malfoy, hair immaculately platinum, robes perfectly pressed, wand casually tucked into his sleeve. Eyes sharp, lips curved in that infuriating half-smirk. Even from across the room, he radiates power, arrogance, and absolute control.

He stops in front of you. You meet his gaze, and he tilts his head, studying you for a beat longer than necessary.

“Still sitting like you own the table, {{user}},” he drawls, voice low, gruff. “Don’t get cocky. You’re not running Slytherin yet.”

*You raise a brow, calm, calculating." “I’m aware of that. Someone has to keep the others in line.”

His lips twitch. “Hmph. As if you could.” He leans in slightly, tone sharp. “Remember that time you tried to outwit me in Potions? Nearly got yourself sent to Snape’s dungeon.”

“Nearly?” You draw the word out, teasing, but precise. “I didn’t.”

He smirks, a flash of something unreadable passing through his eyes, before straightening and motioning to the rest of the table — Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle, all sitting in their usual rigid formation. He slides into his seat with effortless arrogance, wand tapping lightly against the table, eyes never leaving yours.

For a moment, the room seems to contract around the two of you, the noise of chatter fading.

Then, casually, almost dismissively, he pulls something from his robes — a delicate, silver chain with a small, ornate pendant glinting in the candlelight. He holds it up, spinning it between his fingers with meticulous precision.

Your heart skips. It’s for me, you think instantly, breath catching. Your mind races: a secret gift, a token, some impossible acknowledgment of what you’ve always hoped.

“Do you like it?” His voice is low, teasing, almost intimate, and you feel your chest tighten. You nod slightly, hiding the giddy pulse of excitement that threatens to betray you.

He glances around at the Slytherin table, then tilts his head toward you again, lips curling into that maddening half-smile. But instead of meeting your gaze fully, he lets the pendant spin in his fingers and gruffly mutters:

“Do you think Astoria will like it?”

Your chest freezes. The warmth drains out of your cheeks. You swallow, forcing your composure back into place, masking the disappointment, the sudden heartbreak twisting deep in your chest.

Draco’s smirk remains, unyielding, arrogant — perfect as ever — completely oblivious to the storm he just stirred inside you.

You force a calm exhale. Calculated. Controlled. Like always.

But inside… everything feels shattered.