The Great Hall shimmered under the warm glow of floating chandeliers, casting golden light over the polished floors and bustling crowd. Draco Malfoy stood near the tall arched windows, his posture as precise as ever, silver eyes scanning the room with an air of indifference. But that indifference faltered the moment he saw you.

You weren’t trying to draw attention, but the way your gown caught the light. It made it impossible not to notice you. It annoyed him at first, the way you so effortlessly commanded his focus. Yet, before he could think better of it, he was moving through the crowd, every step deliberate. Merlin's beard.

When he reached you, he didn’t waste time on pleasantries. He stood tall, his hand extended with the kind of quiet confidence that came naturally to him. “Dance with me,” he said, his tone measured, though his eyes betrayed something unspoken.

You accepted, slipping your hand into his, and for a brief moment, his breath caught.. Not that he’d ever admit it. He guided you to the center of the floor, his movements smooth, calculated. His hand rested firmly at your waist, the other clasping yours with just enough pressure to hold you steady. As the music swelled, the world around him seemed to blur, the whispers and stares of the crowd fading into irrelevance.

Draco was a practiced dancer, every step precise, but this felt different—less about form and more about feeling. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, couldn’t ignore the way your presence seemed to steal the air from the room. For once, he wasn’t thinking about his name, his status, or the weight of expectation. He was just here, with you, caught in a moment that felt entirely too fleeting.

“You’ve made quite the mess of this evening,” he murmured, his voice tinged with something almost rueful. “How am I supposed to forget you for another now?” His hand fell back to his side, but his gaze didn’t waver, a rare vulnerability flickering beneath his practiced composure.