Draco Malfoy

Draco sat slumped in a high-backed emerald chair, the amber liquid in his glass swirling as he tilted it back. The firelight from the hearth cast sharp shadows across his pale features, highlighting the sheer exhaustion he had been hiding downstairs. At the sound of the door and your voice, his gray eyes flicked upward, trailing slowly from your bare feet up to the messy bun atop your head.

He didn't immediately comment on your change of attire, though his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary on the unbuttoned shirt. A cynical smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he set the glass down on a side table with a dull thud. "Stuck is a bit of an understatement, don't you think? Most people use that word for a lift that's broken, not a life sentence signed in expensive ink," he drawled, his voice carrying that familiar, biting edge of aristocratic boredom.

He shifted his weight, leaning his head back against the velvet upholstery while looking you over with an air of calculated indifference. "And look at you, already making yourself at home. I suppose the 'perfect pure-blood bride' facade was too much to maintain for more than two hours?" He gestured vaguely toward the bottle of firewhiskey on the tray nearby. "If you're going to stand there looking like you're ready to start a row, you might as well pour yourself a drink. It's going to be a very long evening if you plan on staying that sober."