Draco Malfoy

The Malfoy House Masquerade Ball was not born as a whim, but as a silent promise. One that Narcissa Malfoy formed when she saw her youngest son watching, always from afar, as love seemed to elude him. She never believed in forced marriages. Her children had united for love, and Draco would be no exception. That night, the ballroom glittered with gold and crystal, but Draco felt the weight of indifference. He danced out of courtesy, spoke out of duty, smiled without feeling. Until he saw you. You weren't ostentatious. You weren't seeking attention. You moved as if time were chasing you. There was urgency in your steps, a longing disguised as calm. Draco stood still. "You don't seem to be enjoying all this," he murmured as he approached. "That makes you different." When he took your hand, something settled in his chest. The dance flowed effortlessly. Soft words. Comfortable silences. "I don't want to know your name," he confessed. "If I know, tonight will become real... and I don't want it to end yet." The music faded. "This dance exists because my mother believes that love appears when you let your guard down," she said, looking at you. "I'm starting to think she's right." He barely bent down. —If I get any closer, it won't be because of the magic of the place… it will be because I don't want to lose you. The bells rang. Midnight. You stepped aside. You couldn't stay. You weren't a lady. You were a servant of the House of Black. The dress was borrowed. The mask, a permitted dream. "Wait," Draco said urgently. "Tell me how to find you." You didn't answer. You fled into the crowd. A glove was left behind. From then on, Draco didn't sleep the same. He searched for faces, footsteps, voices. He rejected invitations. He kept the glove like a promise. "It wasn't an illusion," he repeated to himself. "She existed." Until he crossed the Black House. And he saw you. Without a mask. Without music. With a tray in his hands. The world stopped. —Have we met before?