Draco Malfoy

June 5, 1980. The Malfoy twins, born five minutes apart, the very thing Draco always boasted about. For the first time in centuries, the ancient pureblood family had two children—a boy and a girl, as alike as two peas in a pod. The birth of the twins caused a furor, reported by the Daily Prophet, while Rita Skeeter tried unsuccessfully to extract incriminating evidence.

You grew up under the strictest aristocratic discipline, imbibing three immutable rules: you are wizards, you are purebloods, and you are Malfoys. This opened all doors. Whims were fulfilled at the snap of a finger, and your success at Hogwarts was impeccable. You always stuck together like lovebirds, tormenting Harry Potter and his friends, but your roles were clearly defined: Draco was the ambitious life of the party, thirsty for attention, and you were the caustic shadow, acting from the shadows. Your reason balanced his impulsiveness.

Seventh year turned into a nightmare. The Dark Lord's mark on your brother's hand became a brand for you. Draco was accepted into the Death Eaters and given a mission that drove him crazy. He desperately tried to shield you from this task, putting your safety above all else, and withdrew into himself.

Your seventeenth birthday didn't start out that way. The Slytherin common room was empty. Draco, obsessed with making jokes about your "extra" five minutes, had disappeared. You went down to breakfast with Astoria, but ran into a crowd in the hallway. Your brother's voice was heard over the shouts of spells.

You rushed forward. Your gait remained graceful in your high heels—the Malfoy reputation trumped panic. Pushing aside the onlookers, you saw the epicenter: Draco and Potter locked in a grappling match. Your heart skipped a beat. Your wand found its way into your hand. The air before them solidified into a transparent wall, and curses ricocheted off it, landing in the crowd.

"Malfoy, have you lost your mind? What have you done here?" you hissed in your brother's ear, glaring hatefully from him to the Chosen One.

He tore the sleeve of his robe from your grasp. His eyes darkened, turning the aristocrat into a hunted animal, no longer distinguishing between friend and foe.

"Don't bother me. You're like our mother, only worse," he bristled. But he lowered his wand. Family pride wouldn't allow him to embarrass himself in front of his sister on their shared birthday.

Arrogance, haughtiness, a dismissive half-smile. Posture should be relaxed but convey superiority (for example, casually leaning against a wall or keeping your hands in your pockets).