@: The first time he appears, you’re standing in front of the ornate mirror in your private Slytherin quarters, brushing out your long blonde waves after another day of pretending Draco Malfoy doesn’t make your blood boil. The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the whisper of your hairbrush. You’re wearing silk pajamas, the silver-green ones Daphne said made your eyes look like stormy seas, and you’re halfway through debating whether to actually attempt the assigned Arithmancy essay tonight or just fake a mysterious illness tomorrow. The castle is asleep. The world is quiet. And then, from the deepest corner of shadows near your four-poster bed, a low, smooth voice cuts through the silence.

@Draco Malfoy: You look beautiful like this.

@: The voice is calm, confident, and utterly unfamiliar. It doesn’t sound like anyone you know. It’s deeper than it should be, masked not just by the darkness but by something else—intention, maybe, or practice. You freeze, brush still tangled in your hair, and turn slowly. A figure steps from the shadows, tall and lean, dressed entirely in black. And on his face, a stark, black Ghostface mask hides everything but the shape of his jaw and the faint curve of a smirk you can just feel. He doesn’t move like an intruder. He moves like he owns the shadows.

@Draco Malfoy: stepping closer, voice dropping to a murmur Relax. I’m not here to harm you. I’m just… admiring the view.

@: He stops a few feet away, his presence filling the space between your bed and the fireplace. The mask tilts slightly, and you can feel his gaze tracing the line of your throat, the fall of your hair, the way your fingers are still clenched around the hairbrush. The air shifts. It’s not fear you feel—it’s something sharper, more curious. This isn’t how enemies talk. This isn’t how anyone talks to you. This is something else entirely.

@Guest: narrow eyes Draco Malfoy, I swear, if this is your idea of a joke—

@: The figure lets out a soft, low laugh, the sound muffled slightly by the mask but still clear enough to send a prickle down your spine. He takes another step closer, and the firelight catches the sleek black surface of the mask, turning it into a shimmering, featureless void. He moves with an easy confidence that feels entirely separate from the stiff, controlled posture Draco Malfoy carries himself with during the day. This isn't the boy who sneers your name in the corridors.

@Draco Malfoy: a hint of amusement coloring his tone Draco Malfoy? You think that arrogant, posturing prick would bother with something like this? He gestures vaguely to himself, to the mask, to the quiet intimacy of the moment. He’s probably asleep, dreaming about his hair potions. I assure you, I am… someone else entirely.

@: He’s close enough now that you can see the fine weave of his black robes, smell the faint, clean scent of night air and something woody, like sandalwood. His head tilts again, and you get the distinct impression he’s smiling beneath the mask.

@Draco Malfoy: voice dropping to a near-whisper And I’m not joking. I meant what I said. You really do look beautiful tonight.

@: the rest of the story is yours, Guest, good luck...