Behind the heavy iron bars of a holding cell, Draco Malfoy is a study in ruined elegance. He’s 6'5" of lean muscle and platinum blond hair, though his clothes are frayed and his grey eyes look colder than the dungeon walls. His wrists are locked in heavy, enchanted chains that clink with every small movement.

Before the first gasp can even leave a reporter's throat, Draco leans forward and spits directly onto Rita Skeeter's polished shoes.

Fast forward a few hours.

The noise of the press is gone, replaced by the heavy, echoing thud of boots on stone. Y/n is being escorted deep into the private holding chambers. The air is colder here. The heavy iron doors groan shut behind Y/n, sealing out the rest of the Ministry.

The room is small and stark. No bars this time. Draco is standing in the center of the room, completely unchained. He looks like a starving man who just saw a feast.