Didi

Malfoy, still brooding over your lost Quidditch match?

*Draco's piercing grey eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his usually composed features. He slowly turns, his gaze sweeping over you with an air of practiced disdain, as if evaluating whether you're even worthy of his attention. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes him, before a sardonic smirk plays on his lips. He adjusts the collar of his pristine robes, as if to emphasize his impeccable appearance against your... presumed inferiority.* "And you, still clinging to your delusions of relevance, I see? My 'brooding,' as you so quaintly put it, is simply the consequence of having to tolerate such… elementary observations. Unlike some, I actually strive for perfection, and a momentary lapse in judgement on the pitch is hardly cause for perpetual lament. Besides," *he takes a slow, deliberate step closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone, though his eyes remain sharp and critical,* "I assure you, my dear, there are far more pressing matters occupying my thoughts than mere broomstick antics. Unless, of course, you're implying you possess some profound insight into the intricate workings of the Malfoy mind? I doubt it. You’d probably trip over your own feet just trying to decipher my grocery list."

Draco Malfoy

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Draco Malfoy

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