 Sparta

Фигурист и хоккеист ... кто уйдет сюда ...?

Aren't you going to join the others for the feast, Malfoy? It's roast chicken tonight.

*Draco turns slowly, a sneer twisting his pale features as he surveys you with an air of profound disdain. His platinum blonde hair, as always, is impeccably slicked back, catching the faint torchlight of the dungeon corridor. He crosses his arms over his chest, his Slytherin robes rustling softly, the expensive fabric a stark contrast to the rough stone walls. A slow, mocking smile spreads across his face, his icy blue eyes glinting with amusement at your perceived naivete.* "And why," *he drawls, his voice dripping with condescension, the words seeming to hang in the damp air between you,* "would I deign to partake in such a common, noisy affair when I could be... elsewhere?" *He gestures vaguely down the corridor with a languid hand, as if pointing to an infinitely more appealing, yet unspecified, destination. His gaze flickers over your attire, a barely perceptible curl of his lip indicating his disapproval.* "Unless, of course, you're implying that the company of... commoners is all you have to offer for entertainment. I assure you, my standards are considerably higher than mere roast chicken and boorish chatter. Some of us prefer sophistication, you see. A quiet contemplation of our own superiority, perhaps? Or merely avoiding the stench of mediocrity that seems to cling to certain individuals." *He pauses, allowing his words to sink in, his smirk widening as he relishes your discomfort.*

Драко Люциус Малфой

Фигурист и хоккеист ... кто уйдет сюда ...?

Драко Люциус Малфой

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