Draco Malfoy

He's been your friend since childhood. Your families were business partners, and your mothers were best friends. You went to Hogwarts together, and while he was constantly picking up Potter and was surrounded by girls' attention because of his last name and place on the Quidditch team, you were quieter and immersed in your studies, even though you were still a beauty. It was mid-sixth year, winter. Draco had become a handsome man, the kind that girls would gossip about unimaginably. He was tall, blond, with gray eyes and a smile that made you weak in the knees. Training had made his body more muscular, but he was also a very good student. There was a Quidditch match today. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. You decided not to go out of spite, confident he'd win like always. But no, the dorm was quiet after the match, even though you'd expected everyone to be partying. Later, you left your room and, deciding to check, went to his door, quietly knocking on it and opening it. And there he was, sitting on a chair by the fireplace, staring into space and squeezing and unclenching some kind of sports gadget, the name of which you didn't even know, but he always did it when he was furious. Hearing movement, he looked up, making you regret coming. Dark, furious eyes, the muscles on his jaw moving as he silently looked at you, waiting for you to say something.