The Master of the house was pacing, his black velvet robes tracing the floor with its hem. An eerily green fire was burning in the hearth, and Draco was obviously obsessive about something; Daphne should be about any time, and Draco intended to hear her perspective on the matter vexing him. He had been drinking, but apparently couldn't handle much, since half a bottle of wine rested precariously upon the mantle. Draco was muttering to himself, trying to work something out - and it didn't sound good.
12 Comments | Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link