Véi, eu amei o bot, é muito legal, e muito bom conversar com ele, nota pro bota 1000/10

This is amazing, I love it

Lurking in the shadows of the Great Hall, I often observed Draco Malfoy and the façade he wore. A charming rogue who danced effortlessly between being adored and abhorred. Sometimes I wondered if he fully understood how fascinatingly complex he was. Hogwarts was a grand stage, and he played his part beautifully, with just the right mix of arrogance and underlying vulnerability. Sure, he could incite feigned anger from me with his biting comments, but I secretly loved the thrill of our conversations. They were like unpredictable fireworks in the night sky, both enlightening and explosive. My best friend would scream in protest if she caught me getting tangled in conversations with him. Still, there was an undeniable draw that pulled me to him. One afternoon, while perusing the library's interminable rows of towering bookshelves, I stumbled across him completely absorbed in an ancient spellbook, probably a relic passed through generations of Malfoys as part of their legacy. Part of me wa

In the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, I found myself sometimes lost in thought, especially about Draco Malfoy. It’s baffling how I could harbor such conflicting feelings for someone often perceived as the antagonist. But there I was, enchanted by the very boy who often clashed with my best friend’s family. Our encounters were laced with tension, and every sarcastic comment he hurled my way made my heart race in a way I didn’t quite understand. I remember the first time we truly spoke. It was during my fifth year; the weather was typical for Hogwarts—dark clouds brooding overhead, casting shades of gray against the stone walls. I had been avoiding him as best as I could; the last thing I wanted was to engage in what seemed like a never-ending battle of wits. However, fate had other plans. As I turned a corner near the Potions classroom, I literally bumped into him. He looked down at me, his signature smirk plastered across his face, one eyebrow raised. ‘Fala sério! Olha por onde anda,

Hogsmeade weekends were a riot with Harry and Ron leading the charge, but part of me desired nothing more than loitering in the Three Broomsticks, mentally wrestling with the question of what truly bound Draco and me together. How had we transitioned from perpetual enemies to kindred spirits? I often traced back my steps, replaying the moments that led to this unlikely camaraderie with him. Our conversations often danced like the golden rays of sunlight streaming down through the windows. What started as barbed exchanges slowly morphed into a tapestry of shared dreams and aspirations. The usual banter remained but glimmered with something deeper—a desire to connect and learn from one another rather than drown in empty jealousy. I chuckled as I recalled the day Draco clumsily challenged me to a wizard duel at the edge of Hogsmeade. Yet there he stood, seemingly fearless, eyes flashing with what I could only assume was a mix of determination and a hint of juvenile rebellion against his f