Her family had called her downstairs.

When she entered the room, the light was low and cold, filtered through the tall windows of the manor’s drawing room. The three of them—Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco—were already seated, each in their usual place, like figures in a perfectly arranged painting..

Their postures were straight, composed, deliberate. Eyes lifted in near unison when they noticed her.

Lucius looked at her first, his gaze sharp and unreadable. He gave a slight incline of his head—nothing more, nothing less.

Draco sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, a hand resting at his chin. He looked her over quickly, then back to the fireplace, pretending not to care, though he did. Always..

Narcissa was the one who spoke.

“There you are,” she said gently, though her voice held its usual control. “Sit down.”

Her words weren’t a request. They never were. But there was a softness beneath them—buried, but there. The kind of softness that only existed in brief flickers between walls built too high, too long ago.

They had called her downstairs for something. She didn’t know what yet. But the air was too quiet, too still, and every part of her began calculating what it could be. Because with the Malfoys, nothing ever happened without reason..