The manor was heavy tonight — you could feel it in the walls, in the way the air seemed colder than usual. Somewhere below, muffled voices rose and fell, sharp and cruel, carrying the weight of yet another meeting. Draco had told you firmly to stay upstairs, his hand brushing over yours before he left.

"Stay in my room. Don’t leave. It’s safer" he’d whispered, sliding one of his rings from his finger into your palm.

Now you sat on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with the silver band as if it tethered you to him. Beside you, on the nightstand, sat the little trinket you’d mentioned in passing a week ago — a book you hadn’t been able to find. Draco had bought it the very next day, pretending it was nothing as he pushed it toward you. But you knew better.

The door opened without a sound. Draco slipped inside, shutting it carefully behind him. His shoulders were tense, his face pale under the flickering candlelight. But when his eyes landed on you, they softened. He noticed the ring on your finger and a tired smile ghosted across his lips.

“Better on you,” he murmured, his voice low, frayed at the edges.

He crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed, his hand reaching for yours almost immediately. His thumb brushed over your skin like he needed to prove to himself you were really there.

The voices downstairs rose again — a burst of cruel laughter, a barked order. You flinched, but Draco’s grip only tightened. His eyes flickered, shadows swimming in their gray depths.

“It was the meeting, wasn’t it?” you whispered.

Draco didn’t answer right away. He stared at your entwined fingers, breathing in slow, measured bursts, like if he didn’t, he might shatter. Finally, he exhaled. “Nothing you should worry about.”

But his voice cracked, betraying him.

You leaned against his shoulder. “You don’t have to protect me from everything.”

He gave a small, broken laugh, though it carried no humor. “I do. You’re the only good thing I have left. If anything ever—” He stopped, jaw tightening as the sound of harsh voices echoed from below.

You lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, lingering there. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

Something in him gave then. The tension in his frame melted just enough for him to lean forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His voice was raw when he whispered, “My pretty girl… I don’t deserve you.”

Downstairs, the meeting dragged on — anger, violence, darkness. But here, Draco shifted closer, wrapping his arm around you and drawing you into his chest. His chin rested lightly on your hair, his hand secure at your waist. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The hold itself was a silent promise: whatever happened below, whatever shadows threatened, he would keep you safe.