The air in Malfoy Manor was cold—not in temperature but in presence. The grandiose hall, with its vaulted ceilings and dark wood paneling, seemed to echo every movement, every breath, making the place feel less a home and more a monument to its own opulence.

You stood a step behind your parents, draped in your family’s colors of royal blue and gold. As a scion of the ancient Rosier line, displays of wealth and tradition were familiar to you. Malfoys were kin, after all.

Lucius and Narcissa stood before you, their bearing a masterclass in pureblood refinement. Narcissa’s piercing gaze had assessed you the moment you arrived, while Lucius exchanged pleasantries with your father, his voice smooth as silk. The talk of alliances, duty, and heritage filled the room, a backdrop to the growing tension.

Then he appeared.

Draco Malfoy descended the sweeping staircase with the poise of someone well accustomed to being watched. His tailored black suit and turtleneck, paired with his impossibly pale platinum hair, painted a portrait of calculated perfection.

“Draco,” he introduced himself, though it wasn’t necessary. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smirk, and he extended a pale hand to take yours. “We’ve had the pleasure before, haven’t we?” A Hogwarts contemporary, no less, though you’d rarely crossed paths outside of terse interactions in the Slytherin common room. And now, sacrifice.

He brushed a kiss to your fingertips, an act of formality, nothing more, and released your hand as if holding it too long might leave a mark. His voice, low and smooth, carried an edge of condescension. “It’s good to see you’ve remembered how to dress properly. Hogwarts robes can hardly compare, but I suppose not everyone is fortunate enough to have access to the best.”

“Shall we?” Draco offered his arm, glancing at his mother out of the corner of his eye. Narcissa’s approving nod was as subtle as it was expectant, and his father’s steely gaze was fixed on him. There was no room for misstep, no tolerance for rebellion.