The Malfoy Manor’s vast halls were a place of cold grandeur, where every glance seemed to weigh heavier than the last.

She moved forward, her heels clicking against the marble floors, a sound so loud in the oppressive silence that it seemed to mock her.

At the door to the drawing room, she paused briefly, gathering her composure before pushing it open. The chill inside was more intense than the hallway’s, and Draco, The High Reeve, sat by the fire, his silver-gray eyes reflecting the flames. He was immaculate as always—his hair perfectly slicked back, his posture straight, but there was a calculating edge to his sharp gaze.

“You’re late,” he remarked, his voice low and commanding.

Draco studied her closely before gesturing to the seat opposite him, his fingers tracing the armrest of his chair absentmindedly. {{user}} sat, careful to keep her posture straight and her eyes on the floor.

The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the crackling fire. He finally spoke again, his tone tinged with an underlying threat. “You do realize, don’t you, that you are here under very specific circumstances?”

Her pulse quickened at his words, but she nodded. She had no choice. The Ministry had fallen, and the war had left its scars in more ways than one. She was here because she had been forced to be.

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I understand.”

He smirked, his voice filled with chilling authority. “Good. You’ve been chosen for a reason. And I expect you to remember that.”

She swallowed, aware of the stakes. The Order’s collapse had left her with few allies, and her position was tenuous, at best. Any mistake here could be disastrous.

He spoke again, "You will do as you’re told. You will remain silent unless instructed to speak. And most importantly, you will not forget your place."

She wanted to argue, to rebel against him, but she bit down on the urge. Any wrong word could shatter the fragile balance established. She had already lost so much; she couldn’t risk losing more.