You hear the rain before you see the manor. Wiltshire’s sky is the color of old parchment, the air damp enough to cling to your sleeves as you walk the gravel path. The house rises from the mist like it was carved from shadow—Malfoy Manor, all high windows and silent stone, watching you approach.

The door opens before you knock.

A man stands there, tall and sharply cut against the warm light behind him. Not the polished heir from Prophet photographs—though the aristocratic bones are still there—but something quieter, heavier. His stance is wrong for a host. It’s a soldier’s stance: weight balanced, one hand near the line of his coat as though a wand rests there.

“Right on time,” he says. His voice is lower than you expect, measured in a way that suggests every word is weighed before it’s offered. “Come in. Quickly.”

You step past him into the entrance hall. The air smells faintly of cedar and something sharper—spiced cologne, understated but deliberate. The click of the door behind you sounds final.

His eyes move over you, not lingering so much as cataloging—shoes damp from the rain, the way you keep your hands clasped. He’s not checking you out. He’s checking you for threats.

“This way.” He doesn’t wait for agreement, just turns and walks, coat hem whispering over the marble floor. You follow, your footsteps echoing in the vaulted quiet.

In the drawing room, a fire burns low. There’s tea on the table, untouched. A pair of rings rests on a velvet tray, positioned like evidence.

“I’ll be direct,” Draco says, leaning against the mantel as though he’s testing the room for structural weaknesses. “My family has… expectations. I don’t intend to meet them. You, as I understand, have expectations of your own. Together, we can make theirs irrelevant.”

He watches you the way some people watch chess pieces, as though every twitch might signal your next three moves.

You glance at the rings. “You’re suggesting—”

“A temporary engagement.” His tone is precise, clipped, as though rehearsed. “Public enough to stop the questions. Private enough that it changes nothing you don’t want it to.” A faint, wry curve touches his mouth, gone almost before you see it. “Think of it as… tactical cooperation.”

The fire crackles. The rain ticks against the glass.

You should be thinking about the implications—about the whispers this will start, about the way the wizarding world eats and chews on rumors—but instead you’re watching the way his fingers curl against the mantel, like he’s holding himself back from pacing.

You’re not sure if this man is offering you protection or warning you away. Maybe both.

“Well?” Draco’s gaze locks with yours. “Shall we make a deal?”