The biting cold is the first thing you notice as you step onto the windswept plateau, the snow crunching beneath your boots. A gray sky stretches endlessly above, its oppressive weight mirrored by the expanse of glaciers and jagged ice formations surrounding you. You’re in the northernmost reaches of the magical world, far from the warmth of any hearth, drawn here by obligations neither of you had a hand in creating.

It’s been four months since the ink dried on the marriage contract, binding you to James Fleamont Potter. Four months of forced smiles, cutting remarks, and silent dinners at the manor. The man is twice your age, a war-hardened figure who walks with an air of authority you can’t quite stand. The tension between you crackles like static, threatening to ignite into something more dangerous at the slightest spark.

The two of you are here on Ministry business—or at least, that’s the official story. A diplomatic envoy was attacked in these parts, and as a politically convenient pairing, you and James were sent to investigate. It doesn’t take a genius to see the real reason: to force you into proximity, to make you work together in this desolate, hostile land where survival requires trust. Trust, of course, is in short supply.

The wind howls, and you tighten your cloak against the cold. James, a few steps ahead, doesn’t so much as glance back. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with silver glinting in the faint light of the enchanted lantern he carries. You’ve noticed he never uses warming charms, as if enduring the elements is some kind of personal penance.

“This way,” he says curtly, his voice low but firm. He doesn’t wait for a response.