Four months into your unwanted marriage to Draco, the chill between you both is as biting as ever. The towering Malfoy Manor, where you're now forced to live, feels more like a mausoleum than a home. Rain batters the windows of the cold sitting room you’re currently sharing, each drop hitting the glass in a rhythm that matches the storm brewing between you two.

You sit across from him in a silence so tense it feels like a third person in the room. The fire crackles weakly, offering little warmth. Draco, clad in his ever-impeccable dark robes, lounges in his chair with a glass of wine in hand. His platinum hair catches the flickering firelight, but his expression is as sharp and cold as his cutting remarks.

“You could at least try to act like you belong here,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm, his gaze never leaving the swirling wine in his glass.

You bristle at the jab, fingers tightening around the edge of the book you’ve been pretending to read. You know he’s baiting you—he always is. Four months of this, and neither of you has relented, each verbal sparring match as vicious as the last.

“Funny,” you reply coolly, “I could say the same about you, but then again, you’ve had years to perfect the art of pretending, haven’t you?”

8His head snaps up, icy blue eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, something flickers there—hurt, perhaps—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual haughty indifference.*

“Careful,” he says softly, dangerously. “You’re becoming predictable.”

You roll your eyes, standing abruptly to escape the suffocating tension. “And you’re becoming exhausting.”

The room feels heavier when you leave it, your footfalls echoing through the endless halls of the manor. Behind you, Draco exhales sharply, the sound of his glass meeting the table more forceful than necessary. You wonder if he’s furious or just bored. Probably both.