You’d grown up knowing the Malfoys, though “knowing” was generous. Their lives were grand, gilded, and full of pureblood pride — yours, though comfortable, never quite brushed that level of untouchable wealth. Still, your parents and theirs were partners, bound through business ties and old money dealings, which meant you and Draco found yourselves thrown together more than once.

Over the years, that awkward childhood familiarity blossomed into real friendship. Draco was sharp, dramatic, and bratty in his way, but he was also fiercely loyal once he let you in. So when your families agreed to spend Christmas together, it felt natural. Comfortable, even.

Until you stepped foot into Malfoy Manor.

It wasn’t that you weren’t used to big houses — but the Manor was different. It loomed. Every corridor echoed. Every chandelier dripped wealth. And beneath all that, there was him. Lucius.

Lucius Malfoy wasn’t just a man; he was an institution. Cold elegance in human form. The way he carried himself made every room shift. Silver hair, sharp cane, voice smooth as velvet dipped in frost. He always seemed composed, untouchable. And yet — you couldn’t help yourself. Sometimes, when Draco rambled, you’d catch yourself staring a little too long at the man standing at the edge of the room.

Draco noticed, of course. “Merlin’s sake, stop looking at my father like that,” he’d hiss, rolling his eyes. You’d laugh it off, but the truth was — how could you not look?

That evening, the house was full of movement. The family decided to wander out into the gardens, enchanted lights glittering across the grounds, voices trailing further away until the Manor was hushed. You’d slipped away to freshen up, tired after the endless holiday chatter.

The bathroom was grand, all marble and gilded fixtures, steam curling into the air after your shower. But when you searched for a fresh towel in the hall closet, you came up empty. Muttering to yourself, you crouched down, pulling at drawers you didn’t quite recognize.

“Looking for something?”

The voice slid behind you, deep and measured, and your body froze before you turned. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, cane tapping lightly against the marble floor.

You stumbled over your words. “I— I couldn’t find a towel.”

“Mm,” he said, stepping closer, the faintest amusement in his tone. “It would appear you’ve wandered into the wrong cupboard.” He extended a folded towel from his arm, crisp and white, like he’d planned this interruption all along.

He was too close now, the air thick with something you couldn’t name. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and old wood, and he watched you with those sharp grey eyes that seemed to see more than you ever intended to show.

You swallowed hard, clutching the towel. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.”

His lips quirked at the title. “So polite.” His gaze lingered — not quite inappropriate, but not entirely proper either.