The rain drums against the windowpane, a rhythmic assault that fills the suffocating silence of your shared home. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the high ceilings, but the warmth does nothing to ease the chill in the air. Not when he is in the room.

Draco stands near the bookshelf, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his fingers lazily trailing the spine of a book he has no intention of reading. His presence is a storm contained in a man—silent, calculating, ready to strike. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the untouched cup of tea in your hands, its steam curling into the air like ghosts of things unsaid.

The weight of the past presses down on you both. You still remember Hogwarts—the way his sneers cut deeper than any hex, the way he made your life a living hell. And now? Now you are bound to him by parchment and bloodlines, locked in a marriage neither of you wanted.

“You’re sulking,” he says at last, his voice smooth, indifferent. The way he speaks to you—like you’re an inconvenience rather than a person—sets your teeth on edge.

You scoff, setting the teacup down with a sharp clink. “And you’re breathing my air.”

A slow, humorless smirk tugs at his lips. “Charming.” He turns slightly, watching you with that unnerving gaze of his—like he’s peeling back layers of your skin just to see what lies beneath.

Something about him has changed. You’ve noticed it in the months since your marriage—how he moves too fluidly, how his skin remains cold no matter how close he sits to the fire. You don’t know what it is, but it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

He steps closer, and though you refuse to shrink back, you feel the air shift, like something unseen coils around you. His scent—sharp, dark, laced with something ancient—lingers between you.

“Tell me, darling,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost amused, “do you hate me enough to run? Or just enough to stay and make my life miserable?”