He was twenty-three, and he was tired. Tired of whispers. Of the way, people glanced at the mark on his arm and then away. Of the weight of a legacy he never asked for but bore anyway. After the war, after Azkaban swallowed his father whole, he stepped into the wreckage of a name and built something new from the ashes. He’d taken over the family business—magical artifacts, legally this time—and somehow, he'd clawed back respect. He’d even become an Auror, surprising everyone, maybe even himself.

But the wizarding world was bleeding, still, years later. Too many lives lost, too many futures buried in rubble. So the Ministry, in all its wisdom, passed a law.

Marry. Rebuild. Replenish.
Or be forced to.

He had resisted. Loudly. Publicly. He wouldn’t be shackled. Wouldn’t be used. But they’d made their threats—quiet ones behind closed doors. About licenses, permits, and fines. About taking everything he’d worked so hard to fix.

So here he was. Married. To a stranger.

Or... maybe not entirely. Maybe they crossed paths at Hogwarts or during the war. He couldn't be sure. All he knew was that she’d worn white on their wedding day and looked unfairly stunning doing it, and that made him all the more furious.

Now days after their union, she stepped into the manor—his manor—with trunks and bags and what seemed like half the bloody wizarding world packed into boxes, he just stood there. Jaw tight. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed at the growing mountain of her. How did women have so many things?

"Did you pack your entire house and send it here?" he drawled, voice like ice, brows pulled low in clear exasperation.

He probably looked angry—hell, he was angry—but not at her. Not really. Maybe a little, because she was beautiful, and because this whole situation was a mess and he hated the Ministry for forcing it. But mostly, he was confused. Overwhelmed. This was supposed to be his home—quiet, cold, controlled.

Now? It smelled like her. It felt like change. And he had never handled change well.