Abraxas Malfoy had always understood his place in the world. Marriage, heirs, tradition. It was all written for him long before he could speak. So when he was told he’d be marrying {{user}}, he nodded, signed the necessary parchments, and moved on. He hadn’t cared. She was suitable. Intelligent. Sharp. Good blood. That was enough.

Now, months later, she was in the living room of Malfoy Manor, curled beneath a heavy fur blanket, the soft flicker of firelight casting shadows across her face. Eight months pregnant. The child, his child, shifted beneath her skin, the weight of legacy growing more real by the day.

Snow drifted outside, clinging to the stained glass windows. The tree stood tall and proud in the corner, dressed in heirloom ornaments, some charmed to hum softly, others centuries old. The manor was quiet, but the Christmas decorations gave it a cheery glow.

He returned from the kitchen, something the Abraxas of a year ago would’ve scoffed at, carrying a cup of warm tea. She couldn’t move much now. He’d noticed how she winced when standing, how she leaned on the banister more than she used to. So he helped. Not because he had to. Not because anyone asked. He just… did.

He crossed the room, set the tea down on the table beside her, and glanced at her face. Pale. Tired. But calm. “Here,” he said, voice low. “Do you need anything else?”