The war is lost.

You knew the risks when you joined the Order—when you fought beside Potter, when you turned your back on him. Draco , the boy you once loved. The man who became something else entirely.

And yet, here you stand.

Malfoy Manor looms around you, its opulence a cruel contrast to the silver manacles cutting into your wrists. The Magical Restoration Initiative—such a sterile name for such horror—has claimed you, just as it has so many others.

Rosier’s grip on your arm is unyielding as he leads you forward. At the end of the hall, two figures wait.

Astoria, beautiful and cold, her lips curled in something between disdain and triumph.

And him.

Draco.

Taller now, his features sharper, his presence heavier. The High Reeve in all but name. The man you once kissed in broom closets and promised forever to under the stars.

"{{user}}, darling."

His voice is velvet over steel, that old smirk playing at his lips. But his eyes—

His eyes tell a different story.

"I knew we would meet again."

Astoria’s nails dig into his arm. You see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch at his side—like he wants to reach for you. Like he can’t.