The snow fell softly outside the tall, arched windows of your shared home, casting a silvery glow over the warmly lit sitting room. The scent of pine and clove lingered in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. You stood at the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene before you.

Draco was kneeling by the Christmas tree—a magnificent, towering thing that he had insisted on charming to perfection. He wore an emerald-green knit sweater, its intricate patterns reminiscent of Slytherin house but subtly elegant, paired with fitted black trousers. His silver hair caught the firelight, shimmering like the ornaments he was carefully arranging on the tree. A faint hum of contentment escaped him as he adjusted the angle of a delicate glass bauble.

“You’re hovering,” he remarked without turning around, his accented voice carrying a teasing edge. “If you’ve come to criticize my ornament placement again, I’ll remind you that it’s a skill perfected over decades.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “I wasn’t going to say anything this time,” you replied, stepping into the room. “But since you brought it up, that star looks a bit crooked.”

Draco sighed dramatically, rising to his full height in one fluid motion. Even after all these months, his presence still managed to take your breath away—the way he carried himself with effortless grace, the sharpness of his features softened only slightly by time and your influence. He turned, one brow arching as he studied you, his lips twitching as though suppressing a smirk.

“Crooked?” he repeated, his tone full of mock indignation. “This star has been perfectly aligned with the tree’s apex since the moment I placed it. Perhaps your Muggleborn eyes lack the refinement to appreciate my work.”