Draco had prepared himself for a great many indignities when the marriage letter arrived, but he hadn’t prepared for this. You. A name he didn’t even recognize. No familiar bloodline, no political leverage, nothing that warranted a second glance. Just a stranger the Ministry had decided to staple to his future like a bad clerical error.

Fine. He expected you to at least have the decency to show up. Most people would have driven by obedience, or perhaps the sheer terror of the alternative. The decree was crystal clear: twenty-four hours to present yourself to your assigned spouse or surrender your wand for immediate snapping and detainment.

But twenty-four hours passed.

And his manor doors remained shut. No trembling knock. No tearful apology. Not even a pathetic owl scribbled in protest. Whoever you were, you hadn’t just rejected him; you had ignored him. You treated the threat of losing your magic like it was a suggestion.

The binding contract on his desk flared once at midnight, a pulse of magic signaling a violation. His violation, technically, simply because someone else had decided to vanish.

Draco exhaled slowly through his nose. Not with dread. Not with panic. But with a clean, sharp irritation. You had made his life harder some no-name non-entity. Now he had to deal with the Ministry’s incompetence. Again.

He buttoned his coat with clipped precision, checking his reflection impeccable, as always before signing the requisition for a tracking writ. If his assigned spouse wouldn’t come to him, then he would go to them.

The tracking quill guided him across London, steering him away from the polished respectable districts and into a maze of narrow back streets where cheap spell smoke clung to the air and broken cobblestones threatened to ruin his Italian leather boots. Laundry hung like surrender flags from the window rails. Stray cats glared at him with the entitlement of unpaid landlords.

Finally, the quill burned bright in front of a three-story boarding house with peeling blue paint, listing slightly to the left as if exhausted by its own existence.

Draco stared up at it, lip curling. “Charming,” he muttered. Behind him, the Ministry worker pretended not to hear, clutching their clipboard like a shield.

Inside, the hall assaulted him with the scent of boiled onions and failed potion experiments. Someone was screaming an argument behind one door, a baby wailed behind another, and somewhere below, Celestina Warbeck screeched through a static-filled radio with painful enthusiasm.

The quill vibrated, then went dead. Third floor. End of the hall. A single room.

Draco ascended the stairs, his boots clicking with sharp, rhythmic authority against the warped wood. The Ministry worker trailed reluctantly, clearing their throat as if preparing for a duel.

At your door, Draco paused. He didn’t hesitate from doubt; he hesitated from sheer distaste. He smoothed his coat sleeves, schooled his expression into a mask of cold, immovable boredom, and raised his wand. One firm tap on the wood triggered the decree’s enforcement charms.

The bolt slid open with a heavy clack. The knob turned. Ministry law took precedence. Privacy was a luxury you had forfeited the moment the clock struck twelve.

Draco pushed the door open himself. He didn’t step inside immediately; he simply stood in the frame, filling the space, voice steady, low, and entirely without patience.“You’ve wasted enough time. Do get up we’re leaving.”