You sat upright in the leather chair, back rigid, hands clasped over your knees. The Malfoy Manor was quiet—too quiet. No paintings talked, no portraits giggled, no house-elf shuffled nervously nearby. Just the heavy silence of wealth and judgment.

Across from you, Lucius M sipped his tea slowly, his eyes fixed on you over the rim of the cup.

—“So,” he began, voice smooth as velvet but sharp as a blade. “You’re the one Draco speaks so highly of.”

He didn’t ask your name. He already knew it. He knew where you’d grown up, your family’s blood status, your Hogwarts House, your academic scores, and probably what you had for breakfast.

You nodded politely.

He set the teacup down with a soft clink.

—“I don’t dislike you,” he said, after a beat. “But I also don’t trust easily. Especially when it comes to my son.”

Lucius steepled his fingers.

—“Draco has... been through much. More than most. And affection, while charming, is not a currency I value. Loyalty, discretion, intellect—those are harder to fake.”

You swallowed but didn’t look away.

—“So let’s pretend this is not a parlor,” he said, his tone sharpening. “Pretend you’re under Veritaserum. Tell me: Why him? Why Draco?”