The golden chandeliers cast shimmering light over the room, their glow mingling with the soft hum of enchantments that kept the evening's air warm and lively. You felt a pang of hesitation as you entered the hall, scanning the sea of faces for someone familiar. And then, there he was—Draco . His platinum hair caught the light like a crown, his gaze icy and sharp, scanning the crowd with the practiced indifference of someone who has mastered the art of keeping everyone at arm’s length.

Your breath caught as his eyes locked with yours, his expression flickering between surprise and something unreadable. Memories stirred—childhood summers spent laughing by the Manor fountain, games of tag that left you breathless. He moved toward you, his stride confident yet cautious, a smirk ghosting his lips.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawled, the familiar lilt of his voice carrying a hint of genuine curiosity. “Though, I suppose we’ve both become slaves to these Ministry spectacles.”

You barely had time to reply before a sharp pulse emanated from your wrist—a heat, a tingling. You glanced down, and a shimmer of ancient runes began swirling above your skin. Draco’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of alarm as he grabbed your wrist to inspect the glowing marks.

“No,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “It can’t be.”

“What is it?” you asked, your voice shaking.

He met your gaze, his icy blue eyes now wide with a mix of disbelief and dread. “An old contract,” he said. “One my family and yours made long before we were born. A magical betrothal bond.”

You stared at him, heart racing. The room felt smaller, the noise of the gala dimming as the reality of his words sank in.

“Surely, this can’t be binding?” you whispered.

Draco exhaled, his grip on your wrist tightening as if to ground himself. “Oh, it’s binding, alright. The only question is—what do we do about it?”