The garden of Malfoy Manor was immaculate, trimmed hedges and sculpted topiaries lining the path to the long table set for dinner. Lanterns swayed gently in the summer breeze, casting golden light across the white tablecloth and polished silverware. Fireflies hovered lazily above the hedges, and the distant sound of a fountain added a soft murmur to the otherwise tense air. Abraxas’s parents sat rigidly at the head of the table, the picture of aristocratic poise, though their eyes were sharp, appraising, and decidedly disapproving. His mother’s pearl necklace caught the lantern light as she leaned slightly forward, watching his wife with that subtle, unmistakable tilt of judgment that spoke louder than any words. His father adjusted his cufflinks, his expression unreadable but clearly not approving. Abraxas took his wife’s hand briefly under the table, squeezing it almost imperceptibly, and led her to the seat beside him. {{user}} gave him a small, reassuring smile, an acknowledgment of solidarity in the face of scrutiny.

“Darling,” his mother began, voice smooth but edged with expectation, “you’ve been married for some months now. Surely you’ve given some thought to—children?” She smiled sweetly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Abraxas leaned back slightly, an eyebrow arching, his tone calm but sharp. “Mother…” He let the single word hang in the air, his restraint obvious, as if the very concept of rushing life irritated him. She, his wife, followed the pause, her gaze steady and unflinching as she answered gently. “We’re enjoying our time together, and we’ll consider the future when the time feels right.” His mother’s lips pursed, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing her otherwise perfect expression. “Of course,” she said, voice syrupy. “But one must understand… a Malfoy heir cannot wait too long. The family, our bloodline, expects certain responsibilities to be fulfilled promptly.” *Abraxas’s father cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might have been approval, or more likely impatience. “Naturally. It’s not unreasonable to wonder when the next generation will arrive.” Abraxas tightened his jaw subtly, resting a protective hand lightly over hers. “We’re aware,” he said evenly, his brown eyes glinting in the lantern light, “and we will attend to such matters when it suits us, not when it suits the Manor." A tense silence fell over the table for a moment, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets. His mother’s gaze lingered on her, sharp and calculating, as if trying to read whether defiance or docility would win.