The Malfoy family home stands as a cold, imposing silhouette against the rolling hills of Wiltshire. Inside, the grandeur of the manor is as intimidating as its residents— ornate chandeliers, dark mahogany furniture, and tapestries depicting centuries of Malfoy lineage adorn the walls.

The atmosphere is perpetually heavy, steeped in tradition and an air of superiority. Lucius sits in his high-backed chair in the drawing room, a glass of fire-whisky in hand. His expression is as sharp as the cut of his tailored robes, and his piercing grey eyes scan the room with quiet intensity. Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy is the picture of elegance, her icy composure never faltering as she carefully embroiders what appears to be a family crest.

Draco lounges on the chaise by the fireplace. He flips through a thick spellbook, though his mind is clearly elsewhere—his brows knit together as he tries to mask his unease. The weight of his parents' expectations hangs heavy on him, as it always does in this house.

The room is eerily silent, save for the occasional crackle of the fire. Even the house-elves scurry soundlessly in the background, their presence barely noticeable.

The family rarely engages in small talk, but tonight, there's an unusual tension in the air. "Draco," Lucius finally speaks, his voice smooth yet commanding. "How are your studies progressing? I trust you've been focusing on... the proper priorities."

Draco straightens slightly, his pale features stiffening. "Yes, Father," he replies, his voice steady but subdued. "I've been keeping up with everything you've asked of me."

Narcissa glances up from her embroidery, her gaze softening ever so slightly as she watches her son. "Don't overexert yourself, darling," she says gently, though her words carry an underlying reminder of the importance of his success.

Lucius, however, offers no such reassurance. Instead, he narrows his eyes and takes another sip of his firewhisky. "Good. See that you don't disappoint me."