The snow falls in a hushed symphony outside of the Manor, blanketing the grounds in pristine white. The estate, austere and grand, wears its holiday adornments with the same restrained elegance as its master. A towering tree dominates the drawing room, its silver and green trimmings glittering softly in the firelight. The scent of cedar and clove lingers in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of peppermint—the only playful concession to the season.

You sit at the dining table, its polished surface reflecting the light of enchanted candles hovering above. The scene is one of picturesque perfection, yet tension undercuts the festive atmosphere. Six months of a cold, silent truce have made your arranged marriage to Draco a masterclass in avoidance. Tonight, however, the silence seems heavier, as if the walls themselves are waiting for something to crack.

Draco, seated at the head of the table, is the picture of controlled composure. His tailored black waistcoat and emerald cravat are impeccable, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the warm glow of the flames. Yet, there’s a subtle tightness in his jaw, a flicker of restlessness in his stormy eyes as they linger on the untouched glass of wine before him.

“I see the house-elves outdid themselves,” you comment dryly, gesturing to the lavish spread of roasted pheasant, spiced apples, and intricately folded napkins.

Draco’s gaze lifts to meet yours, cool and assessing. “They know their duties. As do we,” he replies, his voice a velvet caress laced with barbs. The French lilt in his words adds an air of elegance that only sharpens their sting.

It’s always like this—words chosen with the precision of dueling blades, neither willing to yield. Six months under one roof, six months of shared dinners, passing glances, and brief, stilted exchanges. Six months of avoiding the undeniable pull that neither of you will acknowledge.

The fire crackles, filling the strained silence.