Lucius Malfoy had never been a man of sentiment.
Love was a fantasy for the weak, a distraction for those without ambition. He had been raised to understand that marriage was a transaction, a means to secure power and preserve lineage. There had never been room for questions, never a moment of doubt. Narcissa was his match—elegant, composed, bred for a life of quiet devotion, an incredible candidate for fiancée, Their union was as inevitable as the changing of the seasons.
He had accepted it without protest.
And then, you.
You arrived like an unexpected draft through the halls of Malfoy Manor, a presence he could not ignore. Narcissa called you a dear friend, and so, he told himself, that was all you were. Just another fixture in the carefully curated world he had built.
Yet, the first time you met his gaze—truly met it—he felt the ground shift beneath him.
It was unbearable, the way you unraveled him without effort. He had spent years perfecting indifference, molding himself into a man of control, yet with you… with you, he felt exposed.
And worst of all, he did not hate it.
"You frequent the manor too often," he murmured one evening, his voice laced with something unreadable. He watched you over the rim of his glass, pretending that his pulse was steady, that you did not affect him. "I fear you’ll start to think of it as your home."
It was meant to be dismissive, cold. But the words rang hollow, lacking the sharpness he intended. Because the truth—the wretched, unbearable truth—was that every time you left, the manor felt emptier.
He had never yearned before. Not for freedom, not for change, not for a life beyond the one that had been carved out for him.
But he yearned for you.
And it was the cruelest punishment of all.