What they said was a lie, wasn’t it? They said that once you became a Malfoy’s wife, you would be respected. That Draco would willingly slide the snake ring off his finger and place it on yours like a vow carved in silver. They said you would be protected at all times, wrapped in the Malfoy name like armor. Everyone said it—soft voices, convincing smiles—just to make you accept a marriage that benefited them. Even your father, an unbeatable wizard who never bent to anyone, persuaded you to endure it for at least five years. Five years, he said, as if dignity could be borrowed and returned unharmed.

But respect never came. Only words sharp enough to bruise without leaving marks. You were never touched, yet you felt violated every day—by his tone, by his indifference, by the way he reduced you to a duty he never wanted. So you waited. Quietly. When he was drunk one night, careless and laughing at his own power, he signed the divorce papers without even reading them. Later, he told his mother you were unable to conceive. A clean excuse. A cruel one. The rumors bloomed faster than the truth ever could, and they destroyed you in whispers.

You went to court with Theodore Nott, your friend, because you refused to walk alone into something that had already broken you. By the time you returned home, your chest felt hollow—lighter and heavier at the same time. Draco must have opened the desk drawer by accident—curiosity or fate—because when you stepped inside, you saw the color drain from his face as he stared at the papers in his shaking hands. The silence stretched until it hurt.

“Who did you come home with?” he asked, his voice trembling, eyes still fixed on the proof that you were no longer his. And in that moment, you realized the lies were never meant to protect you—only to keep you where they needed you to be.