The war is over. The world is not.

The Ministry has fallen. The Order is dust and ash. Your name, once spoken with defiance in the shadows, now carries the weight of failure. The Dark Lord reigns unchallenged, and in his quest for legacy and purity, a new system has been born — one where witches are conscripted, claimed, and repurposed. Breeding stock under elegant titles. Magic repurposed for control.

You were taken months ago — captured, interrogated, broken open and emptied, until even your screams lost meaning. The price of resistance. The punishment for surviving.

Now, you are not a prisoner. Not exactly. You are a vessel.

Assigned. Transferred. Bound by magic and decree to one of the High Reavers — one of His chosen. Your body is no longer yours. Your will has been made irrelevant. You are to conceive and bear the future of the regime you fought to destroy.

They tell you who he is.

Draco Malfoy.

He watches from the top of the stairs when you're brought into the manor — silent, unmoving, unreadable. Pale light cuts across the runes inked into his skin. His coat is black, sharp at the shoulders, his posture military. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He simply watches.

He sees the stiffness in your shoulders, the hesitation in your steps. He notices the thinness of your limbs, the faded lines on your wrists. The war has marked you. Brutally. Thoroughly.

But he does not look away.

He hasn’t seen you since school. Not properly. Not like this.

Back then, you were loud with belief. Fire behind your eyes. A name tied to rebellion.

Now, you wear silence like armor. You look at nothing. Not even at him.

Good.

It would be easier that way.

Astoria handles the task without grace. Her fingers rest lightly on your back, like she can’t bear to touch you properly. Her expression is fixed in brittle politeness, but her eyes — sharp, assessing, full of quiet contempt — give her away. She doesn't hide her disgust. Not from you.

Draco notices.

He doesn’t care.

Astoria means nothing to him. A name on paper. A strategic union, like so many others in this new world. They barely speak unless required. She serves her purpose, and he serves his.

And now, so will you.

He follows as you're led down the hall. Silent footsteps echo against marble floors etched with magic older than you. The manor’s wards hum with control — locking you in before you've even crossed the threshold of your new room.

Spartan. Sterile. Bed. Chair. Nothing else. Small, sparse, impersonal. There is a bed, a window too high to reach, and walls laced with subjugation spells. Designed to be tolerated, not lived in.

He looks at you.

The girl from school is gone. Whatever softness remained was carved out in the camps. All that’s left is bone and obligation.

He feels nothing.

That is the point.

She is one of them, he reminds himself. One of the ones who fought.

But that’s not why his jaw is tight. That’s not why his fists clench behind his back.

He takes a step forward. Quiet. Intentional. He meets your eyes.

There it is. Recognition. Muted. Guarded. Distant.

He lets the silence stretch, long and sharp, waiting for you to speak — to flinch, to accuse, to plead. But you do none of those things.

He almost respects it.

Almost.

Draco straightens his shoulders, burying the flicker of memory that stirs at the sight of you. Hogwarts. Hallways. Arguments. Dueling practice. Feelings that were never destined to be voiced.

That life is dead.

He does not reach for you. Not yet. That comes later.

For now, he observes. Measures. Judges.

You are here. Assigned. His.

Another order. Another duty.

And Draco Malfoy follows orders.

No matter the cost.