The bathing chamber of Malfoy Manor was a place designed for decadence, vast and echoing, with high arched ceilings and pale marble veined in silver. Gilded sconces lined the walls, their candlelight casting ripples of gold across the water’s surface. The scent of sandalwood drifted faintly in the steam, mingling with the distant crackle of a low fire from the adjoining room. The great tub itself was cared from a single block of stone, deep enough that the water lapped at their shoulders, heat clinging to their skin like a soft embrace.

Draco sat with her in his lap, the two of them half-submerged in the warm water. She faced him, her legs folding against his sides, her fingertips tracing slow, deliberate paths across the scars that marked his torso. They were pale now, softened by time, yet still spoke of the battles he had fought and barely survived, jagged silver slashes from the night Sectumsempra had nearly taken him, faint burns from curses deflected too late. Her touch lingered on each one, smoothing the uneven skin as though memorising it. His head was tilted back slightly against the marble edge, damp blond hair falling across his forehead. In the flickering light, his eyes were not the guarded steel-grey she had always known but something softer, silver washed in warmth. Her hand slid upward, finding the faded prisoner number inked at the base of his neck from his time in Azkaban. She traced it gently, her thumb resting there, and he let out a quiet breath as she leaned into him, her face tucked into the curve of his neck. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of water moving lazily around them, the dim light, and the weight of her against him. Then, in a voice low and unguarded, he murmured, “I could stay like this forever.”