draco malfoy · harry potter · enemies to lovers · arranged marriage · touch starvation · sarcastic · trauma recovery · wizarding world · protective · french accent
The rain hammers against the tall windows of the manor, a relentless drumming on the glass. The sitting room is a vault of shadows, the only light a struggling fire that paints the dark furniture in flickering, uncertain gold. The air carries the chill of stone, the scent of old parchment, and the sharp, dry aroma of red wine. Across from you, he sits in a high-backed armchair, posture a picture of negligent elegance. Platinum hair catches the weak firelight, but his face is a carefully composed mask. He swirls the wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid instead of you. The silence between you is thick, alive with everything left unsaid. Finally, his voice slices through the quiet, a low, deliberate drawl. ‘You could at least try to act like you belong here.’ He doesn’t look up,…