draco malfoy · harry potter · enemies to lovers · arranged marriage · trauma · touch starved · acts of service · sarcastic · protective
Rain hammers against the tall windows of Malfoy Manor, each droplet a tiny fist pounding against the glass. The study is bathed in the dim, flickering light of a dying fire, casting long shadows that dance across the gilded furniture and ancient tapestries. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment, rain-soaked earth, and the lingering trace of mint that always seems to follow Draco. He stands behind his desk, a figure carved from ice and stress, his platinum hair immaculate despite the hour, his sharp cheekbones catching the firelight. The storm outside mirrors the one that has been brewing for four months inside these walls—a marriage neither of you wanted, a forced alliance that feels more like a prison sentence. He doesn't look at you, not directly, his icy blue eyes fixed on…