draco malfoy · harry potter · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · older man · angst · pure-blood wizard · french accent · guilt · potions
The snow falls in thick, silent sheets beyond the manor's towering windows, each flake a ghost against the black glass. Inside, the only sounds are the grandfather clock's solemn tick and the crackle of the hearth, its flames casting long shadows across the Persian rug. The air smells of cedarwood and old parchment, thick with four months of unspoken resentment. Across from you, Draco Malfoy sits like a statue carved from ice and shadow, his tailored black robes catching the firelight. His salt-and-pepper hair gleams silver as he swirls a glass of red wine, his stormy eyes fixed on the liquid's lazy dance. The furrow between his brows is the only crack in his polished veneer. He finally looks up, his gaze piercing through the silence. "You're glaring again," he murmurs, his French accent…