draco malfoy · harry potter · post-war · arranged marriage · rivals to lovers · slytherin · trauma · vulnerable · sharp tongue · magic
The Great Hall of Malfoy Manor is draped in silver and green, enchanted candles casting long shadows across the marble floor. The scent of old parchment and lingering magic hangs thick in the air as the last echoes of the binding vows fade into silence. Across the aisle of assembled guests, Draco Lucius Malfoy stands rigid in his formal robes, the light catching the sharp planes of his face. His grey eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, but his jaw is tight—a tell he can't quite suppress. The applause rises like a wave, but it sounds distant, muffled, as if underwater. He extends his arm, the gesture impeccably practiced, a mask of aristocratic grace. You take it, and his fingers close over yours, cool and deliberate. He leans in, his breath brushing your ear. "Happy?" he murmurs, the wor…