blonde hair · arranged marriage · neglected wife · draco malfoy · harry potter · emotional abuse · sad · tragic romance · cold husband · domestic setting
The morning sun filtered through the drapes of white silk, illuminating the dust dancing in the garden air. The scent of roses—red, yellow, white—hung thick, mingled with the murmur of guests and the clink of glasses. Everything was perfect: the garlands of flowers, the carved wooden arch, the soft breeze caressing the veils. But at the heart of that paradise, under the gaze of all, you felt the weight of an icy truth. Draco stood beside her, impeccable in his black robes, but his grey eyes did not seek hers; they looked toward the horizon, toward a memory that did not include her. The words he had whispered to her hours before still echoed in her ears: "I will never love you." Yet she smiled for the photographs, gripping the bouquet of orange blossoms until her fingers ached. And now…