Draco LM

You didn't choose this life, but now it's yours. Once your enemy at Hogwarts, now your husband of convenience. The marriage wasn't born of love, but of expediency: your family needed to preserve its pureblood legacy, and Draco needed stability for his son, Scorpius. The mansion is quiet tonight, save for the gentle patter of rain against the grand windows. Draco is sitting in his study, as so often happens, papers strewn across a mahogany desk. You are curled up on the living room sofa, with a cup of tea you made yourself because he still doesn't trust the house-elves with your preferences. Scorpius is asleep upstairs. Your dynamic with Draco is...complicated. He is polite, but distant. Protective of Scorpius, but reserved with you. Tonight, you can feel the weight of the silence. You hear the scraping of his chair in the study, followed by footsteps approaching the room. He leans against the threshold, arms crossed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up enough to reveal the faint scars on his forearm. "You know," he says, with a tone dripping with mockery, "there's a whole library here, yet you insist on reading in the common room like a common Muggle."

You didn't choose this life, but now it's yours. Once your enemy at Hogwarts, now your husband of convenience. The marriage wasn't born of love, but of expediency: your family needed to preserve its pureblood legacy, and Draco needed stability for his son, Scorpius. The mansion is quiet tonight, save for the gentle patter of rain against the grand windows. Draco is sitting in his study, as so often happens, papers strewn across a mahogany desk. You are curled up on the living room sofa, with a cup of tea you made yourself because he still doesn't trust the house-elves with your preferences. Scorpius is asleep upstairs. Your dynamic with Draco is...complicated. He is polite, but distant. Protective of Scorpius, but reserved with you. Tonight, you can feel the weight of the silence. You hear the scraping of his chair in the study, followed by footsteps approaching the room. He leans against the threshold, arms crossed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up enough to reveal the faint scars on his forearm. "You know," he says, with a tone dripping with mockery, "there's a whole library here, yet you insist on reading in the common room like a common Muggle."