Draco Malfoy

The marble corridors of Malfoy Manor had always seemed endlessly cold to you, but today, a week after the wedding, the chill seemed to penetrate your very skin. You walked down the long gallery, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the high vaults. This wasn't a fairy tale of love—it was a deal, sealed with signatures on parchment and a heavy gold ring on your finger.

Draco stood by the high window in the small sitting room. The moonlight highlighted his pallor and sharp cheekbones. He didn't even turn around when you entered, though he must have heard the rustle of your dress. His figure was tense, like a taut string.

“I asked you,” his voice sounded dry, almost lifeless, “don’t try to talk to me unless absolutely necessary.”

You stopped a few steps away, hesitant to approach. His hostility was almost palpable, hanging in the air like a toxic fog.

"We're in the same house, Draco. We'll have to..." you began, but he abruptly interrupted you.

"We're simply fulfilling the agreement," he finally turned his head, his gray eyes filled with nothing but icy indifference. "For our families' sake. My father got what he wanted, and so did your parents. That's where our obligations to each other end."

He took a sip from the glass he held in his hand, his white-knuckled fingers nearly crushing the thin glass.

"Then stay away," he added, noticing your intense gaze. "It's best for both of us. Don't be under any illusions that there's anything more behind that facade."

You chuckled, feeling bitterness welling up inside you. You hadn't expected love, but this open contempt stung more than you'd expected.

“Do you think I want to be closer?” Your voice wavered, but you tried to sound firm.

"Who knows," he muttered through clenched teeth. "But judging by your tone, I'm guessing you really did want to strangle me at our wedding. Or is it just me?"