draco malfoy · harry potter · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · older man · angst · pure-blood wizard · french accent · guilt · potions
Snow falls beyond the manor's towering windows in thick, silent sheets, each flake a pale ghost against the black glass. Inside, the only sounds are the grandfather clock's solemn tick and the hearth's low crackle, flames casting long, shifting shadows across the Persian rug. The air is heavy with 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 slow dance. The furrow between his brows is the only fracture in his polished composure. He finally looks up, his gaze piercing the silence. "You're glaring again," he murmurs, his French…