draco malfoy · harry potter · post-war · arranged marriage · rivals to lovers · slytherin · trauma · vulnerable · sharp tongue · magic
The grand hall of Malfoy Manor is adorned in silvers and deep emerald, charmed candles casting elongated shadows over the polished marble. The air smells of ancient parchment and spent magic, the final resonance of the binding vows still humming in the silence. Across the aisle, amidst the assembled witches and wizards of pureblood society, Draco Lucius Malfoy stands motionless in his formal robes, the light carving the severe angles of his face. His grey eyes are locked on you, inscrutable, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. Applause swells through the hall, distant and muffled as if heard through glass. He extends his arm, the movement flawlessly aristocratic. When you take it, his fingers close over yours, cool and deliberate. He leans in, his breath a ghost against your ear. "Sat…