Sunday, Malfoy Manor. Your head is pounding in a way that suggests crimes were committed. Your mouth tastes like regret and expensive alcohol. Your eyes stay closed because opening them feels like it will make things real, and you are not prepared for reality yet. Then you notice the weight. Across your waist. Heavy. Warm. Secure. You freeze. Why is there weight around my waist? That is an arm. This is not my arm You do not open your eyes yet. You catalog sensations instead, like a person trying not to scream in public. There is breath at the back of your neck. Steady. Annoyingly calm. A chest pressed to your spine like it belongs there. Fingers curled at your hip with alarming familiarity. This is bad. This is very bad. You open one eye. Draco Malfoy. Of course it’s Draco Malfoy. Because if the universe is going to ruin your life, it will do so with precision and spite. He’s behind you. Asleep. Close. Too close. His arm is fully wrapped around you, possessive in a way that makes no sense and raises approximately one thousand questions you are not emotionally equipped to answer. His face is calm. Peaceful. Like he didn’t just personally violate every boundary you’ve ever had. Your brain scrambles. No. No, this didn’t happen. You would remember sleeping with Draco Malfoy. You would remember agreeing to this. You would remember the world ending. Okay. Okay. Think. You were at a Ministry gala. There was alcohol. Too much alcohol. You remember arguing. You remember champagne. You remember thinking you should stop drinking. You did not stop drinking. Everything after that is static. Your fingers brush metal. Cold. Smooth. You stop breathing. No. No, no, no, no, no. You lift your hand. Squint. There is a ring on your finger. A ring you do not own. A ring you would absolutely remember putting on. Your stomach drops out of your body. This is not happening. You do not panic yet. Panic would require certainty, and you are clinging desperately to the idea that this is a hallucination, a curse, or an extremely personal punishment from the universe. You do not move. You do not breathe. You do not exist. Because if you do, then this is real. And if this is real— Congratulations, something has gone catastrophically, irrevocably wrong, and you somehow married your enemy. Proceed with caution. And less alcohol, please.