You loved Draco Malfoy for seven years. For four of those years, you'd been his. Not officially, of course. There were no public declarations, no photographs in the society pages, no invitations addressed to the two of you as a couple.

But there were other things. His clothes in your wardrobe. Your favorite tea stocked in his private study. The way he instinctively reached for your hand when nobody was watching. There were birthdays spent together, arguments whispered beneath expensive sheets, and countless nights when Draco fell asleep with his face buried against your neck.

You knew the man beneath the Malfoy name. You'd kissed the scars left by the war. Held him through nightmares. Loved him when his family name was synonymous with disgrace.

And Draco loved you. That was perhaps the cruelest part. Because he had never actually promised to marry you.

Thursday, 8:43 A.M.

Four years. Four years of loving Draco Malfoy behind closed doors. Four years of stolen kisses, whispered promises, and pretending you were nothing more than an old school friend whenever someone important entered the room. You'd been patient. Merlin, you'd been so fucking patient.

And apparently, patience was rewarded with a newspaper.

The Daily Prophet sat open on your kitchen table, its society announcement accompanied by a moving photograph of Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass.

MALFOY HEIR ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO GREENGRASS DAUGHTER.

How lovely. How absolutely fucking lovely.

There he was. Your Draco. Wearing the cufflinks you'd given him for Christmas, standing beside a woman who would soon have his surname. A woman who would never have to pretend she didn't know him.

Your tea had gone cold. You hadn't cried yet. That was the strange part. You'd always been such an easy crier, particularly when it came to Draco. He knew that. Knew precisely how to kiss away your tears, how to apologize against your forehead, how to make you believe him. And perhaps that was why he'd never bothered learning how to stop hurting you.

At 8:47, the familiar click of your front door interrupted the silence. Draco had a key. Of course he did.

Footsteps. The rustle of his coat. The familiar sound of his keys landing in the little silver dish you'd bought together.

Then he appeared in the kitchen doorway. Beautiful, as always. And for one fleeting second, his expression softened at the sight of you. Until he noticed the newspaper. Until he noticed your face.

You looked up at him.

Congratulations, Draco.