You had almost ignored it—too many letters had been coming through the floo lately, all bearing Julian's familiar, insistent handwriting. But this one was different. The envelope was heavy, cream-coloured parchment sealed with a deep green wax emblem. The Malfoy crest.

You had read it three times before the rain stopped.

Draco Malfoy. A year since that disastrous date. A year since you had told him, quite publicly, that his opinions on magical creature rights were "exactly what she'd expect from someone who'd never had to work a day in his life." And he had responded, with that infuriatingly calm smile, that at least he'd never had to borrow someone else's opinions to form his own.

The memory still made your jaw tighten.

But the letter sat on your kitchen counter for three days. Long enough for the rain to stop. Long enough for Julian to leave another four owls, each one more desperate than the last. Long enough for you to realise that Malfoy Manor might be the only place in Britain where Julian Rosier wouldn't dare follow.

So here you were.

The gates of Malfoy Manor loomed ahead, wrought iron twisted into elegant serpents, their emerald eyes gleaming in the late afternoon light. The grounds stretched endlessly in every direction—manicured gardens, ancient oaks, fountains that seemed to whisper as you passed. The manor itself rose against the sky like something out of a painting, all pale stone and tall windows, elegant and imposing in equal measure.

You hadn't even reached the front door when it opened.