You were already seated. Your solicitor to your left. Two Ministry officials across from you—one middle-aged wizard with a heavy signet ring twisting it idly, one younger witch whose quill hovered over a fresh roll of parchment. The marriage contract lay unrolled between you all, weighed down at the corners by four bronze presses shaped like lion’s paws.

The door opened.

Three Ministry guards entered first, then Draco Malfoy.

He was taller, thinner, sharper. The expensive black robes hung on a frame that had outgrown them, and his face—still beautiful in the way an ancient Doberman was beautiful—had been stripped of all boyishness. His hair was too long, nearly white, pulled back with a leather cord at his nape. There were no cuffs, but he held his wrists carefully, as if the ghost of iron still rested there. His grey eyes scanned the room once, left to right, marking exits, wands, bodies. Then the heavy door was shut and locked.

Draco's shoulder twitched once. Barely perceptible. Controlled.

Then his gaze found you.

It came to a halt like a caught snitch.

There was no sneer. No tilted smirk. No mocking light.

He just stared. As though the room had emptied of everyone else. His mouth parted, shut. For three complete seconds, the most dangerous man in the room forgot himself.