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Chapter Text

Emerald flames flicker and dance, casting an eerie glow on your face as you steop into the fireplace. "Ministry of Magic", you announce clearly. A streak of unfamiliar homes fly by as you catch snippets of conversations. But it only takes a couple of moments until you reach your destination and step out. You pull your watch from your coat pocket and glance at the time. You break into a half-jog rushing through the entrance hall. Five years at the Ministry, and you’ve learned to ignore its imposing grandeur—especially when you're late. Again.

"Hold the lift, please!" you call, voice breathless. 
A hand shoots out from inside, halting the doors just before they close. You step in, catching the eye of the person who'd kindly waited.
"Thank you, Mr Weasley!" you say, offering a polite smile. 
"No problem," he responds. 

You both settle into an awkward silence as the lift slowly makes it descent.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend, Mr. Weasley?”, you ask to fill the silence. Ugh, office small talk has never been your strong suit. You don't even know the man besides in passing and now you ask him about his personal life.

A light chuckle escapes him, and you're relieved.
"Yes, a couple," he answers warmly. "It's not long before the summer holidays, so Molly’s already thrilled to have the kids back home. She's already planning out every second of the break—there's always so much to do with a house full of Weasleys." He pauses for a beat, then adds, “And Charlie surprised us with a visit yesterday, you know?"

He goes on and you keep smiling and nodding but you can feel your blood rushing to your face.
 
"How is-" You open your mouth to ask more about Charlie, but before you can, the lift lurches, and it halts on a different floor. The doors open and a gust of interdepartmental memos whizzes in and out.  

A tall man with pale, silver-blond hair enters, his presence immediately freezing the atmosphere. Lucius Malfoy.

"Good morning, [y/n]," his voice is smooth and condescending, "Shouldn't you be sat at your desk by now?" He doesn't even glance at the other man as he adresses you. That snobbish prick!
 
You muster a tight smile. Your parents wouldn't let you hear the end of it if you acted impolied towards their dear friend. "Yes, sir. I'll stay longer tonight to make up for it." Not that it's any of his concern but you know better than to challenge him outright.

"Oh, don't worry," Lucius replies with a dismissive wave. "I was headet to Melchior anyway. He won't mind. Especially when I mention that you have a dinner party to attend this evening." 

Your stomach twists at the mention of the dinner party. You offer a strained smile.

The lift finally reaches your floor, and Lucius steps closer, his hand brushing the small of your back as he guides you out. You force yourself to remain composed, but the contact feels intrusive.

“Goodbye, Mr. Weasley!” you call over your shoulder.

"Goodbye, Miss Selwyn," he replies but his smile is not as genuinely as before. The lift doors close and you turn back to Lucius.

"You shouldn't talk to blood traitors," Lucius mutters under his breath, his voice low and disapproving.

You offer a meek, "Yes, sir," knowing any protest would be pointless. Staying silent fills you with a familiar ache. It's been too long since you rebelled.

*******************************************************

A few hours later, you glance at your watch—half past six. You curse softly. The day has gotten away from you, again. The windows should be offering an authentic view of the sky - just like the ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. But you and your colleagues have suspected for a while now that your boss must have hexed it in an attempt to make you work longer. You glance around; the office is almost empty only the last few stragglers - the ones who don't have a life outside of the Ministry - remaining.

You flick your wand, muttering the words to tidy the mess of papers scattered across your desk. The documents organise themselves in orderly stacks, your typewriter hops back into its case and all your miscellaneuous items fly into your bag. You sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the exist.

*******************************************************

When you step out the fireplace at home, your mother is already waiting for you. Her voice rings out, sharp and reprimanding.

"Where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is? The Malfoys will be here any minute!"

You try to escape the torrent of her words as she follows you up the stairs, all the while continuing to make a fuss.

"I want you to wear that dark blue dress with the heels you never touch. Get in the shower, and for Merlin's sake, do something with that hair. It looks a mess! And please, put on some make up before you come down!" Her words are relentless. 

"Yes, Mother," you mutter, the frustration bubbling beneath your skin. "But it's just the Malfoys. They've seen me a hundred times. What does it even matter?"

"Your looks reflect on all of us, so you’re going to make an effort," she snaps. "And Lysander will be with them," she adds, her voice now laced with something cold and calculating. It makes your stomach churn. "Now hurry. I’ll tell them you're too busy for cocktails. But you’re not getting out of this dinner."

Chapter Text

The air inside Selwyn House feels way too cool for late June. You walk down the stairs slowly and adjust the hem of your dress as you go. You can hear your mother’s voice from the drawing room. You hope she hasn't grown impatient yet waiting for your arrival. It’s the same routine every time you have dinner guests: a flawless appearance, the perfect smile, and an evening of polite small talk. You wish you could escape.

You check your appearance in the hallway mirror one last time. The dress fits, the makeup looks impeccable. Everything to your mother's exact expectations... You are nothing but an impostor.

You take a steadying breath and open the door to the drawing room.

The conversation stops the moment you enter. Your mother, ever the gracious host, crosses the room to greet you. “There you are, darling,” she says sweetly. “You look just lovely.”

You smile back at her in a reflex, nothing genuine about it. “Thank you, Mother,” you murmur. Her eyes are scanning you for any flaw, any imperfection. It’s exhausting and you probably will never get used to it.

Lysander is standing by the fire. He fits into this room too well — polished, elitist, and soulless. Nevertheless, his presence feels like an intrusion. You hadn’t expected him tonight. It was supposed to be just another dull gathering with only Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

You take another look at him. Time has changed his features. His platinum blond hair is longer now and swept back effortlessly. His sharp, aristocratic face hs become more striking with age. You haven't seen him since your school days. Although he had attended Durmstrang, you ran into each other occassionally during breaks.

Lysander glances up from his thoughts, offering you an unreadable smile. “[y/n], it’s been a while,” he says. His voice is deeper than it used to be.

You try your best to sound casual. “Yes. A few years.” The last time you saw him was at his graduation party seven summers back, a lavish affair at Malfoy manor. Your parents had insisted you attend, of course.

Lysander’s smile stays put, but something dark flickers in his eyes. He looks you over for a moment, his gaze lingering on you a bit longer than is comfortable. “You look well.”

You force yourself not to flinch. Something about the compliment doesn’t sit right with you. “Thank you,” you reply curtly, forcing yourself to smile-putting your mask back on.

Your mother swoops in, clearly eager to keep the conversation flowing. “Lysander has just returned to England for good,” she states.

You hadn’t thought he was coming back to stay. “I thought you had a successfull business in Bulgaria,” you admit.

“I did,” Lysander replies smoothly. “But I’ve decided to sell the company and settle down here. A homecoming of sorts, I suppose.”

His gaze flickers over you again. Everything about him feels calculating. You wonder about his motives. How much of his return is truly his choice?

Your mother doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it. “Why don’t you two catch up?” she suggests. “I’m sure there’s much to discuss while we're waiting for Chirpy to finish preparing dinner.” She sounds far too eager, as though pushing the two of you into a conversation is something you should both want.

Your mother leaves you standing there with Lysander. Neither of you says anything. Then Lysander steps closer, his tall frame towering over you. It makes you feel small and you have to force yourself not to recede.

"Are you still working for the Ministry?" he asks, his voice still calm and composed.

You nod, doing your best to appear casual, but it's hard to ignore the weight of his presence. "Yes. Still in the Department of Magical Tax Assessment." You trail off, not really sure what to say. Your job hardly matters — it's a means to an end, not a calling. The expectations of your family clashing with your actual passions.

Lysander studies you for a moment. “I’m sure you're doing a great job,” he says.

Before you can think of a response, Chirpy, your family's house elf, appears next to you. “Dinner is ready, Misstress Selwyn and Master Malfoy,” she announces in her high-pitched voice.

Lysander’s hand rests casually on the small of your back as he follows the elf and leads you toward the dining room. You stiffen at the touch, the unexpected proximity throwing you off balance.

The dining room feels far too formal. As you sit down, the heavy weight of the evening presses on you. The two older Malfoys are already deep in conversation with your parents, their voices filling the space with shallow pleasantries, but your mind keeps returning to Lysander. His presence feels like a reminder of everything your family expects from you.

When your eyes meet Lysander’s across the table, you feel anxiety rising in your body. There’s something about tonight that doesn’t feel right. As if there's something more to it than just a friendly reunion. And as the evening stretches on, you realize that you may not even want to know what that something is.

Chapter Text

A warm fire is burning at the far end of the dining room but it does little to chase away the chill in your bones. Your eyes are fixed on your plate, but the food remains mostly untouched. Dinner parties were never pleasant affairs for you but tonight issomething else entirely. Everything about it feels strange.

Lysander, sitting across from you, appears unaffected by your quiet demeanor. His sharp, unreadable features are getting more imposing by the minute. You should be used to him by now, yet your unease only keeps growing. Lysander's gaze occasionally flicks toward you, but there’s no warmth in it. There’s nothing in his gaze at all aside from the cold indifference you always find in people like him... people you've spent your whole life with and despise.

You shift in your seat, trying to concentrate on the polite murmurs of conversation around you. The evening unfolds before you and you nod and smile along. Only ever speaking when you're addressed directly, always keeping up the exterior of the perfect pure-blood daughter.

Dessert arrives, and for a moment, you allow yourself to focus on your mother’s story about the difficulty of finding reliable owls. It’s a harmless anecdote meant to keep the evening light. But just as you’re beginning to settle, your father’s voice cuts through the gentle chatter. His tone is serious and deliberate.

“Darling,” he begins, “there’s something we need to discuss.”

You freeze with your fork in midair. A cold sense of dread is pumping through your veins. Your father looks too controlled, and you can’t help but fear what he will say next.

Your mother’s smile doesn't falter as she refolds the napkin on her lap and turns toward you. Her amiable façade remains, but it’s more strained now. “Your father and I have been speaking with the Malfoys,” she says, her voice tight with formality. “After much thought, we’ve come to the decision to solidify our family’s union.”

Your heart starts beating faster and your mouth is getting dry. You try to make sense of her words. Without thinking, your gaze drifts across the table to Lysander. He’s watching you closely.

“What do you mean?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and too vulnerable, but you can’t help yourself. You already know, somewhere deep down, what’s coming. You just don’t want to believe it and the way your mother is looking at you makes the answer even more obvious.

Your father leans in slightly. “We’ve arranged for you to marry Lysander,” he states, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The words hit you like a spell, leaving you stunned for a moment. You glance at Lysander again, searching his face for anything that might suggest surprise. His unconcearned demenour makes your stomach twist. He already knew. And he seems content with the match.

You blink, trying to process his words. “What?” is the only thing you manage to say.

Your mother leans in, her voice too sweet. “Darling, you’ve always known that family decisions would shape your future, and we believe this match will be beneficial for all of us.” She smiles without warmth. It's the practiced mask she wears when she’s delivering news she knows will be met with your resistance.

“Beneficial?” The word feels like a foreign concept on your tongue. You look at Lysander again. “But...”

Lucius Malfoy speaks now, his voice low and firm. He possesses the undeniable authority of a man who knows he holds all the power in the room. “This is more than just a practical arrangement,” he says. “This marriage is about securing the future of both of our families. The Malfoys have always been at the top of the magical world, and this union ensures that position.”

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat remains. The walls around you feel like they’re closing in on you. You knew your life would forever be dictated by your family's decisions, but you never imagined it would come to something this drastic. You knew arranged marriages were not uncommon among families like yours. But all your school friends had married for love—suitable pure-blood matches, of course, but for love nonetheless. The idea of being bound to a man like Lysander Malfoy feels suffocating. The son of a former Death Eater. A man who you've hardly exchanged more than a few sentences with. His family, his legacy, his pride... Everything in you rebels against him.

Lysander’s controlled voice cuts through your thoughts. “This is what’s best for both of us,” he pronounces his words slowly and deliberate like he’s speaking to a child. “It's what's best for our families and for our future. There’s no need for reluctance.”

You force yourself to look at him although every fiber of your being screams to look away. You can see it in his eyes. He’s already claimed this future for himself, for both of you, as though your opinion doesn’t matter. And in a way, it doesn’t. This is what being a pure-blooded witch comes down to.

“No,” you hear yourself say. It comes out as a a whisper but it's a rebellion, nonetheless. “I won’t marry him.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and the room seems to freeze for a moment. You know you will punished for your objection later.

Your father’s expression hardens almost unnoticably, and you see the flicker of anger behind his eyes. “The decision stands,” he states, his voice low and final. “It's not up for discussion.”

Lucius Malfoy’s smiles at you coldly as he adds, “This marriage is about securing our legacies. It’s what’s best for both families. You will see that in time.”

You open your mouth to protest again, to say something. Anything. But the words don’t come. You want to scream or run, but you know it’s pointless.  You’re trapped in this world of expectation, where choices are not yours to make. The Malfoys, your parents—they have mapped out everything for you.

And as you look at Lysander once more, sitting there with that cold look in his eyes, you surrender. He’s welcoming this marriage. Everyone is. They are all far too accustomed to power and control, and you, caught in the middle, are nothing more than another piece on their chessboard. Your heart sinks. Your life is no longer yours to control.

Chapter Text

You sit in silence, the minutes stretching into what feels like hours. Chirpy has cleared the table, the last remnants of dessert now gone.

The revelation lingers in the room like a low hum, relentless and unyielding. The parents wear their polite smiles once more, carefully choosing their words. Small talk to keep up appearances.

Your gaze drifts across the table to Lysander. He, too, remained mostly silent since they broke the news to you, but his stare never leave you. His presence feels far too overwhelming.

When your parents finally rise, you feel relief wash over you. You, too, rise quickly, eager to leave this suffocating atmosphere behind. But before you can make even a step towards your mother, her voice carries through the room, as she addresses the older Malfoys.

“Well, I think we’ll leave the children to a moment in private,” she says with that practised smile. Her eyes flicker to yours briefly, a silent reminder to behave.

Lucius Malfoy gives a nod of agreement. “Indeed. We’ll discuss the details of the nuptials next week, [y/n],” he states and exits the dining room, his wife following closely behind him.

“Goodnight, Lysander,” your mother says, her voice amicable. She turns to follow your father.

Now, it’s just you and your new fiancé. The silence between you is thick and uncomfortable. All you want is to escape. Yet, you remain rooted to the spot.

Lysander's eyes stay fixed on you, unblinking for a couple of heartbeats. Slowly, deliberately, he stands and approaches you. Every step is filled with quiet confidence. You, in turn, take a few steps back, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he doesn’t care.

“You know,” he starts. His voice is smooth like velvet, but it has a cold undertone that makes your skin crawl. “There’s no use pretending you won’t see things my way eventually. I’m usually not a patient person, but I’ll give you time to come to terms with the situation.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. If you speak you’re afraid you might cry. Instead you watch as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box.

Your breath catches in your throat as he opens it and reveals an engagement ring. It’s a delicate band of silver with a deep emerald in its centre. The stone glints in the candlelight.

“I know you’re not happy about this yet,” Lysander continues. “But you will be in time. I know that.”

You can't think of a response. But he’s already taking the ring from the box. He lifts your left hand and slides the band onto your ring finger. The metal feels like an anchor. It binds you to a life you would never choose freely. The ring fits perfectly, though.

“You’re mine now,” he states in a low and possessive voice. And before you can process what’s happening, Lysander leans in. His kiss is forceful, too hard and too insistent. His lips claim yours, but there's no feeling behind his actions. The kiss is nothing but a statement of the power he now holds over you. His grips the back of your neck and presses you close to him, deepening the kiss.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are darker. With a satisfied smile he straightens up.

“We’ll meet again next Friday to finalise the contract,” he says. “To ensure everything goes smoothly. I’ll be waiting.”

Your chest tightens, and all you want is to escape. But where would you run? Your friends surely wouldn't understand...

Lysander touches your cheek with cold fingers and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He gives you one last glance, his eyes somewhat softer now. Then he turns and walks toward the door.

You simply stand there, frozen in place. The bitter taste of his kiss and his words still linger when your parents return to the dining room. They don’t say a word, but you can feel their eyes boring into you.

Your father stands still, his expression stony. The silence drags on, and your mother’s disapproving frown deepens.

“Your behaviour tonight was shameful”, your father growls. “Do you think you can get away with disrespecting us? And not just us, but the Malfoys as well? Does your linage mean nothing to you?”

Your throat tightens, your words stifled by the weight of his anger. You’ve argued with your parents before about how you don’t care about bloodlines, how you find the whole thing revolting, that you aren’t better than other witches and wizards simply for being pure bloods. But tonight—tonight there is no space for rebellion. You remain silent, knowing that anything you say will be met with further scorn.

Your mother speaks next, her voice tinged with fury. “You have no right to act like this. This is a matter of family honour. You will marry Lysander, and you will do it without any more protest.” Her words hit you like a slap, a stark contrast to the friendly tone she used on her guests earlier.

“You will learn to accept your fate,” your father spits. “And you will behave accordingly. Or there will be consequences.”

The threat hangs in the air, as your parents turn to leave.

Chapter Text

The days since the engagement have passed in a blur. You’ve gone to work as though nothing has changed, hiding behind the distraction of daily tasks. At the Ministry, it’s almost easy to forget about the inevitable meeting at Malfoy Manor and the marriage contract hanging over you. But today is Friday again—the day your families have set aside to finalize the marriage contract with Lysander Malfoy.

As you stand in the foyer of Selwyn House, your anxiety keeps building and building. Your parents are already dressed in their finest robes, prepared for the meeting. You chose your favourite summer dress in a silent rebellion against your culture. But it goes unnoticed even by your mother. The three of you look like old money and pure bloodlines. It makes you sick.

Your parents decided that it would be best to Apparate to Malfoy Manor. So, after a final warning to “behave yourself” tonight, you find yourself already standing in the lavish entrance hall of the Malfoy estate. You haven't been here in years but you remember the cold marble floors and towering walls adorned with the haunting portraits of ancestors long gone. Everything about the house radiates power. It already feels like a gilded cage.

A house elf greets you but it’s not the little creature you used to know.

“Where's Dobby?” you blurt out.

“Don’t let Master hear you,” the elf responds in a whisper. She looks around nervously, checking that none of the Mafloys heard her. You exchange a quick glance with your parents before following the house elf through the endless, silent halls. The Malfoys are already waiting in the music room.

Lucius Malfoy has a hand on the mantlepiece, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the room. He certainly chose that pose for effect. Narcissa sits in an armchair. Her face is an expressionless mask and her posture is perfect as always. Lysander leans casually against a grand piano. His eyes immediately lock with yours as you enter.

Your breath hitches, and for a second, the room feels smaller. Before you can think to look away, Lysander is already moving toward you. His movements are measured and confident like he’s always in control.

“Welcome to the Manor,” he says quietly with a chill in his voice.

He touches your face, cold fingers brushing against your skin. Without warning, he tips your chin up and leans down, kissing you almost chastely. His icy and dominating taste lingers on your lips after he pulls back.

Your heart races and you try to regain your composure. Lysander steps back and gestures toward a table where the marriage contract is already laid out. The parchment glows as if it’s waiting for you to sign your future away.

“We have much to discuss,” he says in a calm voice but with an unmistakable undertone of authority.

You sit, your thoughts spinning. You don’t know the specifics of the contract yet, but a sense of forboding has kept you up the last view nights.

“The marriage will be formalized by the end of next month, on July 31” Lucius Malfoy begins his voice cold and methodical. “There will be a private ceremony, held here at Malfoy Manor, of course, with our families and friends in attendance. Narcissa will ensure everything is done properly. The engagement announcement will be printed in Monday's Daily Prophet. The invitations will be sent out on the same day.”

You force yourself to focus, but every fiber of you is yearning to run. As if he read your mind Lysander puts a hand on your thigh, keeping you put.

“The specifics of your marriage are simple,” Lucius continues, his gaze never leaving the parchmet. “You, [y/n], will join the Malfoy family registry immediately after the wedding. You will, of course, be expected to uphold the dignity of the Malfoy name and support your husband in all matters. The purpose of this union is to produce heirs to the Malfoy name, naturally.”

The words are diplomatic, but feel cruel. You weren’t stupid. You knew what this was all for. But hearing it spoken aloud-hearing it so coldly stated- feels like a slap in the face.

Lysander squeezes your thigh. You try to push him away but he only tightens his grip. Lucius continues to recite the conditions of the marriage contract, oblivious to  your scuffle. "Lysander is to receive 18,000 galleons on the day of the wedding. [y/n]'s dowry will be 27,500 galleons. You are not allowed to have extramarital affairs." And so forth. The real weight of the conversation only hits you when Lucius mentions the finer details of the agreement.

“After the wedding,” he continues, “you will both live here at Malfoy Manor. Your duties, [y/n], will be to manage the household, maintain the family estate, and—most importantly—ensure the well-being of the family. This means, of course, that you will leave your position at the Ministry.”

You freeze. “But… I worked hard for this position,” you protest, your voice small, weak. “I can’t just give it up!” No matter how unfulfilling your job is, you like the independence it provides for you.

Lysander’s gaze turns toward you, his eyes sharp. “I require a wife who is fully committed to the family, [y/n]. A position at the Ministry doesn’t suit that role. Surely you understand that. Do you know any respectable pure-blood wizard who would let his wife work like a commoner?”

His words feel like a punch to your gut. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You force yourself to remain still by gripping the arms of your chair.

“Please,” you entreat, your voice breaking. “I’m okay with everything else... Please, just don’t take my job away from me.”

Lucius shakes his head patronizingly. “Your work at the Ministry has been valuable, I’m sure,” he says mockingly. “But what’s far more valuable is securing the legacy of two powerful families. The pure-blood line always comes first.”

Everything is slipping further out of control. But you say nothing more, the tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill. You desperately try to stifle them.

After a few more details like time frames, floral arrangements, guest lists and wedding registries have been discussed, Lucius nods once, satisfied. “Let’s finalise the contract then,” he says with a quick wave of his hand, as though this is all just a formality.

Lucius pushes the contract to Lysander and hands him a quill. You wonder why there's no ink but when Lysander signs the contract with a flourish, his signature stands out in shining red. Simultaneously, the letters appear on his right hand. You let out a gasp but Lysander just passes both to you. Your hand shakes as you hold the quill. You drop it once, but ultimately steady your hand and sign your name beneath his. You can only feel the scratch for a moment before the skin heals over again. Lucius flicks his wand. The parchment rolls itself up, the Malfoy seal securing it.

It feels like the walls are closing in on you. Lucius clears his throat and it feels like a weight has been lifted off everyone’s shoulders. Everyone's except yours. “Narcissa and I will ensure everything is in place for the wedding. All you have to do, [y/n], is find a wedding dress and look the part,” Lucius says nonchalantly.

“Yes, of course, sir,” you whisper. The words taste like ash.

Lysander smirks as he moves closer, his arm moving from your thigh around your waist. The gesture should be intimate, but it only comes off as possessive. “Let’s spend a moment in private.”

He leads you out of the room, his touch like a brand on your skin. The evening air is cool as you step into the garden. You can see a couple of white peacocks strutting along the hedges.

Lysander's hand rests lightly on the small of your back as he guides you toward a gazebo. He gestures for you to sit. He takes your hand in his and twists your engagement ring between his fingers, studying it with an almost detached interest.

“It’s enchanted so that it always fits perfectly,” he says in a casual tone. He sounds almost kind.

“Yeah, I figured,” you reply, your voice flat. “And it’s hexed so the wearer can’t take it off.”

His expression tightens, his cold demeanour returning in an instant. “Yes. That, too,” he says in a low voice. “You’re mine, the ring is a mere reminder for that.”

Without warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward him. In a second his lips are on yours again. The kiss is rough and possessive. His dominance is making you feel trapped. You try to pull away, but there's no escape. His kiss deepens, and despite yourself, you feel your resolve crumble a bit.

When he finally lets you go, you are breathless. You can feel a deep blush crawling up your neck and cheeks. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence between you thickens with every heartbeat. Then Lysander stands, taking your hand as though nothing happened and leads you back to the Manor remaining quiet on the whole walk back.

When you re-enter the music room, you can feel the mood shift. You know everyone must sense what has just happened between you and Lysander. Your face heats up again in an instance.

Luckily, your parents offer polite goodbyes a moment later. You follow their lead, shake hands with your hosts and exchange hollow pleasantries.

****************************************

Once you're back at Selwyn House, the tension is unbearable. Your parents' rage radiates from them, all pleasantries forgotten once you have left Malfoy Manor behind.

You should have known that your protest of not wanting to quit your job would be met with anger by your parents. Your father's hand collides with your cheek. The sharp slap catches you off guard. Tears blur your vision and you stand frozen. Your heart hammers in your chest.

“Do not think you can continue to act like this,” your father growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You are making a mockery of everything we’ve worked for. The Malfoys do not tolerate disrespect. And neither do we.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow, her lips pressed into a thin line. “This contract is not up for debate. You will honour it. You will resign from your job at the Ministry. End of discussion.”

You stand there in silence, the weight of their words pressing down on you, leaving your whole body shaking with fury.

Chapter Text

Saturday and Sunday pass you by in a haze. You don’t do much besides sleeping until noon, eating breakfast, then returning to bed until dinner, where you eat with your parents. Your mother has arranged for you to go to Madame Malkin’s Wednesday morning, where she and Narcissa Malfoy will accompany you. Graciously, she is fine with you bringing along your best friend from Hogwarts, Isidora Fawcett. You had scribbled her a brief note about the engagement, promising to explain more when you meet.

On Monday morning, the soft daylight sneaks through the curtains, yet you only feel like the beautiful weather is mocking you. Your days at the Ministry of Magic are numbered and the Daily Prophet will publish the engagement announcement today. Every witch and wizard at the Ministry will be reading about your betrothal to Lysander Malfoy. The thought of stepping foot into the Ministry today fills you with anxiety. For the past few years, the Ministry has been a place where you’ve managed to maintain a semblance of independence—a place where even your parents’ influence was limited. Already, you can feel it all slipping away.

You lie in bed for a few more minutes, trying to banish the dread of the looming wedding out of your head. Still, the events of the last couple of days feel like a bad dream - like they belong to someone else’s life or in other timeline. Yet here you are, tethered to a fate you never wanted.

After another moment of self-pity, you sit up. You dress carefully, your usual Ministry robes feeling more like a suit of armour today, trying to hold your composure in a world that feels more fragile than ever. The faint weight of your engagement ring seems to anchor you, a cold reminder of everything that’s been thrust upon you. On a whim, you decide to skip breakfast. You don’t want to see your parents, and you certainly don’t want them showing you the morning paper. 

**********************************************************

As you make your way through the Ministry, every footstep seems to echo louder, the gigantic halls seem more crowded, and every witch and wizard you pass seems to have their eyes on you. You imagine them glancing at your left hand, their eyes landing briefly on the ring, then judging you silently. Whispers follow you down the halls.

“Did you read the Daily Prophet this morning? [y/n] Selwyn is engaged to Lysander Malfoy... A Malfoy! I guess that's pure-bloods for you… Blood comes before morality, I guess.”

You try to ignore the comments but you can’t help but feel relieved when you finally reach your department. Alas, you don’t even make it to your desk before you’re stopped by Celestia, one of your colleagues.

“Congratulations, [y/n]!” she exclaims with a wide grin, her eyes flicking down to your ring. Her tone is almost too cheery, as if she’s trying to hide criticism between her sweet words. “A Selwyn and a Malfoy. That’s quite the match, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” you reply, forcing the words out despite the lump in your throat. “It all came very sudden.”

“Oh, of course! Your parents must be thrilled. Two of the most ancient families in the country uniting. People will be talking about this for years.”

You smile weakly, trying not to think about the weight of those words. Everybody will think you’re just another fanatic pure-blood looking down on muggle-borns… You clear your throat and mutter, “I need to finish a task from last week, Celestia. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Finally, you reach your desk hoping to find some solace in the monotony of your work. You sit down and try to focus, but your colleagues' reactions to the engagement weigh heavily on you. The office is buzzing, everyone talking in hushed tones, each conversation laden with curiosity about you, your marriage to Lysander Malfoy, and his family's reputation.

A knock on your desktop startles you. You look up, and there stands Melchior, your boss. He’s a tall wizard, sharp-eyed with a quiet kind of authority. He's been the one to mentor you in the ways of the Ministry. You’ve always admired him, how he clearly had found his calling in Magical Tax Assessment. If you’re being honest, you envy him for it.

“Good morning,” you murmur.

He gestures to his office that is located at the end of the corridor. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea, love?”

You follow him feeling everbody's eyes fixed on your back. Once you're both inside, Melchior's usual confident demeanor is replaced by something softer. His gaze flicks briefly to the engagement ring on your finger before he looks away, as though he's searching for something to say.

“Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” he says in a subdued voice. “The announcement in the Daily Prophet was... striking.”

“Thank you. Though I haven’t seen it yet, sir,” you reply with a smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “I’m not sure what to make of all the attention.”

Melchior sits down behind his desk. “I’ve been thinking about your position here,” he continues, his tone now gentler, “If you need a few days to process everything... well, we can manage. I understand that your circumstances have changed.”

You force yourself to smile even wider. “I’m fine,” you lie. But the words sound thin, even to your own ears. You hesitate before continuing, knowing what you have to do. “But... I have to hand in my resignation. I’ll leave my position once I’m married.”

It’s even harder to say than you imagined. You want to tell him that it’s not your decision. Tell him that your life and your future are no longer in your hands. But instead, you put on a mask of utter satisfaction.

Melchior’s brows furrow in surprise. “Resign? From the Ministry?”

You nod. You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes. With marriage come new responsibilities I want to honour.”

His expression softens. “You’ve been a valuable member of this department, [y/n]. I know... if you do not mind me being frank... you were never passionate about your job. But I won’t pretend I’m not surprised by this. However, if you’re certain...”

“I am.” The words come out with more finality than you expected. Every lie comes out easier than the one before. “I’ve thought about it, and this is what I want. It’s what is right. But, of course, I will leave everything in order so that my successor can pick up right where I left off.”

Melchior remains silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he nods. “I understand this is what you need to do. But know this, [y/n]—if you ever want to return, there’s always a place for you here.”

You smile. His genuine offer fills you with warmth. “Thank you, Melchior. I’ll never forget what you’ve taught me and how much you’ve helped me here.”

You shake his outstretched hand and leave before you can change your mind.

Chapter Text

Time passes mercilessly, and before you know it, it’s Wednesday morning. There's a soft knock at your door. Without waiting for an answer, your mother steps inside your bedroom, balancing a tray piled with food. It's a gesture you don’t often see.

“Good morning, love”, she greets, her tone sweeter than usual. “I thought we could celebrate your big day with breakfast in bed.”

Your appointment at Madame Malkin’s is set for 9 a.m., so you took the morning off work.

“Thank you, Mother”, you murmur taking a croissant, though you don’t have the energy to play along with her charade. The idea of marrying Lysander Malfoy still fills you with dread, and you won’t pretend otherwise just to keep up appearances.

Your mother doesn’t falter, unfazed by your quiet resistance. “Narcissa will meet us at the shop. Isidora, too, I assume?”

You nod, sipping your coffee, the bitterness a welcome distraction. “I haven’t told Isi about the circumstances of the wedding arrangements yet…”

Without warning, your mother reaches out and pinches your cheeks together. Her grip is so tight it hurts.

“When will you stop acting like a spoiled brat?” she spits. “You will tell Isidora how thrilled you are and how lucky you are that Lysander chose you. Nothing more. Do I make myself clear, girl?”

“Crystal,” you whisper, turning your face away to hide your tears.

***********************************************

You stand before the full-length mirror. You're dressed in the first of many gowns the other women have chosen for you. They are all set to help you find the perfect dress for your special day. The weight of your new reality presses down on you.

As a young witch, you had fantasised about this moment, of course. You had naturally imagined it to be a day filled with joy, excitement, and the overwhelming thrill of marrying the man of your dreams. But now you know those dreams will never come true.

Consequently, it comes to no surprise that your reflection in the full-length mirror feels like someone else entirely. The silver gown is lovely, an intricate creation of lace and satin. It fits beautifully, as well, but you feel like a child playing dress-up.

Your mother’s face beams from across the room. Her smile is wide and proud. So proud, in fact, that you wonder if she cares about your well-being at all. Why does pretending everything is normal come so naturally to her? Narcissa Malfoy stands beside your mother, nodding with approval, as if this entire affair is not just another ploy to make you surrender to your fate.

“Well, darling, don’t you look magnificent?” Your mother’s voice is filled with joy, and it takes everything inside you not to scream.

“You’re absolutely glowing, [y/n],” Narcissa adds smoothly, her words as practiced as her smile. The lie slips easily from her lips.

“Lysander won’t be able to keep his hands off you,” Isidora chimes in, her excitement almost too much to bear.

You force a smile, but it feels like you’re holding back a tidal wave. Lysander . His name alone makes the weight of the engagement ring on your finger feel heavier, like an anchor pulling you under. You wish you could wear a potato sack to your wedding if that meant he wouldn't touch you.

“I’m sure Lysander will like this gown,” Narcissa continues, her smile as satisfied as ever. “But it’s not exactly what he envisioned.”

Your heart sinks. You know that Narcissa cares more about Lysander’s taste than yours, and that thought makes everything feel even more suffocating. Her remark about his preferences seem designed to keep you in line, to remind you of your place in this arrangement.

Your mother gives you a pointed look, silently telling you to keep up appearances and make it seem like everything is perfect. “It’s all coming together so beautifully, darling. I’m sure you’re as excited as we are, yes?”

You nod quickly, hiding the turmoil behind a strained smile. “Yes, of course,” you murmur. Your voice sounds distant as you try to keep the tears at bay. You don’t want to cause a scene at Madame Malkin’s shop. Not when you know you’ll pay for it in a million different ways later.

***********************************************

Hours pass, more dresses are tried on, each one lovely and perfect in its own way, yet none of them feels like yours. The all feel like costumes for a life you never asked for. You expected nothing less, but it still stings.

By the time you try on the final gown—an ivory creation with delicate beadwork that glimmers under the soft lighting of the shop—you’ve almost numbed down entirely. Madame Malkin steps forward, her eyes alight with excitement as she takes in your appearance.

“This is the one,” she declares, her voice filled with satisfaction. “This is the gown that will make you feel like the glorious witch you are.”

The others nod in agreement. Your mother’s face lights up with approval, Narcissa’s smile growing wider than you’ve ever seen it before. Isidora claps her hands.

“This is it, [y/n],” she says, clearly thrilled. “I can already see you at the altar. Lysander’s going to be so proud to call you his wife.”

The words make you flinch but you act like one of the pins pricked you. You look at your reflection. The gown is meant to make you feel perfect, but it only makes you feel hollow.

Madame Malkin steps forward with a tray of champagne flutes.

“A toast to this beautiful moment,” she says, offering a glass to each of you. Your mother and Narcissa accept eagerly, clinking their glasses together with soft, pleased smiles. Isidora follows suit, her excitement about the whole affair palpable.

Madame Malkin turns to you, holding the tray toward you in invitation. “To your wedding day,” she says kindly, her gaze thoughtful as she studies your expression. “It will be a day to remember, dear.”

You take the glass, lifting it toward your reflection in the mirror. A toast to your wedding day. The day you dread like no other. You force yourself to take a small sip. The champagne does little to ease the knot in your stomach. Your hand trembles slightly as you hold the delicate flute.

Your mother raises another toast and glasses are clinked together again in jubilance. The words blend together, echoing like a distant, foreign sound. “To a beautiful bride, to a perfect match, and to a future that will shine even brighter than this gown.”

You stand frozen with a fake smile on your face desperately trying to keep your tears from spilling.

Chapter Text

Lysander’s cold and calculating eyes are burned into your mind. His kiss haunts you. A constant reminder of the power he holds over you. Every time you close your eyes, you can still feel his mouth on yours. You remember the way his fingers dug into your wrist, as if he had tried to leave his mark on you. You want to scream, to break free, but you feel more trapped day by day. There’s no one to turn to and nowhere for you to run. The invisible cage around you grows smaller with every passing hour.

You have established a new routine. Each morning, you wake up with the same dread. And each evening after work, you return home to your parents. They always remind you of the responsibilities that come with your engagement. They never ask how you feel. They certainly don’t care. No one would understand, and no one would listen. They would only call it weakness.

It’s a Saturday morning when an unfamiliar owl arrives, carrying a single, precisely folded letter from Lysander. The wax seal, stamped with the Malfoy crest, breaks as you fold open the piece of parchment. Your fingers tremble slightly as you read the short note:

[ y/n ],

You are to meet me at Malfoy Manor at noon today. The final details of our wedding must be discussed.

Do not keep me waiting.

- Lysander

You swallow hard. Your pulse quickens. It’s only been two weeks since your engagement, but it feels like you’ve been living under Lysander’s thumb for a lifetime. The very thought of returning to the Manor fills you with anxiety. But you have no choice - again.

Your parents are too eager to see that your fiancé seeks you out in private, believing it a sign of his involvement and commitment. They don’t care that you despise him. They don’t care that every time you think of Lysander, a part of you is slipping further away.

***********************************************

By noon, you stand before the gates of Malfoy Manor. You feel less like a bride-to-be and more like a prisoner returning to her cell. The grandeur of the place mocks you; its opulence keeps you in check.

The new house elf leads you through the hallway. Your blood is rushing in your ears. You can almost feel it: Lysander is waiting impatiently. The thought of facing him alone sends a wave of nausea through you. But you clench your fists to steady the tremor in your hands. And with taking a deep breath, the mask your parents have taught you to wear is already in place.

You enter the library. Lysander stands by the fireplace. His back is turned on you. His tall frame is casting a long shadow.

The room is quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the sound of your steps as you approach. You take a deep breath.

“Lysander.”

Finally, he faces you. His gaze is cold and calculating while he'ss looking you over with an intensity that makes you feel small and exposed. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and simply studies you.

“You look lovely,” he says at last, but the words feel empty and rehearsed, like he would utter them even if you looked like a troll.

You nod unsmiling. “Thank you.”

His stare never leaves you as he steps forward. He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. He reaches out and brushes your cheek. An onlooker might think it was a tender gesture. But you know he does it only to control and remind you of your place.

“Not much longer now,” he murmurs, almost as if to himself. “The wedding is almost here.”

You want to ask him if he truly believes that you crave to be near him, but the words die in your throat. What’s the point? Anything you say will only provoke him, and you already know what happens when Lysander gets angry.

Lysander’s hand slides to your wrist, his fingers curling around it witch an iron grip. “We have to discuss the final details, [y/n],” he says, his voice dark and commanding. “And then, we can have a little... private time.”

Your stomach churns. The thought makes your skin crawl. But you dare not protest.

He leads you over to the table where several rolls of parchment are laid out. He gestures for you to sit. His grip is still on your wrist like he's guiding a puppet on strings.

“Here,” he says, pushing one roll of parchment toward you. “This is the finalized schedule for the wedding. You’ll meet with the dressmaker for the final fitting next week. Our mothers have already sent out the invitations. Everything is going to plan.”

You glance at the paper, but you can barely make out the words. Your mind is too clouded, too consumed by everything that’s happening. Why should you care about the logistics of a wedding you don’t even want. Lysander watches you closely, as if trying to decipher how far he can push you.

“When the wedding is over, our life together will begin,” he continues. His voice is smooth as velvet but laced with an unmistakable edge. “The family expects you to... fulfill your role. The Malfoy line must be preserved.”

Your chest tightens at the mention of heirs. It’s been stated already, but hearing it out loud always sends a shock through you.

“Of course,” you utter in a hollow voice.

Lysander's smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It radiates dominance, not affection.

“Good,” he says, standing. “Now, as for the private matter...”

You stiffen, knowing what he will do next.

He steps closer to you, his hand closing around your wrist firmly. He leads you toward a quieter part of the library. The shelves are lined with numerous tomes. Their gold-lettered spines are gleaming in the dim light. But Lysander doesn’t care about the books, of course. He doesn’t seem to care about anything except keeping you under his control. His cold eyes lock onto yours. For a moment, it feels like he’s searching for something. Something to break maybe. Something to bend.

“You know what’s expected of you, [y/n],” he says quietly. Still each word rings sharp as a knife. “Our families are counting on us. And I’ll make sure you don’t forget your place.”

Before you can react, he’s pulling you toward him. His hand rests on your waist keeping you close. You can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His lips hover near your ear. His breath is hot against your skin. “You belong to me.”

The words freeze you in place.

Lysander's whispered words linger in the air. You belong to me. His grip on you loosens for a moment. Every touch reminds you that you are nothing more than a pawn in his cruel game. His body is pressed hard against yours. You hate how trapped and small it makes you feel.

You refuse to show him how much it affects you, though. You won’t give him the satisfaction of watching you crumble under his control every time he challenges you. At least not today.

You take a step back, your back colliding with the bookshelf behind you. But before you can regain your footing, his hand shoots out and grabs your wrist again. The grip so tight it feels like he could break your bones if he added only a litte more pressure. You wince but don't allow yourself to show any more weakness.

His eyes meet yours, cold and calculating. “Do you understand, [y/n]?”

“Understand what?” you snap back, lifting your chin defiantly. “That I’m a trophy for you to flaunt? Your puppet on a string?”

Lysander’s lips curl into a cruel smirk. “That’s exactly what you are. And soon enough, you’ll accept it.”

Your pulse races as he steps even closer. He pushes you against the bookshelf even harder than before. You can feel him pressing his groin against your stomach. He rolls his hips against you and lets out a moan. He clearly wants to intimidate you. But you’re not going to let him win. Not today.

“No, I won't,” you say. Your voice remains steady, even though your heart is hammering. “I refuse to be yours.”

He narrows his brows. Surprise flickers across his face but he quickly replaces it with an unmistakable darkness. The dangerous gleam in his eyes makes you squirm. His grip on your wrist tightens in a silent warning. You try to pull away, but it’s futile. His grip is like iron, surely leaving bruises.

“You think you have a choice?” His voice drops, amused but laced with malice. “You’re mine now. The contract is signed. You will do as you’re told.”

His words hit you like a slap and you feel the colour drain from your face. His smirk widens. He's savouring every second of your discomfort. But you won’t let him see your fear. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Maybe the engagement contract is signed, Lysander,” you sneer, trying to mask the tremble in your voice. “But I’m not your wife just yet!”

His gaze turns cold with fury. Without hesitation, he draws his wand with a swift motion and pushes it in your face.

“You will learn your place,” he growls. The threat of dark magic crackles in the air between you. It makes you catch your breath in your throat. “And if I have to remind you every time you step out off line, I will.”

You stare at the wand and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if he will use it. The terror is there, rising in your chest, but you force it down. You won’t let him control you with fear.

“You don’t scare me,” you say. It comes out more confident than you feel. “You think this makes you powerful? That threatening me will make me bow down to you? It won’t.”

Lysander’s smirk falters. For the first time, you see him losing control over his features.

“You should be scared,” he warns, pressing his body onto yours. “I’m always in control, [y/n]. Always.”

The anger in his eyes is palpable. Heat is radiating from him. He’s furious and you wonder just how far he’ll go to prove his point.

His breath is hot against your neck as he leans in to whisper in your ear. His body against yours serves as a dark promise. “Are you sure you want to test me?”

You meet his stare despite the fear crawling up your spine. “I don't, Lysander. I already know what you’re capable of, you sick bastard.”

He seems to take your words as a challenge. He wraps his hand around your throat in a swift movement. You gasp out in shock. His grip isn’t tight enough to truly choke you, but it’s enough to remind you of his power.

“You think you can defy me?” he growls. His face is less than an inch away from yours. “You are nothing but a stubborn brat. You are mine, whether you like it or not.”

Your panic intensifies, but—Merlin’s beard—you can’t back down now.

“I won’t be your plaything, Lysander,” you say through clenched teeth. “I will never surrender to you.”

Something, perhaps amusement, flashes in his eyes but it quickly vanishes. He loosens his grip on your throat for a moment before he pushes you against the shelf with more force. His eyes bore into yours like he’s daring you to challenge him further.

“We’ll see about that,” he sneers, his voice ice-cold. Pushing his hips against you once more. “This is happening. You will be mine in every way, and if I have to break you to make you understand, I will.”

With that he Disapparates, leaving you standing shaken and breathless. Your chest is rising and falling as you try to steady your heartbeat. You force yourself to remain strong and to keep you from breaking down in this house.

As your breath steadies, your resolve hardens. Lysander may have won this battle, but you know one thing for sure: You won’t let him break you so easily.

Chapter Text

The bitter wind whipped across the Quidditch pitch. The game between Slytherin and Gryffindor had been going on for almost three hours already. The chill gusts bit at your skin, but the rush of adrenaline kept you warm. You dodged bludgers and chased after the Quaffle on your broomstick.

You caught the Quaffle in a smooth motion and tossed it toward the hoop. It sailed through the air and hit the center ring with a satisfying thud. The Slytherin crowd erupted in cheers as you scored your 14th goal, further solidifying your team’s overwhelming lead. The score was now 300 to 40. By now, you wished Higgs would hurry up and catch the Golden Snitch already. You still had the last few inches of your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay to finish.

During the next fifteen minutes or so, Mariana Bulstrode, on of the other Chasers on your team, scored two more goals.

Finally, Madame Hooch’s whistle signaled the end of the game. You pulled your broom into a gentle hover and flew toward the ground. Higgs angrily tossed his broomstick to the ground.

“The final score is 330 to 190 for Slytherin!” Clara Coleman’s voice echoed through the stadium.

That explained Higgs's strange mood then. You landed next to him and dismounted your broomstick with a satisfied smile. The pitch was buzzing with activity. Your teammates were congratulating each other a few feet away and exchanged playful banter.

“Don’t sweat it, Terence,” you called out to the Slytherin Seeker. He looked more than a little defeated. “A win is a win.”

“Yeah, right,” he muttered and brushed past you with a sigh.

Your eyes scanned the crowd for a certain Gryffindor. There he was. Charlie Weasley. He  was unmistakable with his bright red hair. He was surrounded by the other Gryffindor players and was still clutching the golden snitch in his hands. You suppressed a smile. Charlie's sharp eyes were always quick to catch the Golden Snitch. He was competitive, fierce, and incredibly talented. He undoubtetly was the best Seeker of the school. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had had his eyes on the snitch the whole time, hoping that his teammates would somehow gain up on Slytherin, before finally deciding to at least earn 150 points more.

But there was also something else about him, something that had slowly krept up on you during your fourth year and had you totally mesmerised by year six. It wasn’t just his skill on the broomstick or his looks, though he certainly had both. It was his whole demeanour. He knew how good he was but was never arrogant about it. He always played fair and respected the other players. No wonder he had been made Gryffindor Captain the year prior.

When your eyes met across the Great Hall or on the Quidditch pitch sometimes, you could feel some kind of connection between the two of you. Though it was probably just wishful thinking on your part.

As you made your toward the Slytherin changing room, you noticed Charlie approaching you from the Gryffindor side of the pitch. He grinned at you. His freckled face lit up in the chill winter air.

“That was an incredible match, [y/n],” Charlie said.

You smiled, trying to keep your racing heart in check. “Thanks. You were great out there, too,” you replied, brushing some stray strands of hair from your face. “Your Seeker skills can turn every game around, can’t they?”

“We still lost, though.” Charlie chuckled and you smiled at each other. For a moment there was something intense in his gaze. “You’re too good for me, [y/n]. Impossible to keep up.”

“Maybe next time,” you teased.

Your heart missed a beat as he stepped a little closer. You no longer felt the cold air.

“I was wondering if you'd want to go for a walk around the grounds with me, maybe?,” Charlie started and took a deep breath. “I mean, we could discuss the match.”

The question made your heart skip. He wanted to spend time with you away from the crowd. Just the two of you. You nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Your voice is surprisingly steady.

Charlie smiled. The warmth of it almost melted the chill of the evening. “Great. Let’s meet behind the pitch in 20 minutes.”

***************************************************

The two of you walked along the edge of the grounds. Snowflakes drifted gently from the twilight sky and covered everything in a soft, white blanket.

The two of you strolled side by side and you could feel a magnetic pull that drew you closer. Neither of you spoke. You could feel his arm brushing against yours and your heartbeat quickened. This walk was something you had been wanting for months.

Finally, Charlie broke the silence. “You know…" His eyes were searching  yours. "I’ve wanted to say this for a while. I’m… I don’t know… I feel like there’s something between us. And today…” His words trailed off as he looked away nervously.

You stepped in front of him, so you were face to face again. His face looked even more striking in the evening glow. His brown eyes filled with vulnerability.

“Charlie, what are you trying to say?” you whispered.

He took a deep breath as if gathering courage. Then he looked directly into your eyes and said, “I like you, [y/n]. More than just as a classmate. I want to be more than just friends. I’ve felt like this for months now. And... I just… I need you to know that.”

Your heart leapt in your chest. Your whole body filled with warmth. “Charlie… I—”

Before you could say anything else, he stepped closer and his hand gently touched yours. He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was slow and tender. It was everything you’d ever dreamed about. You felt the softness of his lips and the gentle pressure of his hand on your cheek. It was the kind of kiss that made time stop. It was a perfect moment. It felt too good to be true.

The kiss ended too soon for your liking, when Charlie pulled away just enough to look at you. He wore a sheepish grin on his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he admitted in a low voice.

You smiled back. Could a heart burst from happiness? “Me too, Charlie. Me too.”

The two of you simply stood there for a moment before you leaned in for another kiss.

Chapter Text

You don’t know where you’re going. The silence in Malfoy Manor feels suffocating. Your steps echoe through the vast halls. When you had left the library, you were still too shaken to think clearly. You are stumbling through the mansion and trying to find an exit. But the more you walk, the less familiar the halls are. You try not to let your thoughts spiral, but the memory of Lysander’s grip on your wrist and his threats are burnt in your mind. His presence lingers and you can't manage to shake it off. You turn another corner and freeze.

Lucius Malfoy stands in front of you. He examines an ancient painting on the wall. For a brief moment, you debate whether you should turn around and walk the other way. But his presence feels inevitable and you know you can’t avoid him in his own home.

When you're only a couple of feet away from him, Lucius slowly turns around. His pale grey eyes bore into you deeply. His stare sends a shiver down your spine.

“Hello, [y/n],” he says smoothly. He wears his usual mask of cold detachment. “I didn’t expect to find you wandering the halls on your own.”

You feel the weight of his gaze, the scrutiny and judgment, and can’t help but feel small. But then you square your shoulders, refusing to show weakness.

“I… Lysander... left me in the library,” you reply. Your voice remains steady, even though your pulse quickens at the memory. “He’s not entirely happy with me.”

Lucius raises an eyebrow and his lips curl into a cruel smile. “Not entirerly happy?” he mocks. “He’s angry because you don’t want to honour the responsibilities that come with your position, I assume. Because you can’t handle the weight of the family’s expectations.”

You grit your teeth. It’s clear he’s well aware of everything going on between you and his son. But his dismissive tone strikes a nerve.

“I never asked for this,” you snap, trying to keep your anger in check. “You know that.”

Lucius’s expression doesn’t change. He takes a slow step toward you, his presence towering, a chilling calm radiating from him now. “No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. But the circumstances have led you here, haven’t they? And now you must learn to accept your fate.”

You take a step back. "Why did you choose me?“ you ask, quieter now. “Why did it have to be me?”

Lucius tilts his head slightly. The corners of his mouth twitch with something close to amusement. “Motives don’t matter. As it stands, you will fall in line, just as all those before you have.”

You have heard variations of this countless times before. And yet... the more you hear them, the more you feel the need to rebel against them.

“I won’t be controlled so easily,” you say firmly, despite the knots in your stomach. “Not by you, not by your son.”

Lucius steps closer, his icy stare cutting through you. “Oh, I think you will, [y/n]. You may not realise it yet, but you were made to submit. It's in your nature.”

You stand your ground even though your voice shakes. “You don’t know me.”

“Know you?” Lucius repeats, his voice low, almost amused. “You misunderstand. Who you are as a person doesn’t matter. It’s about understanding your place. About seeing the bigger picture. Power, magic, family, bloodline. And you will gladly surrender to all of it.”

He steps closer still, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve already signed the contract, remember? You’ve already made your choice.”

“There's still time for me to find a way out of this engagement,” you whisper, your voice faltering for just a moment.

Lucius’s gaze softens. “No one chooses this life freely, child,” he says, his tone almost soothing. “But we all come to accept it. And in time, you will as well.”

You’re not sure if everbody's mind games are finally working on you or whether you actually find Lucius’s words comforting. Your mind might as well be playing tricks on you... but there’s something about his tone that makes you find reason within his words.

“Don’t fight your nature, [y/n],” Lucius says, his voice warmer now. “You’ll only make things harder for yourself.”

Before you can respond, he turns on his heel with his robes billowing behind him as he walks away and leaves you standing in the empty hallway.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning activity. The chatter of students mixed with the clinking of silverware and the rustle of parchment. You sat at the Slytherin table absent-mindedly stirring your porridge and stealing glances at Charlie. He was laughing with his friends over at the Gryffindor table. His red hair glowed in the sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling. You couldn’t help but smile.

It had only been a few days since your conversation with Isidora and things had been going well. You were still careful, of course, but every stolen moment with Charlie was worth the risk.

A flock of owls descended into the hall to deliver the morning post but you barely noticed them. You were too absorbed in your thoughts about Charlie until a familiar barn owl landed in front of you. In its beak was a bright red envelope. Your stomach dropped.

“Oh, no,” Isidora whispered, her eyes widening.

The envelope twitched ominously as smoke was curling from its edges. Your fingers trembled as you picked the Howler up. Every nerve in your body told you to drop it and run. But you knew running would be in vain. The moment you opened it, your mother’s voice erupted.

“[Y/N] SELWYN, YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE DISGRACE!” You tried to make yourself as small as possible. “FRATERNIZING WITH THAT BLOOD-TRAITOR WEASLEY? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?”

Gasps rippled through the hall. You felt your cheeks flush with humiliation as your mother’s tirade continued.

“I WILL NOT HAVE YOU RUINING OUR FAMILY’S REPUTATION WITH SUCH FOOLISHNESS. YOU WILL END THIS NONSENSE IMMEDIATELY OR YOU WILL FIND YOURSELF WITHOUT A HOME TO RETURN TO!”

The Howler dissolved into ashes, leaving the Great Hall in stunned silence. You could feel hundreds of eyes on you.

At the Gryffindor table, Charlie sat frozen, his face pale. You locked eyes with him trying to quietly convey your feelings but he quickly looked away. He pushed back from the table and left the hall without a word.

You stood abruptly and shrugged of Isidora’s hand on your arm. You needed to find Charlie. You needed to fix this.

You caught up to him near the Charms classroom.

“Charlie!” you called.

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Charlie, please,” you said after finally reaching him. “I—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, finally facing you. His blue eyes were filled with a mix of anger and hurt. “Don’t make this worse.”

“Please listen!” Your voice broke. “I didn’t tell them, Charlie. I don’t know how they found out.”

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. “It doesn’t matter how they found out, does it? Everyone at Hogwarts knows now. I bet everyone you know thinks your mother was right. That I’m.. That this thing between us is some sort of mistake you made.”

“That’s not true!” you protested, stepping closer. “You’re not a mistake, Charlie. You’re the first thing that I ever did right.”

He hesitated for a moment, his expression softening, but then he shook his head. “Let's face it. Your family will never accept me and I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything.”

“I don’t care what my parents think,” you said fiercely, grabbing his hand. “I only care about you.”

He pulled his hand away gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe you should care about them. Because I don’t think this can work. We need to end this.”

Tears stung your eyes as you watched him turn and walk away.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express rattled steadily along the tracks. The rhythmic clattering was blending with laughter and chatter from the students going home for Christmas. Outside the frosted windows, the snowy countryside blurred by. You didn't engage with the other Slytherins and sat stiffly in your seat. The weight of the morning's event was pressing down on you like a blanket made out of lead. Isidora was sitting next to you like a guard dog. She had folded her arms and gave everyone the stink eye who shot you sideways glances.

You couldn’t stay there. Not with the judgment radiating from your peers, the bitter reminder of the howler still ringing in your ears. You needed to see Charlie, to explain everything, to apologize for the scene your mother had caused.

The perfect opportunity arose when the trolley witch rolled by. "I'll be right back," you mumbled. You ignored Isidora's questioning look as you slipped out into the corridor.

You made your way toward the trolley, keeping your head down and trying not to get noticed. And then, there he was. Charlie was rummaging through his pockets for change, his broad shoulders hunched. His friends noticed you first. One of them, a tall boy with shaggy brown hair, stepped forward and blocked your path. "What do you want, Selwyn?" he asked in a hostile tone.

"I want to talk to Charlie. Not that that's any of your business."

Charlie had glanced up at the mention of your name. The boy in front of you smirked. "Don't you think you've done enough damage already? Why don't you go back to your Slytherin friends and leave him alone?" 

"That's enough, Ronan," Charlie stepped in. "And [y/n], you don't have to explain anything. It's fine." You opened your moth to protest but he had already turned back toward the trolley. His body language made clear that you weren't welcome. His friends sniggered as you swallowed the lump in your throat and retreated back to your compartment.

When you opened the door upon reentering, the other Slytherins looked up with a mix of smug satisfaction and disdain. Selene, a girl the year below you who had a mean streak, snickered.

"Really [y/n]? Pining for a Weasley? You're practically begging to be disowned, aren't you?"

"Your opinion means less to me than a Squib at a dueling match," you snapped.

"It's everyone's opinion, though," Higgs chimed in in a mocking otone. "Your family clearly thinks so. Imagine being the talk of the common room for all the wrong reasons."

That got a laugh frome everyone but Isidora. "Shut it!" Your friend's voice was firm. She shot the others a glare and they quicly fell silent. But even she looked concerned when she turned back to you. You couldn't help but suspect that she shared the common view.

You spent the rest of the jorney flipping through your Transfiguration text book trying to get your mind off things.

****************************************

When the train pulled into King's Cross Station a couple of hours later, you were sick with anxiety. You gathered your things slowly, trying to delay the inevitable.

The moment you finally stepped off the train, you spotted your parents waiting for you. Your father's face was set in a grim scowl. Beside him, your mother's expression was full of disdain. Your father's eyes locked onto yours right away. Then you saw his gaze shifting to Charlie who was standing several feet away and talking to his siblings. You had hoped that he had left the station by now.

Your heart sank when you watched your father striding towards them. His cloak was billowing behind him like a storm cloud. You tried to get to him before he reached the Weasleys but other witches and wizards who united with their loved ones were blocking your way. "You," you heard your father say. His voice was low and venemous.

He was pointing his wand at Charlie. "Stay away from my daughter. Do you hear me?"

Charle straightend. He clenched his jaw but before he could respond another figure stepped between your father and Charlie. "Hold on a moment," Mr Weasley's kind face was lined with concern as he placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "There's no need fo this," he added.  Your father's glare turned to Charlie's dad.

"This is none of your business, Arthur. Keep your son in line or-"

"You'll what?" Mr Weasley interrupted. His tone was still calm. "You'll make a scene in front of everyone on the platform? You'll only humilate your daugther even further. I don't think you want that." 

Your father glanced around. You had finally reached them. As if realising the watchful eyes at last, your father stepped back. He grabbed you by the arm.

"We'll talk at home, young lady," he said coldly. He shot Charlie a final, furious glare, before turning and walking away.

Instead of following your father, you stood frozen in place.

Mr Weasley turned to you with a soft expression. "Are you all right, dear?"

You nodded. Charlie looked at you then. His blue eyes were full of emotion. But he said nothing. He gave you a brief nod and then he went over to his mother.

As you watched him go, your heart broke all over again.

****************************************

The journey from King’s Cross had been unnervingly quiet, the air thick with tension. You trotted behind your parents who were searching for a convenient spot to Disapparate—hidden from Muggle glances. The sound of soles against the pavement were the only things filling the silence between you and your parents.

Finally, you were standing in front of Selwyn House. It didn’t help that the crisp winter air had turned the building into a cold, imposing structure. You could feel it from the moment the door swung open, the paintings in the halls practically whispering about your disgrace. You entered the house with your head held high, though every step felt like it was leading you into the basilisk's lair.

Your father had said little after his confrontation at the plattform, but his silence was far more frightening than anything he could’ve said. Your mother, however, looked as if she could burst at any moment. She hadn't adressed you at all yet. She swept past you into the drawing room.

You followed her, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. The walls of Selwyn House felt like they were turning in on you. The stones seemed to remind you of the expectations that had always been laden upon you. You closed the door to the drawing room behind you.

Your father was standing by the fireplace with crossed arms and a grim expression. He remained silent. Your mother was sitting on a plush chair but she didn't look any less imposing than your father. Her hands were foled neatly in your lap. You braced yourself.

After what felt like an eternity your father finally spoke. "Explain yourself. What on earth were you thinking? What possessed you to throw away your future by associating yourself with a Weasley, girl?"

"I'm not a child anymore, Father," you shot back. "You don't get to decide who I spend my time with."

Fury flashed your mother's features. "You're associating with the lowest of the low, someone who's family made a mockery of what being pure-blood means. Do you have any idea what your little stunt will do to our reputation? How dare you bring shame to this family!"

"Shame?" you retorted. "This is your idea of shame, not mine. And frankly, I never cared about being pure-blood. If being pure-blood means marrying some fanatic like Higgs or Malfoy junior, I'd rather marry a Muggle. No, scratch that. I'd rather become a Muggle myself!"

Your mother's voice was dangerously calm as she answered. "You would rather become a blood-traitor than marrying someone who could keep our legacy going? Your bloodline is an honour. Don't you dare forget that, child."

"I don't care about legacy," you said firmly. " Legacy only means looking down on everybody who isn’t pure-blood. It's pathetic."

Your mother’s hand shot out, slamming onto the armrest of the chair. “You ungrateful little—” She stopped herself, her breath coming in sharp gasps, but her face was contorted in fury.

Your father took a step toward you, his face contorted by rage. “You are breaking this family’s honour with your reckless behavior. Do you think people will look at this and think you’re still respectable? You think the other pure-bloods will let this go?”

"Let them choke on their judgment—I'll thrive without it!" you shouted. "I don't care about their approval. I'm done with this whole pure-blood dragon shit!"

“You will regret this,” your father growled, his tone menacing. “You’ve probably ruined your future already. You’ll find yourself alone with no one who will want to marry you once word spreads about your little affair. Do you want that?"

"Don't act like you are about my happiness. You only care about what's convenient for you." You refused to back down. "I'm done pretending like I give a hippogriff's fart about bloodlines."

Your mother’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re willing to sacrifice everything for some filthy muggle-lover?”

Your father clenched his fists. “You either end this or I’ll find ways to make that boy’s life miserable."

For a moment, there was only silence. Your father stood still, his eyes burning into you, while your mother’s face had gone pale with anger. You didn’t move, didn’t look away. You were no longer a child they could control.

Your mother's lips curled into a fake smile. "Fine. But don't say we didn't warn you. If I hear even one rumour of you getting back together with that filth, I'll make sure to find a way to get him expelled from Hogwarts."

You didn’t reply. You turned on your heel, your heart racing, but your feet steady as you walked toward the door.

As your hand touched the handle, your father’s voice called out to you, low and dangerous. “You will not speak to him again. Do you understand me?”

You didn’t turn back. You opened the door and stepped into the hallway quickly, trying to get away before you could give them the satisfaction of seeing your defeat.

Chapter Text

Even though the last days have seemed to stretch endlessly, every moment passing at a snail’s pace, the wedding day arrives too soon.

You had your farewell party at the Ministry last week. You had brought cake and sandwiches, tea and coffee. Your colleagues even gave you a wedding present. The corresponding card had almost brought you to tears – everybody had scribbled a few kind words, wishing you well for your future. It was nicer than you had anticipated and it made leaving so much harder.

You stare at the ceiling of your bedroom. This will be your last morning in this bed. The last morning waking up in Selwyn House instead of Malfoy Manor. Today, you’ll marry Lysander Malfoy. The thought of it alone makes you sick to your stomach.

No sooner you have washed the conditioner out of your hair when your mother calls that your hair and make-up team has arrived.

The morning passes in a blur. Some time, a photographer comes into your room to eternalise these perfect memories. Your mother reminds you to smile as she poses beside you. You small talk with your prep team and act like everything’s fine. Once everything’s finished, your placed in front of a full-length mirror.

“Oh, darling, you look so beautiful,” your mother gushes. “I’m so proud of you and Lysander will be as well. Everybody will be watching. And you’ll be just perfect.”

You simply nod as she adjusts the veil on your head. Her joy, so genuine, feels like a punch to your gut. She knows how miserable you are about this whole thing. She could at least acknowledge your feelings once, even if you know that she would never do anything to make it all go away.

Your dress is given the final touches and you’re ready to Apparate to Malfoy Manor. You arrive in a small bedroom near Lysander’s. At last, you've got a few precious moments to yourself. Your mother left to help Narcissa making sure that everything is immaculate. Still, you find no comfort in this empty room. But you will only be here for a handful of moments more. You walk over to the small window and watch the first guests filtering into the manor. A few close family friends, a lot of high ranking Ministry officials. You resist the urge to hex them.

There’s still time to run. You have barely formed the thought, when Isidora comes in without knocking.

“Oh my, you look just wonderful!” Her face is lit up by a huge smile. “I stole a glimpse at Lysander earlier and I could just eat him up. He’s so handsome in his wedding robes.”

A knock on the door saves you from having to fake an enthusiastic reply. Your father steps in and offers you his arm. “Are you ready, child?”

You just nod and bite your tongue. If you’re a child still, then why are you forced into this marriage?

The wedding march starts playing and you’re ushered into the grand hall. Isidora is walking a couple of steps before you. Your father holds you close to his side. The sight before you nearly takes your breath away. The room glows silver and green, the chandeliers sparkling like stars in the night sky. The scent of a thousand flowers hangs in the air. Everything has been carefully curated for this union.

Your heart pounds in your chest as everyone turns to look at you, people oohing and ahing. And in the corner of your eyes, you can see the first guests dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs already. Honestly, you, too, feel like crying.

And yet, when you catch sight of Lysander at the altar, something inside you shifts. Isidora was right. He looks absolutely stunning.

You take a deep breath and straighten your back as you move down the aisle. The crowd happily watches as you walk toward sealing your fate. Every step feels heavy, but you keep your chin high. And Lysander – he looks ready. Ready to finally claim his price.

His eyes never leave you as you approach. When you reach the altar, your father hands you over to him. Lysander’s fingers are cold and his grip is firm.

The minister, a wizard you’ve never met, begins the ceremony. His voice is steady but you’re not able to focus on his words.

When it’s time for the vows, it’s Lysander turn first. His voice is loud and steady.

“I, Lysander Malfoy, take you, [y/n] Selwyn, to be my wife,” he declares. “To honour and protect you. To claim you as mine, in this life and the next.”

The words are meant to sound beautiful, but they only threaten you. Lysander lifts your hand and pushes the wedding band on your finger. You have no intention of making any real promises, but you can’t bring yourself to run. It’s too late now. Too many eyes are watching. They would find you in a matter of hours.

Then it’s your turn. The words are like acid in your mouth. “I, [y/n] Selwyn, take you, Lysander Malfoy, to be my husband. To honour and submit to you. To be yours, in this life and the next.” You manage to get it all out, though your voice is barely above a whisper. There’s no ring for you to give to Lysander. It’s custom in old families that only the wife wears one. It’s just another sigil of ownership. You might be his and have to submit, but he is still free to do as he pleases.

Instead, you have to hand over your wand to your husband. You hesitate before placing it in Lysander's outstreched hand and letting it go. He tucks your wand away in his robes with a satisfied smile. You're practically giving away your power, your magic. It's an archaic tradition that no one but pure-blood families practice anymore. It symbolises your complete submission to your husband. He will probably give you your wand back in the morning, but if he wanted to he could keep it forever. Or even break it in two. The thought of it makes your skin crawl.

The minister flicks his wand and a silver band shoots out, tying your hand together with Lysander’s. “What magic binds, only magic can break. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He pauses then adds. “You may now kiss the bride.”

A rush of applause swells around you, but the sound seems to fade as Lysander turns to face you fully. His eyes bore into yours, making you squirm. Lysander steps closer as he reaches his free hand to cradle your jaw. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is neither soft nor tender. It is meant to show possession, not affection. There are a few cheers. His grip tightens slightly, holding you in place.

This is the final seal. You’re bound to Lysander now. Forever.

Lysander’s lips linger a second longer before he pulls away.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear. He fidgets with the ring on your finger. “For the whole world to see.”

You feel like you’re suffocating, but you still manage to force a smile as he guides you back down the aisle. The applause rings in your ears as Lysander’s hand on your back weighs you down. He’s showing you off like a trophy. Like you’re just another means for him to gain respect and standing in the wizarding world.

********************

The reception can be best described with one word: opulence. It’s nothing like you would have chosen yourself, but that’s hardly a surprise to you.

Guests swarm to congratulate the newly-weds with bright smiles bright and compliments. You play your part flawlessly. You smile and nod at all the right moments. Maybe you really are meant for this life if acting came as naturally to you as it does to your mother... But inside, the hollow ache grows.

Lysander remains close to you the whole time, his presence a constant shadow. His gaze lingers on you, his touch firm whenever you try to step away. His control is suffocating, inescapable.

The string quartet starts playing and it’s time for the first dance. The crowd falls silent, their eyes following as Lysander leads you to the centre of the floor. You always hate being the centre of attention, but today your anxiety is even worse than normal. You shiver slightly.

“Relax,” Lysander murmurs as his hand finds yours. “Let me lead.” His voice is low, the implication unmistakable. You swallow hard but say nothing. You move together, your body following his lead almost naturally. His grip on your waist is unyielding like he wants to remind you that you belong to him now. Each step feels like you’re surrendering to him and betraying yourself in the process. And yet your movements begin to flow with his, as if surrender is exactly what you’re heart desires.

Around you, the room dissolves into a blur of faces and applause. The smiles seem sincere, but to you their approval equals deception. You are no longer [y/n] Selwyn, a young witch with her own dreams. You are [y/n] Malfoy, Lysander’s wife. His possession, nothing more—forever.

********************

As the evening stretches on, the weight on your shoulders only seems to grow heavier. During dinner, you only manage a few bites before you feel like throwing up. Lysander, always next to you, pretends he doesn’t notice. Instead he makes sure that your glass is never empty, encouraging you to indulge in the champagne.

Conversations, toasts, laughter—they all pass like a distant hum. You can feel your head spinning from the alcohol.

Finally, when more than half of the guests have left, Lysander leans close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers. His voice is laden with dark promise.

You swallow down the bile in your throat and simply nod.

********************

You close the bedroom door behind you. You are alone with him now. There is no more ceremony, no more audience. No more biding your time.

His bedroom is huge, as expected. It's another reflection of Malfoy wealth and taste. There's a fire cackling in the marble hearth. The flickering light glints off the silver threads woven into the silk canopy of the bed. Everything is carefully aranged. You look around the room, careful not to let your eyes fall on Lysander.

You move toward the window and rest your hadns against the cool glass. The full moon is illuminating the vast expanse of the Malfoy estate.

How far could you run before anyonce noticed you were gone?

Lysander's calm voice breaks the silence. "You're quiet."

You can't bring yourself to turn around to face him. You still feel dizzy from all the champagne.

"What's there to say?"

He stays silent for a moment. "Are you afraid?"

His question sobers you up in an instant. You glance over your shoulder to meet his gaze but his expression is unreadable. But something flickers behind his grey eyes.

"Maybe a little," you admit.

Lysander studies you for a moment before stepping behind you. He doesn't touch you but you can feel his warmth.

"You don't have to fear me. I won't hurt you," he whispers into your ear before adding. "Unless you give me a reason to." He runs his hand along your arm. “Look at me.”

You hesitate but turn around after a moment. Lysander lifts a hand and traces the line of your jaw with the backs of his hand. It’s an oddly gentle gesture, nothing you would expect from the man you have gotten to know in the last few weeks. You half expect him to smirk arrogantly, but he doesn’t. He is quiet. Serious.

“You are my wife now,” he states matter of factly.

You swallow. “I know.”

His fingers drift lower, brushing against the column of your throat before falling away. He turns you around slightly.

Without uttering another word, Lysander begins undoing the intricate fastenings of your wedding dress. The silence stretches as he opens button after button. His fingers graze your bare skin in fleeting touches. But they never linger or press. You shiver but not from the cold. You hate the way your body reacts, even if it does so against your will. The heat of his touch radiates through the thin layers of your dress, and the closeness of his form makes you feel small, insignificant. You keep staring ahead. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this terrifies you. After he has loosened the last knot, the wedding gown falls down at your feet. The firelight casts a soft glow over your bare arms and shoulders. You feel his gaze on you, travelling over the places his hands have not.

"You're beautiful", Lysander praises.

The words send a shiver down your spine but you don't respond. What could you say? Thank you? For what? For trapping you in a life you never wanted? For taking away any semblance of control you might have had over your own life?

He takes your left hand in his and lifts it to his mouth. He presses his lips to your wedding ring. His breath is warm against your skin and your pulse quickens. Then, he turns and walks over to the bed. The matress dips as he sits down on the edge and removes his wedding robes with a flick of his wand. You should probably look away but you can't. There's something in the way he moves that keeps you rooted to the spot.

He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. A silent question in his gaze. You step forward like there's an invisible force pulling you towards him.

Finally, he lifts the covers on your side of the bed; a silent invitation. You slide beneath the sheets. They are soft against your skin.

After a moment, he climbs in next to you. The air between you feels heavy. It's laden with something you're too shy to acknowledge.

Lysander turns onto his side. He reaches out and brushes his fingers against your cheek.

"You're trembling," he murmurs in a low voice.

You swallow. His hand drifts lower and lower.

"Don't be scared." His fingers trace slow circles against your skin.

There's no time for you to respond before he leans in. The kiss is urgent. It makes the world outside the bedroom disappear. Lysander pulls back slightly and rests his forehead against yours. Your heart pounds in your chest as his hand at your waist is pressing you down on the matress. Right now, you can’t tell where his touch ends and your own body begins. He grabs your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. A small moan escapes your lips, earning you a satisfied hum from Lysander.

“That's a good girl", he praises. "Let me guide you. Let me make you mine completely.”

Chapter Text

A soft knock pulls you from your sleep. Your eyes blink open slowly. You hardly feel rested. The bedroom is still dim, the light of the summer morning filtering through the heavy curtains. For a moment, you're not sure where you are. The blanket is too heavy and the mattress too soft.

Then it settles in. Malfoy Manor. You’re married now.

Another knock. A pause.

Lysander shifts beside you. “Come in.”

The house-elf enters the room with a bowed head. “Pipsie is sorry to wake Mistress and Master. Breakfast is in thirty minutes. The family is waiting.”

“Understood,” your husband says before adding. “Dismissed.” Pipsie disapparates with a bang.

You sit up slowly, wrapping the blankets tight around your chest. Your whole body aches and your sore in parts you’ve never been sore before. It makes you self-conscious. The memories of last night flash before your eyes and your heart gives a nervous flutter.

Lysander stretches beside you, his bare chest rising with a slow breath. He glances at you with a self-satisfied expression and then smirks softly.

“I’d say we should shower together,” he drawls, “but if we did, we’d never be ready in thirty minutes.”

You blink, heart jumping at the implication. You quickly avert your gaze. You’re still clinging to the sheets, cheeks burning. You know that he’s seen all of you last night but it feels different in the morning light. You’re not sure if you can ever look him in the eyes after what he did to you under the covers.

Lysander chuckles under his breath. “Relax. I'm kidding.”

He gets off the bed and struts over to the en suite bathroom. He doesn’t bother with covering up. As he closes the door behind them, he makes sure to catch your gaze and smirks again.

You slide out of bed, grabbing the dressing gown someone—probably Pipsie—has laid out near the wardrobe. Your hands are shaking slightly as you tie it closed.

When Lysander comes out again a few minutes later, you’re relieved to find him wearing a towel. It’s loose against his hips and you gulp the moment your gaze sets on his bulge. You look away and already feel your face turning crimson.

“Like what you see?” your husband chuckles.

You brush across him and escape into the bathroom without another word.

***********************************************

The water is hot and helps steady you, but it doesn’t wash away the lump in your throat. Your body feels different. Like it doesn’t belong to you any more - at least not fully. Lysander has left countless marks on your skin. You let your soapy fingers run over them, pressing down on some, trying to replace the memories of his touch. You let out a small whimper. You hate yourself for how easily your body betrayed you, for how easily it betrays you still. You avoid your reflection in the mirror.

When you emerge from the bathroom, your hair is still damp and curling around your face. Lysander is already dressed in morning robes in the Malfoy family colours. Your family colours. Deep green and trimmed with gold. Your husband glances up at you with an unreadable expression. You half expect him to reach for you or to tease you more, but he doesn’t. He only nods toward the robes folded on the armchair.

“Change. I’ll wait in the hall,” he says.

You give a silent nod, grateful.

***********************************************

Breakfast is held in the conservatory. The room is large and bright, with high windows that let the morning light spill across a polished table that looks far too big for five people.

Lucius is sipping black coffee and reading a copy of the Daily Prophet. Narcissa sits next to him. Her posture is perfect as usual. Draco, Lysander’s younger brother, sits across from his parents.

You hesitate for a heartbeat in the doorway before Lysander softly pushes you inside.

Narcissa is the first to look up. “Good morning,” she greets. “I hope you got a bit of sleep.”

You feel your cheeks go hot. You nod politely, murmuring, “Good morning.”

Lysander rests a hand lightly on your back as he pulls out your chair. You sit, trying not to shrink in on yourself as all eyes settle on you, even if they only do so for a moment.

“Congratulations,” Lucius says, lowering his paper. “On consummating your marriage.”

“Thank you, Father,” Lysander answers solemnly.

You feel your face turning hot again. You look down, hoping to hide your unease.

Narcissa sets down her teacup and addresses you in a slightly less formal tone. “Welcome to the family, [y/n]. I hope you will find a lot of joy in this union.”

You almost choke on your tea, eyes fixed on the plate in front of you. “Of course.”

“It’s important,” she adds more gently, “For newly-weds to… adjust properly.”

You nod again, your throat too tight to speak. The innuendo is obvious.

Even Lysander beside you stiffens. “Mother, please.”

Narcissa just smiles like she doesn’t know what her son is talking about.

For a time, no one speaks. Only the clink of silverware and the rustle of the morning Daily Prophet. You try to eat, but each bite sticks in your throat so you just stick to your tea.

You nearly jump off your seat, when Lysander’s hand lands on your thigh. But he just tightens his grip and keeps you rooted on the spot.

After a little while, Draco clears his throat akwardly. “So… have you already opened your presents?”

You glance up at him. He looks distinctly uncomfortable, eyes flicking between you and his plate.

Lysander responds smoothly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “So far, only one. But I hope, I’ll get to open more presents later.”

You stiffen. You know exactly what he means. It’s not even subtle.

Draco’s face has turned pink and he immediately looks away.

***********************************************

The moment you’re excused from the table, you rise. Lysander takes your hand before you can disappear down the hall, his grip light but firm.

“Come,” he murmurs. “We’ll go for a walk in the gardens. You need some fresh air.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, and let him guide you through the tall double doors into the warm, sunlit morning.

Chapter Text

It’s been three weeks since the ceremony at Malfoy Manor.

You expected coldness from Lysander. Distance. Possibly cruelty. But instead, your husband has been nothing but respectful. Even on the morning you had found out that you weren’t pregnant he’d been understanding, kind even.

All your days look the same. You eat breakfast with the Malfoys in the sunlit conservatory before Lysander goes to work at the Ministry. Lucius had secured him the position as Pius Thicknesse’s right hand man. It had caused a small scandal, the Daily Prophet had even run a handful of articles about it. But you knew better than to ask either of them about it.

After breakfast, you usually stroll the gardens or read. In the afternoon, you help Draco with his homework and the extra schoolwork Lucius has him do.

You eat dinner with the Malfoys in the evening and your nights belong to Lysander alone. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t touch you against your will. You’ve almost started to relax around him.

Almost. Because you still don’t have your wand back. You’d asked him about it once, casually. He’d smiled and changed the subject. You haven’t brought it up again, even though you feel naked and helpless without it.

At just before 5 o’clock, you’re standing by the fireplace in the living room as usual, waiting for Lysander’s return. He expects you to greet him with a smile and a kiss when he comes back from work. And just like clockwork, he steps out of the fireplace exactly when the clock strikes five. He sets down his briefcase and embraces you.

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Good evening, husband. How was your day?”

“Exhausting. The Quidditch World Cup is keeping us all up on our toes.” He lets his hands wander down your body, stopping on the curve of your ass. “That reminds me. Is everything packed?”

You nod. “Pipsie did it all this morning. I checked our bags. We’re all set.”

He squeezes down and pulls you even closer to him. “Did she pack the second tent?”

You nod again, your cheeks turning crimson. You honestly can’t wait till his words and innuendo lose their effect on you.

Lysander chuckles. “We’ve got about an hour before dinner. Let’s make the most of it.”

*********************

Early the next morning, you Apparate just outside the campsite for the Quidditch World Cup. An older witch checks your names and points you in the general direction of your spot. So far, it is everything you hoped it would be. Tents the size of villas, magical lights floating through the sky, and fans draped in enchanted flags and face paint. The air thrums with excitement and magic.

When you arrive at your spot you ask Lucius for the tent's manual but he just laughs like you made the joke of the century. He pulls out his wand and erects the tents with a flick of his wand.

“But they said that we’re not allowed to use magic because of the muggles,” you interject. It earns you an incredulous look from Draco.

Lucius places a hand on your shoulder in a fatherly fashion, then says: “[y/n], the day I care about muggles is the day you need to check if I'm under the Imperius curse.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Just as you’re about to open your mouth and argue with your father-in-law, Lysander grabs your hand and pulls you towards your tent. “Excuse us, Father. But we want to unpack before the match.”

Lucius lets out another laugh. "I'm happy you finally see the merits of being organised."

Lysander winks at his father and holds open the flap of the tent for you. You step inside and gasp. The interior looks like the sweetest little cottage. You go to the kitchen and rummage in the cabinets. Pipsie has seemingly packed enough provisions for two weeks.

“Did you bring my wand? I could make dinner tonight,” you call out to your husband, trying to keep your voice light.

Lysander enters the kitchen and looks at you with a smile that has no warmth.

“No, darling,” he says smoothly. “I didn’t. I'll let you use mine.”

Your heart misses a couple of beats when he closes the distance between you with a few strides.

“But,” he continues, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “you’ll get it back when we’re home. That is, if you keep behaving like a good little witch.”

His voice dips on the last three words. You open your mouth but he kisses you before you can answer. Then he guides you into the bedroom, where a big canopy bed is waiting for you.

*********************

When you make your way to the stadium at dusk, you can’t help but notice the countless saleswitches and wizards who are brandishing their merchandise.

Lysander squeezes your hand. “Do you want to take a look?” He smiles at you fondly. You’ve grown used to him being affectionate and attentive after you’ve spent some private time together.

You nod and beam up at him. You walk along the lines of vendors and stop before a cart piled high with omnioculars.

You pick up one pair and look through them.

The saleswizard eagerly tells you the details. “You can replay action, watch in slow-motion and get written commentary to all moves. Bargain – ten galleons each.”

You set them down and frown. Ten galleons far surpass your daily allowance. You give the wizard a small smile. “Thank you, but-”

“We’ll take five of them,” Lysander interrupts and hands the saleswizard the money.

He looks like he can’t believe his luck. “Thank you, sir.” He almost takes a bow. “Whoever you support, I hope they’ll win.”

Lysander hands you your omnioculars and hangs one pair around his neck. The other three, he holds along the straps. “Draco will love them. And we don’t want Father and Mother to fell left out, do we?”

“Thank you, Lysander.” You smile but you can’t suppress the feeling that you will have to pay for them one way or the other.

*********************

“Prime seats!” exclaims the Ministry witch at the entrance after checking your tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, as high as you can go.”

You climb upwards with the rest of the crowd until it thins out and it’s only you and the other Malfoys still going up. Finally, you reach the top of the stairs and enter a small box. You look around for empty seats but most of them are already taken. There are only two seats left in the back row and three seats behind a family with characteristic red hair on the other side. You gulp. Impossible. They wouldn’t be able to afford tickets up here, would they?

“Ah, and here’s Lucius!” the Minister of Magic exclaims. He points to the three free seats on the left. “Why don’t you take these. And the happy couple can take the ones over there.” He smiles at you and points to the other seats.

“Ah, Fudge.” Lucius holds out his hand. “How are you?”

In the corner of your eyes, you see three heads turning around, watching you closely. Your heart skips a beat. “Is that Harry Potter?” your voice is barely above a whisper.

Draco nods. He looks like he smelled something rotten. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Do you know him? What’s he like? Can you introduce me to him?” Your excitement gets the better of you.

Your brother-in-law looks at you incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

Before you can answer, Lysander grabs your hand and gently places you beside him. He is standing next to Cornelius Fudge now. “Thank you again for this formidable wedding gift, Minister.”

You nod and smile. “We’re very grateful, sir.”

Fudge takes a small bow. “Oh, don’t mention it. And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk – Obalonsk – Mr – well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind.”

Lysander holds out a hand to the foreign Minister for Magic and says something to him in Bulgarian. The Minister laughs and puts a finger to his lips. Then he takes your hand and presses a kiss on the back of it. You smile at him in return. “Nice to meet you, Minister.”

“Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.”

You turn around at Fudge’s mention of the name.

“How – how nice,” Mr Weasley says. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and looks very strained. Your heart is racing. Next to him, you spot Bill, Charlie’s older brother. He doesn’t seem to notice you, though. He is looking down at his fists, clearly trying to hold himself back. What did you miss while you were talking to the Bulgarian? You quickly let your gaze wander over the redheads but luckily Charlie isn’t among them.

You quickly avert your eyes and usher Lysander to your seats. But before you can sit down, somebody calls your name. You look around and recognize Ludo Bagman. You used to spent your coffee break together, sometimes.

“I’ll just be a moment, Lysander. I’m just going to say hello to Ludo real quick, alright?” You place a kiss on his cheek before he can say no and make your way over to the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

He gives you a quick hug. “It’s good to see you, [y/n].”

“Likewise. Are you commentating today’s match?”

Ludo nods. “Yes, I am. I’m actually really nervous about it, but don’t tell anyone.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Of course not, Ludo.”

He chuckles. “Listen, [y/n]. I actually wanted to ask you about joining our Ministry Quidditch team. We’re a chaser short and I remember how good you were at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, you flatter me. But I wasn’t that good, besides-”

“Not that good?!” Ludo interrupts. “Hey, Charlie. Come over here for a sec, I need your expert opinion.”

Your stomach screams and you feel like you're going to puke, as you see the familiar Weasley strolling toward you. The shock keeps you rooted in place.

“Charlie, do you remember [y/n]?” Bagman asks. “Will you please tell her that she was an amazing Quidditch player?”

You keep your eyes fixed on the floor and fidget with the sleeves of your robes.

You almost don’t recognize his voice when he speaks. It’s gotten deeper and more velvety. “Of course I remember. She was excellent. [y/n], you scored 13 goals against us one time, remember?”

At the mention of your name, you look up at him. He smiles at you brightly and your heart takes a leap. Charlie’s broader now. His jaw is more pronounced, his face is tanned and marked from years taking care of dragons. But you’d know him anywhere. He’s still beautiful.

“Thank you. But you were a lot better than I was. You were the best seeker of the school – by far.”

Charlie flashes you a grin and you can’t help but grin in return.

“So that’s settled then. I’d love to have you on the team, Selwyn. I’ll send you an owl with the details,” Ludo interjects.

You don’t correct him on the false name. You only nod, wave them both goodbye, and make your way back to your seat.

You still feel a little sick from the interaction, when you sit down next to Lysander. You pray he didn’t recognize Charlie and won’t mind you talking to two other men instead of keeping him company. You open your mouth to say something to your husband but he doesn’t even acknowledge you.

You wait for the rebuke, the reprimand, but it never comes. Lysander is just quiet. His gaze is distant, trained on the Quidditch pitch. But you notice how hard he grips the omnioculars, his knuckles white. You know better than to ask.

You’re glad when Ludo finally starts the opening ceremony, giving you something else to think about.

*********************

The Veela appear on the field in a burst of light and impossible beauty. The crowd leans forward. Even the air seems to shimmer.

Men around you gape, enchanted. Lysander, too. His mouth is slightly agape and his eyes are glazed over, totally awestruck. In the front of the box, you can see Harry Potter and his friend, unmistakably one of Charlie’s brothers, standing up and trying to climb over the barrier.

Your curiosity gets the better of you and you turn to find Charlie sitting on the other side.

But he’s not even watching the Veela. He’s watching you.

You can’t read the expression on his face. Maybe hurt. Maybe longing. Maybe it’s both. Maybe neither.

You tear your gaze away and force yourself to focus on the ceremony again. You even whip out your omnioculars, trying hard to keep your eyes on the pitch. But your thoughts keep slipping. Back to that look. Back to Charlie Weasley.

Chapter Text

The Irish players have hardly left the box when Lysander’s fingers clamp around your arm like a vice.

You barely have time to turn toward him before he drags you out of the box, away from the flashing lights and the applause. Down the purple-carpeted stairs, out of the stadium, through the woods, and down the hill toward the campsite.

“Lysander, what—?” you gasp, trying to keep up. “Lysander, let go. What’s going on?”

He remains silent. He doesn’t even seem to register the handful of onlookers as he hurrys along, his robes billowing behind him. His grip never loosens and his fingers dig into your arm. You stumble and almost fall but Lysander catches you. Apart from that, he doesn’t grant you so much as a moment to catch your footing.

You try to dig your heels in the ground. “Please, stop. What’s gotten into you?”

Still nothing. Only deafening silence. He doesn’t even look at you. Of course, you have seen his dark side before. He has threatened and toyed with you a lot before your wedding. But this - this was something else.

By the time he shoves open the flap of the tent and hauls you inside, you're anxious with dark foreboding.

Lysander finally releases you with a push that sends you landing on the stone floor. You gasp and rub your wrists. He turns to the tent’s entrance and mumbles a few spells. You can make out Muffliato and something that sounds like Protego Totalum. You can no longer hear the echoes of the celebrating Irish fans outside. You look up at your husband with terror.

“You enjoyed yourself tonight,” he says at last.

“Yes?” Your voice shakes. “It was an exciting match.”

“Don’t mock me any further,” he snaps. “I meant him.”

Your stomach drops. Of course...

“Charlie Weasley,” he says, pronouncing every syllable like a curse. “I watched you. The way you smiled and laughed with him. Throwing yourself at him like a whore.”

You stare at him. “I was just being polite. Ludo-”

“I don’t want your excuses,” he interrupts and takes a step closer. “I know all about your little teenage romance. How he abandoned you. Yet here you are years later, trying to seduce him. You embarrassed me.”

“Seduce him?” You almost laugh at the absurdity of the accusation and start rising to your feet. “Lysander, it was only small talk.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he raises his wand and points it at you.

“Lysander...”

No warning. “Crucio.”

Pain detonates inside you. It’s all-consuming and goes on forever. Your knees buckle against the stone floor but you don’t even feel the impact. Every nerve in your body lights up at once and your muscles twist in endless pain. You hear someone screaming and it takes you a couple of moments to realise that the screams are coming from you. You can't remember a time before this torment and you can't imagine it ever stopping.

And then after an eternity... Silence. Your limbs are still trembling from the pain as you curl up llike a ball. You’re breathing hard, tears streaming down your face. Every inch of you remembers the excruciating agony, even though the curse has passed.

Lysander crouches down beside you. He seems immaculate and unshaken - like he didn't just torture you. His voice is cold and steady. “I do not tolerate being taken for a fool.”

You whimper. Your eyes remain closed, you don’t dare meeting his gaze.

“I didn’t enjoy punishing you, you know. It hurt me just as much as it hurt you, believe me. But you needed to be taught a lesson.”

Lysander moves closer and lifts your chin. When you don’t answer, he presses his fingers into your jaw with firm resolve. His lips are a hair’s breadth away from your ear as he whispers, “Tell me you understand why I had to punish you. That you understand that you forced my wand.”

You freeze. He can’t possibly believe what he’s saying. This was his decision alone. But you can’t quiet the voice in the back of your head that says that you have brought it on yourself. You shouldn't have talked to Charlie.

Lysander sighs and kisses your cheek softly. It makes your blood run cold. “You won’t ever lie to me again, will you?” he asks in a sweet voice.

You shake your head.

Lysander’s hands are on your waist now. He picks you up and guides you to the bed. You don’t dare to protest. Lysander gently wipes the tears from your face but they just keep coming.

“There there. I forgive you.” His lips graze your temple. “And you’ll make it up to me, won’t you?”

You know what he’s implying and are repelled at the thought but you’re too scared to push him away.

Lysander gently brushes his thumb across your lip, and you instinctively part your mouth slightly, only to feel him press his finger against your teeth. You reluctantly open up and he pushes his thumb inside your mouth.

“Remember, your actions have consequences,” Lysander murmurs in a mock-sympathetic tone. “You vowed to respect me? You vowed to obey me, didn’t you?”

You don’t know how to react, so you just close your eyes. Lysander lets out a low growl. He presses your tongue down with his thumb before he pulls it out and his hand collides with your cheek. It stings. Your eyelids flutter open, new tears pooling at the corner of your eyes.

“Answer me.” He sounds menacing, no trace of the fake kindness from before.

“Yes,” you choke out.

Another slap. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smirks. “Good girl.”

Chapter Text

Lysander presses a kiss on your lips, then makes a quick motion with his wand. You hear his robes fall to the floor. When he leans over you again, you try to move away from him. Your limbs still ache with the remnants of the Cruciatus Curse. Tears stream silently down your face as you push weakly against his chest.

“Lysander… please don’t,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t hear you. Or perhaps, more truthfully, he chooses not to. His hands return to your waist, fingers pressing against your flesh.

You shove harder. “Please, stop.”

The flap of the tent rustles and a voice makes you both freeze.

“Lysander? You forgot your omnioculars.”

Draco stands at the threshold, the straps of two pairs of golden omnioculars clutched in one hand.

“Fuck off!” Lysander barks in his brother’s direction.

You don’t dare make a single noise. Then you hear the sound of receding footsteps and the flaps of the tent closing again

Your husband smirks down at you. “If you don’t want this, why didn’t you ask my dear little brother to come rescue you?” He snarls viciously.

But before you can answer him, someone else enters your tent. Lucius’s eyes move slowly form his half-naked son to your tear-streaked face. His expression is unreadable – but the stillness in his posture speaks volumes.

You use the moment to crawl away from under your husband.

For a moment, no one speaks.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lucius asks. His tone is cold and composed.

Lysander stands up stiffly, making no attempt to cover himself. “This is private, Father.”

“I don’t think so,” Lucius replies. “Put your robes back on, son. And go to the family tent. Now.”

“Father–“

“Now!” The older Malfoy leaves no room for debate.

Lysander hesitates for only a beat longer before he uses a spell to dress himself. He storms out, muttering something under his breath. Lucius doesn’t watch him leave. His gaze is fixed on you instead.

You hastily wipe your cheeks and lower your eyes. The shame almost burns as hot as the pain from earlier.

He doesn’t address you. Neither comforts nor scolds you. He simply observes you for a long moment, then he nods to himself and turns on his heel, exiting the tent once again.

You press your back to the headboard of the bed. Your heart is pounding in your chest. What will happen to you now?

A couple of minutes later, the tent flaps open again. This time it’s your mother-in-law. Her eyes sweep the tent quickly. You almost flinch beneath her gaze but then something in her demeanour changes and she gently moves towards you.

“Oh, poor deary,” she says softly, kneeling beside the bed and brushing a lock of hair from your face.

You try to speak but only a sob escapes you. Narcissa conjures a handkerchief and gently dabs at your face, like a mother tending to a small child.

“I know,” she says quietly. “Lysander can be cruel.”

You open your mouth to tell her what happened but she hushes you. “You don’t need to explain, love.”

And for a moment you think that she understands. That she’s here to save you.

But then she rises and begins moving around the tent, summoning your trunk and beginning to pack your things with swift, practised flicks of her wand.

“Every marriage has its challenges,” she says, her tone turning slightly harsh. “You’ll move past this.”

You swallow hard. “He used the Cruciatus on me. And then he tried to…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence.

Narcissa pauses, her back to you. The silence stretches.

Then she resumes summoning your stuff. “That was perhaps unnecessary,” she says calmly. “But you will put it behind you, nevertheless. You’re both young and haven’t been married for long. You still have to learn what a marriage entails.”

You stare at her open-mouthed. “So I’m just supposed to go on like nothing ever happened?”

“No, of course not,” she sounds gentle again. She turns back to you and smiles sadly. “You’re going to come with me to the Manor. The others will stay here for the night. You’ll rest. You’ll have time to recover.”

You don’t argue. You’re too tired right now to demand justice.

Narcissa finishes packing and offers you her hand.

“Witches like us, we have to do what is expected of us. No matter how hard it is sometimes.”

You take her hand and follow her to the Apparition field.

Chapter Text

A sharp knock at the door jolts you from an uneasy sleep. For a moment you don't know where you are. Dark red wallpaper, a small dresser in a corner, a chair stuck under the door handle. Then you remember. Narcissa reassigned you to a guest chamber last night, murmuring that "perhaps you'll sleep more soundly here", before telling Pipsie to fetch your toiletries.

“Mistress?” Pipsie squeaks as she knocks again. "Come in," you croak. Your body feels sore and you feel even more tired than last night. The house-elf  waddles into the room. She's balancing a silver tray piled with toast, porridge, and a tiny pot of Narcissa’s orange-blossom honey. “Breakfast, mistress. Madam Narcissa says you are to rest.”

Rest. As if you had just worn yourself out yesterday... As if her son hadn't... You can't bring yourself to finish that thought.

You force a smile. “Thank you, Pipsie. Could you bring me The Daily Prophet?”

The elf’s ears flatten. “Madam Narcissa is saying no Prophet for mistress today.”

Which information is so dangerous that she wants to keep it from you? 

You soften your voice. “Pipsie, you’ve always taken such good care of me. Reading the Prophet will make me relax, I'm sure. Will you bring it, please?”

Pipsie wrings the hem of her tea-towel, then nods. “Of course, mistress. Pipsie wants you to rest and feel better soon.” She Disapparates with a loud pop.

You feel awful for manipulating her but you're too curious to care about the consequences je might face. Only moments later she returns, covertly sliding the newspaper beneath your breakfast tray.

You thank her full-heartedly. Her anxious frown melts into shy pride before she scurries away. You make a mental note to check on her later.

The moment she's gone, you reach for the parchment.

SCENES OF THERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP

Beneath it, a black-and-white photo flickers: the Dark Mark hangs above the treetops, its skull mouth opening and closing. You let out a small scream and the newspaper slips from your fingers. Your stomach revolts as you read on.

“A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later remains to be seen.”

You press a trembling hand to your mouth in shock. You read on to discover that a group of hooded wizards, almost certainly Death Eaters, spent the night tormenting a helpless Muggle family. Every instinct tells you that your husband and his father were among them.

You slide the untouched breakfast away from you. The news have killed the last bit of appatite you'd had.

Then you hear loud pops in the hallway. They're home. Much sooner than you would have liked.

You go and check the chair against the door. As if that could keep away Lysander and his magic.

Through the panel you can make out Lucius's muffled voice. "No mention of us, praise Merlin. Ensure it remains so, son."

Lysander answers. Insinctively, you take a step back. "Yes, Father. Thicknesse called me to the Ministry. He wants me at his side, leading the investigation."

"Good. Keep the aurors off our scent. But find the fool who cast the Mark. We must tie up loose ends."

Lysander's laugh chills you to the core. "Let's hope that Skeeter woman keeps spreading rumours about bodies. Ha! The public will drown the Minisitry in howlers for days."

Their footsteps recede. You sink down onto the bed, blood roaring in your ears.

You pray that Lysander will be kept busy at the Ministry, too.

********************************************

Alas, your prayer isn't answered.

"Madam Narcissa bids mistress come down for dinner," Pipsie tells you at a quarter to seven.

"I'm unwell," you whisper. "Tell her I'm not hungry."

Five minutes later Narcissa herself knocks on your door. She rattles the door handle before casting a quick Alohomora. The chair is send flying to the wall. She looks at you with an unreadable expression. She looks impeccable, as always.

"Get dress and come dine with the family," she orders. "Marriages survive on appearances - if nothing else."

"I can't face him yet." Your voice cracks. "Please, don't make me."

"You must." She brushes a strand of hair from your face. "A dutiful wife mustn't lose her grace just because her husband stumbles." You can make out the smallest glimmer of pity in her eyes. She pets your arm before adding. "I'll be waiting outside. You've got five minutes."

When you step out of your room, dressed in a floor-length emerald dress, she escorts you to through the endless corridors.

Lysander is already waiting outside the dining room. You stop in your tracks before your mother-in-law drags you further along.

There are dark shadows under his eyes but apart from that there's no trace of last night's violence on him.

"Mother, I'd like a moment alone with my wife, please," he greets.

You tighten your grip on her fingers as if they were lifelines. But Narcissa just nods before slipping free from your grasp. She closes the door behind her.

You take a few steps back as he approaches you.

"Here, I saw this in Diagon Alley on my lunch break. It made me think of you." His tone is almost tender as he offers you a small box.

When you don't reach for it, a flash of anger appears on Lysander's face. But it's gone as fast as it went.

He lifts the lid. Diamonds sparke on a black velvet band, a huge emerald in the middle. "Allow me?"

He doesn't wait for your answer before stepping behind you and sweeping your hair aside. You flinch under his touch.

He closes the clasps. The choker presses against your bruised skin. When his fingers slide along the marks he left, you wince. He chuckles softly.

"You're beautiful like this," he murmurs.

Then he offers you his arm and you have no choice but to take it. Together you enter the dining room. Lucius und Draco rise and greet you.

During dinner nobody mentions what they witnessed in the tent last night. Instead, Narcissa mentions how beautiful the necklace is that Lysander got you. You zone out of the conversation. 

You won't be bought with expensive gifts.

When dessert arrives Lysander reaches out to you. He acts like he doesn't notice you pulling away before placing his and on your throat, tenderly stroking the velvet band.

"I love you," he whispers before pressing a kiss on your temple.

You turn away and your eyes meet Narcissa's over her wineglass. She gives you a small reassuring smile before looking away again. She seems pleased with the charade.

********************************************

After dinner Lysander escorts you back to the east wing. His hand rests on the small of your back, drifting lower every time you round a corner, until he finally reaches the curve of your ass.

You can feel the eyes of the portraits following you. You wish you could just disappear.

When you reach the room Narcissa assigned you, he halts. The chocker at your throat seems to tighten. Suddenly, it's hard for you to breath.

Lysander turns, presses your back against the door and blocks the hall so you cannot slide past him. His lips curve in a faint smile.

"This looks perfect on you," he murmurs, fingertips brushing the necklace. He leans in and traces your bruises with his lips, before pressing his mouth to yours. The softness of his touch almost terrifies you more than his cruelty. Like a cat playing with a mouse.

When he finally pulls back, you shudder. He smiles.

"Are you frightened of me?" he whispers without hiding his delight.

You look away. A hearbeat later he twitsts the doorhandle and opens the door. It makes you stumble over the threshould. You gasp.

Lysander remains standing in the doorway, his hand remaining on the door handle. "Sleep well, darling," he says in a smooth voice before shutting the door with a soft click.

Only when his footsteps fade down the corridor you can breath again.

You reach behind and open the clasps, letting the choker fall down on the floor.