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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – Ashes of War

The Manor was quiet. Too quiet.

Draco had grown up with its silence—the kind that pressed against his ears like heavy velvet, the kind that made a boy’s footsteps echo when he crept down corridors he wasn’t supposed to. But this silence was different. This one reeked of defeat.

The chandelier still hung in the drawing room, glittering faintly in the pale morning light, but Draco could not look at it without seeing Potter suspended beneath it, skin carved open by his aunt’s wand. He had tried, once, to scrub the memory away with firewhisky. It hadn’t worked.

The war was over. Voldemort was gone. And yet, Draco still woke some nights with the Dark Lord’s red eyes burned into his skull.

“Draco.”

He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice. Narcissa Malfoy glided into the room like the ghost of herself. She wore silver today, cut elegantly as always, but her shoulders sagged in ways they never used to. Her beauty was intact; her pride was not.

“You’re needed in the study.”

He frowned. “What now?”

She didn’t answer, merely turned and expected him to follow. He did. He always did.

The study smelled of old parchment and spiced tea. His father sat stiffly behind the desk, a shadow of the man who once sneered at the world as if it owed him everything. Lucius Malfoy had lost more than the war; he had lost the illusion of control.

“Draco,” Narcissa began carefully, “our position is… precarious.”

He almost laughed. Precarious? That was one word for it. Their name was mud. Their so-called friends had abandoned them. The Wizengamot had very nearly sent them all to Azkaban. Only Potter’s inconvenient honesty—that Draco had hesitated, that he had lowered his wand—had swayed the sentence.

“I had noticed,” Draco said dryly.

Narcissa’s lips tightened. “This is not the time for sarcasm. The family requires stability. We must rebuild.”

Lucius’s voice was gravel when he spoke. “There is but one way left to secure the Malfoy name. You must marry, Draco.”

The words landed like chains. Draco felt them coil around his throat. He had known, of course, that this day would come. Malfoys did not marry for love. They married for advantage. For power. For survival.

He forced his expression into bored disdain. “And who is the lucky bride?”

Narcissa exchanged a glance with Lucius. Something passed between them—something sharp, secret. Draco’s stomach twisted.

“You will be informed soon,” she said at last. “What matters is that this marriage will restore us. It will place us back where we belong.”

Back where we belong. As if the world hadn’t burned. As if the Malfoy name hadn’t been dragged through blood and ashes.

Draco inclined his head with a bitterness he didn’t bother to hide. “Very well. I’ll play the dutiful son.”

Narcissa’s eyes softened, just for a heartbeat. She reached out, brushed his hair from his forehead like he was still her boy. “You won’t regret this, Draco. It’s the only way.”

But Draco already knew regret would be the least of it.

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✨ End of Chapter 1

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Chapter Text

Chapter 2 – The Weight of Expectations

Breakfast was a strained affair in Malfoy Manor.

The long dining table stretched like a chasm between them. Once, it had been lined with silver trays and goblets of wine, the clinking of cutlery softened by polite conversation. Now, the table felt bare. The elves had prepared everything properly—eggs, toast, delicate slivers of ham—but none of it tasted of anything.

Draco stared at his plate, poked the yolk until it bled across the porcelain. His father’s silence was heavier than any reprimand. Narcissa’s attempts at composure only sharpened the atmosphere further.

“Draco,” she said eventually, folding her napkin with precision. “You have fittings this afternoon.”

He lifted a brow. “Fittings?”

“For your new robes. Formal ones. You’ll need to look your best.”

Draco smirked, a brittle thing. “Ah, yes. Because what’s left of wizarding society simply cannot wait to see me again.”

Lucius’s fork clattered against his plate. “Enough,” he snapped. His hair was paler than ever, thin at the temples, and his voice carried none of its old authority. “You will not speak like that.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, cool and careless on the surface, even as something acidic churned beneath his ribs. “Like what, Father? Truthfully?”

Narcissa’s hand came to rest on Lucius’s wrist before tempers could flare further. Her eyes fixed on Draco, calm but sharp. “You will need allies, my son. Our family cannot afford pride. Not now.”

Allies. That was what they called it. Draco wanted to laugh—scream, maybe. The word tasted like ash.

“Tell me something, Mother,” he said, his voice deceptively lazy. “Do these… allies of ours actually want me, or merely what binding themselves to a disgraced Malfoy might buy them?”

For the briefest flicker, guilt crossed her face. Then it was gone, replaced by practiced serenity. “Appearances matter, Draco. They always have. A union with the right house will restore us.”

Union. Not marriage. Never marriage. Not for love. Not for happiness.

Draco shoved his chair back. The scrape echoed like a curse. “I’ll attend your fittings,” he drawled. “I’ll play the part. But don’t expect me to enjoy being paraded about like some prized—” He bit off the word commodity. The silence completed it for him.

Without waiting for a dismissal, he left the dining hall.

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He found himself wandering the gardens.

The hedges were overgrown, the fountain stagnant, but at least the air outside didn’t reek of dust and guilt. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, inhaled until his lungs burned.

It had always been like this. Expectations pressed onto him like armor too heavy for his frame. At school, it had been House points, Quidditch victories, the sneering role of “Malfoy heir.” In the war, it had been obedience, survival, submission.

Now, it was marriage. Another leash. Another cage.

He stared out over the wilted rose bushes and wondered—if he closed his eyes and tipped forward—would the earth swallow him whole? Would anyone notice?

“Draco.”

Narcissa’s voice again. Always her voice. He crushed the cigarette underfoot before turning.

Her face was gentler here, away from Lucius. Softer. Almost human. “I know you feel trapped,” she said quietly. “But I promise you, this will secure your future.”

His laugh was hollow. “My future? Or the family’s?”

“Both,” she admitted.

She touched his arm lightly, her eyes searching his face. “You may not see it now, but one day you will understand.”

Draco didn’t answer. He only looked at her hand on his sleeve and wondered what price she had already set on him.

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✨ End of Chapter 2

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Chapter Text

Chapter 3 – Displayed

The first event was a tea.

Small, discreet, attended only by a handful of old pure-blood families who had weathered the war with reputations largely intact. Narcissa chose Draco’s robes herself—charcoal grey with silver trim, understated but elegant. Nothing too bold, nothing that might draw fire.

“You will listen more than you speak,” she instructed as she adjusted his cuffs. “Smile when appropriate. Offer compliments sparingly. Let them see that you have matured.”

Draco caught his reflection in the mirror—pale skin, sharp jaw, tired eyes that gave away too much. He smirked to cover it. “And what if I have not matured, Mother?”

Her hand paused on his sleeve. “Then you will pretend you have.”

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The sitting room at the Greengrass estate smelled of polished wood and roses. Lady Greengrass welcomed them with all the warmth of a hostess who did not want to offend, but did not particularly want them there, either. Astoria hovered at her mother’s side, delicate as glass.

Draco bowed politely, murmured the right words. He noticed Astoria’s downcast eyes, the way her fingers twisted in her skirts. She looked as trapped as he felt.

They sat. Tea was poured. Conversation danced carefully around the war, like no one dared to touch its bones.

“Such a shame,” Lady Greengrass said sweetly, “that the Malfoys have been… misrepresented. I do hope society will see your true worth again, in time.”

Draco bit back a laugh. Misrepresented. As though his family had merely suffered a bad press cycle.

Narcissa replied smoothly, “We are confident that with the right alliances, matters will correct themselves.”

Alliances. The word again.

Astoria lifted her gaze for a brief moment, met Draco’s eyes, then quickly looked away. There was pity there, and something worse: resignation.

By the end of the afternoon, Draco’s jaw ached from smiling.

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The next event was a dinner at the Parkinsons’.

Pansy swept up to him in her usual perfume cloud, bold as ever. “Draco, darling, you’re looking devastating. Positively wasted on exile.”

“Exile,” he echoed wryly. “Yes, that’s one way of putting it.”

Lucius made polite conversation with Mr. Parkinson, while Narcissa and Pansy’s mother traded sharp compliments disguised as niceties. Draco endured being assessed like a piece of merchandise. The Parkinson patriarch’s eyes kept sliding to him as if measuring weight and cost.

When dessert was served, Pansy leaned close, her voice a low murmur only he could hear. “You’re going to be married off, aren’t you?”

Draco stilled.

She smirked knowingly. “Don’t look so shocked. Everyone knows the Malfoys need to sell you like a—”

“Finish that sentence,” Draco said silkily, “and I’ll hex your tongue to the roof of your mouth.”

She only laughed.

But her words stayed with him.

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Over the following weeks, the pattern repeated.

Fittings, teas, suppers, carefully staged reintroductions. Everywhere he went, Draco felt eyes on him—assessing, calculating, deciding if he was worth the risk of association. Every compliment tasted like poison. Every handshake felt like a shackle.

At night, he returned to the Manor and shut himself in his room, where the silence pressed down like a coffin.

One evening, as he unbuttoned his stiff collar, he caught his mother’s reflection in the doorway.

“You are doing well,” she said softly. “Better than I hoped.”

Draco turned, frustration spilling past his restraint. “Tell me, Mother—do you plan to marry me off like a prized hippogriff, or have you something even more humiliating in mind?”

For a long moment, Narcissa’s eyes gave nothing away. Then she said, almost too gently, “You will see soon enough.”

And Draco knew, in the pit of his stomach, that whatever cage they were building for him—he was already inside it.

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✨ End of Chapter 3

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Chapter Text

Chapter 4 – The Cage Closes

The invitation came on embossed parchment, sealed in green wax.

“The Notts,” Narcissa said, tapping the crest with one elegant finger. “They have expressed an interest in… reconciliation.”

Draco’s lip curled. “Reconciliation, or acquisition?”

“Does it matter?” Lucius snapped from his armchair. His cane tapped irritably against the floor. “Every family worth anything is watching us. You should be grateful your name still inspires interest at all.”

Draco bit back the retort that burned his tongue. Grateful. Yes. He should be grateful that he was still a commodity worth bartering over.

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The Nott estate was dimly lit, the walls lined with books and shadows. Theo was there, thinner than Draco remembered, his expression shuttered.

“Draco,” Theo greeted, voice flat.

“Theo.” Draco offered a tight smile, though something twisted in his chest. They had once been almost-friends. But too much had burned between them during the war—loyalties, betrayals, silences.

Dinner was tense. Mr. Nott eyed Draco across the table like a merchant considering a purchase. His questions were direct, invasive.

“What do you envision for your future, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. He set it down deliberately. “Surviving the present would be a fine start.”

Lucius’s glare could have stripped paint from the walls. Narcissa intervened smoothly, redirecting the conversation. Draco tuned it out, focusing on Theo instead. Theo avoided his eyes, pushing food around his plate.

It struck Draco then: Theo was just as trapped. Another heir, another pawn. Different house, same cage.

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Back at the Manor, Draco yanked off his formal robes and threw them across the bed.

“I won’t do this,” he snarled when Narcissa entered. “I won’t smile and nod while you sell me to the highest bidder.”

Her silence was telling. Too telling.

The bottom dropped out of Draco’s stomach. He stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Not marriage. Not alliance. A bloody auction.”

Narcissa’s gaze didn’t falter. “It is the only way, Draco.”

The room spun. He laughed, sharp and hollow. “You can’t be serious.”

Lucius appeared in the doorway, his face drawn but resolute. “Do you think anyone would choose us now? The Malfoy name is poison. The only worth we have left is what others are willing to pay for it.”

“Pay—for me?” Draco’s voice cracked with fury. “I’m not some trinket to be bid on!”

“You are our son,” Narcissa said softly, and that, somehow, was worse. Because it meant she believed this was love. That sacrificing him on the altar of reputation was the same as saving him.

Draco’s hands curled into fists. The walls of the Manor seemed to close in, stone and silence and expectation pressing down until he could barely breathe.

At last, his mother spoke again, her tone final, merciless in its gentleness.

“The arrangements have already been made. Tomorrow night, the bidding begins.”

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