Tori

*15 years earlier*

The towering gates of Malfoy Manor loomed ahead, their iron bars gleaming like dark sentinels against the dreary sky. Hermione Granger stared at them for a moment, feeling the weight of their presence settle into her chest. The world had changed, irrevocably so, and this was now her reality—one she had never imagined, let alone chosen.

Her hands trembled as she looked out the window of the carriage, the familiar hum of the air doing little to ease the cold knot in her stomach. The carriage had been sealed with anti-apparition wards and the magic made sure that only a member of the Malfoy staff could open the door. It was the middle of the night, and a thick mist had begun to creep across the grounds, swirling around the edges of the mansion like something alive. The once-grand estate seemed to sag beneath the weight of its own history, its pale stone walls standing tall but hollow, as though the very air within was suffused with something unseen—a presence that wasn’t quite dead, but not truly alive either.

With a deep breath, the carriage crawled toward the front door, where a house-elf stood waiting. It was only then that Hermione saw him—Draco Malfoy, standing at the top of the stairs leading into the manor. His figure was rigid, outlined by the pale glow of the moonlight that filtered through the clouds. He wore an impeccable black robe, his platinum-blonde hair neatly styled, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, neither moved. It was a strange dance, one they had both been forced into. Her marriage to Draco, a union born from the cruel machinations of a world now controlled by Voldemort, felt as though it had been dictated by some invisible hand. There had been no love between them, no promise of companionship. It was a forced alliance—one born of duty and necessity.

When Hermione dismounted from her broom, her feet landing soundlessly on the gravel of the entrance, Draco’s cold eyes flicked over her briefly, like a cursory glance at a stranger. The silence stretched between them, thick and palpable. Finally, Draco spoke, his voice low and distant.

“You’re late,” he said, the words clipped, offering no more warmth than the chill of the night air.

Hermione stiffened but did not respond. There was nothing left to say.

"Come," he continued, his tone giving no room for argument. “I’ll show you to your room.”

His presence was like a shadow, ever at the edge of her vision, unyielding and uninviting. She followed him inside, the heavy oak door closing behind them with a dull thud that seemed to echo through the empty hallways. The manor felt oddly suffocating, like the walls themselves were closing in on her, pressing in with a quiet, unrelenting pressure.

The foyer was as she remembered from the few times she had visited Malfoy Manor during their brief—and now distant—engagement. The grand staircase spiraled upward, its polished banisters gleaming in the dim light. Portraits of past Malfoy ancestors lined the walls, their eyes following her as she moved further into the house. She could not escape the feeling that she was intruding on a place that did not want visitors. The entire manor felt frozen in time, a reflection of a past that could not—and would not—be forgotten.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, unable to shake the discomfort gnawing at her, “who... who is that?” She motioned toward one of the portraits—a young woman with dark, striking features. Her eyes were bright, but there was something unsettling about the way she gazed out from the canvas, as though she knew something Hermione did not.

Draco stiffened beside her, his gaze flicking to the painting before he answered, his tone sharp and clipped. “That’s Astoria Greengrass. My... fiancée, before all of this anyway.”

The words hung in the air like a weight, and Hermione’s throat tightened. She had known of Astoria, of course—Astoria Greengrass, the beautiful, delicate young woman who had been the perfect match for Draco in his father’s eyes. The one who had tragically died before the war had truly escalated, just months before Draco was thrust into his own battle for his life and soul.

Astoria’s sudden death had never been fully explained—there had been whispers, rumors among the families, but nothing concrete. Her passing had been a blow to Draco, one that he rarely spoke of. And yet, even here, in the very walls of this house, it seemed as though her presence never truly left.

Hermione glanced back at Draco, who was staring at the portrait with a cold expression. His eyes were distant, his jaw clenched as though he were bracing himself against a tide of memories.

“I see,” Hermione murmured, unsure of how to respond. She hadn’t expected this. To see Astoria’s portrait here, so prominent, so... alive in the house. The thought of the woman who had once been Draco’s entire world was disorienting, to say the least.

Draco finally turned toward her, his face a mask of forced indifference. “I don’t want to talk about it, Granger. Not now.” The air smelled faintly of dust and old perfume, like a place frozen in time. The whispers of the past, of tragedies and old wounds, swirled around them.

Draco led her up the stairs without another word. His gait was stiff, but efficient, his steps echoing in the silence. Hermione couldn’t help but notice the way his shoulders tensed slightly with each step they took, like someone walking through a house they no longer called home.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Draco stopped and turned to face her. His eyes, though outwardly composed, seemed almost haunted. His mouth set in a thin line, as though restraining something—some deeper emotion or thought that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, express.

“This is your room,” he said, gesturing to the door at the end of the hallway. "I trust you will find everything you need."

Hermione stepped past him, her fingers brushing the cold doorknob. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, knowing that even the smallest glance would betray the thoughts she had long kept locked inside. But before she could enter, Draco’s voice stopped her once more.

"One more thing," he said, his tone harder now. "While you're here, I expect you to follow the rules. The way you act, the way you speak—everything. You will behave as you should, and you will remember your place. Don't forget that."

Hermione froze. The words stung more than she expected. She wanted to argue, to snap back, to fight back against the cold and calculated way he treated her. But something in his eyes—something darker, like a ghost of grief that lingered—held her in place. She swallowed her words, biting her lip until it hurt, and nodded stiffly.

Draco’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned, walking away without another word, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Hermione entered the room, the door shutting softly behind her with an unsettling finality. She stood in the center of the room, taking in the opulent surroundings. The bed was enormous, draped in deep black velvet, and the walls were lined with heavy, dark wood furniture. The room itself felt suffocating, like the weight of history pressed against her.

But what unsettled her the most were the windows. The thick curtains were drawn open just slightly, allowing a sliver of moonlight to creep inside. Through the narrow gap, she could see the darkened grounds outside, the mist creeping through the garden like an ethereal presence.

A faint sound broke the stillness—a soft whisper, almost imperceptible, as if the walls themselves were trying to speak. Hermione’s breath hitched, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

The room was far from empty. It was filled with something more than just the weight of the past. Something unseen, perhaps a memory of a love lost—of a life that had never been fully realized.

Her hand shook as she reached out to pull the curtains shut. She didn't know if it was her own fear or something else—a lingering presence that refused to leave the manor—that made her feel as though she were being watched.

In the silence, the door creaked open once more.

Draco’s voice, low and sharp, cut through the heavy air. “And one more thing—don’t think you’re alone in this. Remember, you are still my wife. Act accordingly.”

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made Hermione's stomach twist.

She was in this house now. Trapped in a marriage she never wanted, living with a man who might as well be a stranger. And above all, she knew one thing for certain: the ghosts of the past were not easily forgotten in this place.