Chapter 2
I sat in the dim light of my study, the fire casting flickering shadows against the tall walls of Malfoy Manor. The room smelled of aged parchment and dust, like a legacy crumbling around me. Running a hand through my platinum hair, I looked down at the official summons on the desk in front of me, the Ministry’s seal glaring up like an omen.
My name was still poison. No matter what I did, no matter how many times I bent the knee, made reparations, or distanced myself from my father’s sins, the world would never forgive me. I was a Malfoy. And in the eyes of the wizarding world, Malfoy was synonymous with treachery.
For five years, I had carried the burden of my name, enduring isolation, judgment, and constant reminders of my family’s past. I avoided the public eye, refused the privileges that came with my status, and took quiet work in the Department of Magical Artifacts—far from the political games I had once been groomed for. And still, the whispers clung to me like a tattered cloak, a haunting presence that never wavered.
"Death Eater scum."
"Probably still loyal to the Dark Lord."
"Bought his freedom, didn’t he?"
The words never changed. It didn’t matter that I had been a terrified boy caught up in a war I couldn’t control. It didn’t matter that I refused to kill Dumbledore, that I lowered my wand in the final battle. None of it mattered.
And now, the Ministry had found yet another way to exploit me.
My fingers tightened around the parchment, creasing the delicate script. The proposal was absurd, a twisted manipulation of power and a blatant disregard for my autonomy. No—worse. It was punishment disguised as diplomacy. A calculated move to coerce me into compliance.
A political marriage. To Hermione Granger.
I exhaled sharply, pushing myself up from the desk. Pacing the length of the room, I felt rage claw at my ribs. Of all the people they could have bound me to, they chose her. The wartime hero. The Minister’s golden girl. The living embodiment of everything my family had once stood against.
I should have expected it. The Ministry had no interest in justice; they only cared about appearances, about maintaining the illusion of unity, regardless of personal cost. And what better way to tie up loose ends than to bind a disgraced pureblood heir to the most brilliant Muggle-born of our era? It was a spectacle, a carefully crafted symbol of reconciliation.
My stomach twisted.
She’d never agree to this. Granger had spent years fighting against everything my family represented. The thought of sharing a life with me would repulse her. But I knew the truth—neither of us had a choice.
A bitter laugh escaped me. It seemed fate had a sense of humor.
I walked to the liquor cabinet in the corner and poured myself a drink with steady hands. I had tried to atone. I had stayed silent, followed their rules, done everything short of carving the words I am not my father into my skin.
And still, they demanded more.
Lifting the glass to my lips, I let the firewhiskey burn its way down my throat. Fine. If they wanted a Malfoy, they would get one. But I’d be damned if I played the obedient pawn they expected.
If they thought this marriage would break me, they were sorely mistaken.
I tossed the empty glass onto my desk with a dull thud and rubbed my temples as I stalked toward the window. The moonlight cast a cold glow over the frost-kissed gardens outside, illuminating the manicured hedges and marble pathways where I had once played as a child. The same grounds where my father once stood, proud and unyielding, lecturing me on bloodlines and inheritance.
"Malfoys do not beg. Malfoys do not submit."
And yet, here I was—the latest pawn in the Ministry’s twisted reconciliation game.
I exhaled, my breath fogging against the glass as I leaned into it. My fingers twitched at my side, itching to crumple the damned parchment, burn it in the fireplace, and pretend it never existed. But the words had already embedded themselves in my mind.
Hermione Granger.
Her name had once been a curse, a thorn in my side, a constant reminder of everything I had been raised to loathe. But that was years ago. The war had shattered the illusions of childhood.
And Granger… Granger had grown into adulthood well.
That wasn’t what I expected. I’d seen her in the papers over the years, usually beside Potter, sometimes with Weasley. I’d watched her stand before the Wizengamot, debating legislation with the same fervor she had once reserved for Hogwarts classrooms, her voice sharp, her conviction unwavering. She was always at charity events, shaking hands, smiling, beaming at children who looked at her as if she were the sun.
And there she was, in sleek, professional robes that did nothing to hide the curve of her waist, the strength of her posture, the confidence that seemed to radiate from her very being.
I scoffed and shook my head. The sheer absurdity of the situation threatened to overwhelm me.
I had spent years avoiding the public eye, content in my silence, while she had thrived in the spotlight. She belonged in this new world—where war heroes became policymakers and ideals shaped the future.
And I? I was a relic. A cautionary tale. A whispered reminder of an era best left forgotten.
The thought twisted my stomach. How the hell were we supposed to make this work?
It would be a disaster. A catastrophe waiting to unfold. She would loathe me. I would resent her. We would tear each other apart before the ink dried on whatever magically binding contract the Ministry intended to draft.
And yet—
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair.
I had spent so long trying to prove to the world that I wasn’t my father. That I wasn’t the same boy who had stood on the Astronomy Tower, wand in hand, uncertain of who he was.
Maybe, just maybe, this was my chance to prove it.
To myself. To them.
To her.
A sharp knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts.
“Master Malfoy,” came the voice of my aging house elf, Albie. “A Ministry official is here to see you.”
I straightened, bracing myself.
The game had begun. And I had no choice but to play.