DRACO MALFOY

The door to the Advanced Magical Theory classroom swung open with a creak, and Draco Malfoy strode in like he owned the place. Which, in a way, he did—what with his father's "generous donations" to Hogwarts' restoration fund.

Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Gregory Goyle filed in behind him, an entourage of sneers and self-importance. Professor Slughorn's Advanced Dark Potions seminar wouldn't begin for another ten minutes—plenty of time to establish dominance. Draco's eyes swept the room, pale silver and assessing, until they landed on a figure already seated near the front.

And there she was.

His future ball and chain, hunched over some pathetic excuse for notes. Draco felt his jaw tighten, a muscle flickering beneath the pale skin of his cheek. The Ministry's revival of ancient blood contracts had been the final insult after the war. The Sacred Twenty-Eight families had secured their futures—and his father had secured his, without bothering to consult the heir himself.

Marriage. To her. As if the Malfoy line needed strengthening through... that.

He felt the familiar surge of resentment tightening in his chest. She may be pureblood, but she wasn’t fit to polish the Malfoy crest, let alone wear it. The mere thought of calling her his wife someday made his stomach turn in disgust.

"Careful, Draco," Blaise murmured beside him, a smirk playing on his lips. "You're staring at her again. People might think you actually care."

Draco's jaw clenched. "I'm observing the merchandise, Zabini. Making sure I'm not being sold damaged goods."

But even as the cruel words left his mouth, Draco couldn't deny the uncomfortable awareness he felt whenever she was near. The way her hair caught the light from the enchanted windows. The graceful movement of her hands as she took notes. It disgusted him, this involuntary attention his body paid her.

"Cheer up, mate," Blaise said, elbowing him with a grin. "I mean, it could be worse, right? At least she's easy on the eyes," Blaise's laughter was quiet but cutting. "You should establish the ground rules early, Malfoy. Break her in before the ceremony. After all, she's practically Malfoy property already." He kept continuing on, leaning closer with a vicious whisper, "I wouldn't mind taking her for a test ride before you're forced to bed her. Consider it a friendly service—I could tell you if she's worth the Malfoy name."

"Shut. Up." Draco snarled the words through gritted teeth. "One more word, Zabini, and I'll hex your tongue to the roof of your mouth."

Blaise held up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes were laughing. Nott and Goyle just grunted, too thick to follow the subtext.

Before Draco could analyze the possessive rage surging through him, he was already moving toward her table, leaving Blaise with a warning glare that promised consequences later.

"Playing the diligent student today, are we?" Draco drawled, positioning himself to cast a shadow over her parchment. His voice was soft but carried an edge sharp enough to slice through stone. "How utterly predictable."

With deliberate slowness, he placed his fingertips on her textbook and slid it away from her reach.

"Tell me," he continued, leaning down until his breath stirred her hair, "do you practice being this pathetic, or is it a natural talent? Because the thought of being chained to someone so desperately ordinary makes me question whether preserving the bloodline is worth the sacrifice."

He straightened, examining his immaculate fingernails as though they'd been contaminated.

"I've been reviewing the contract terms," he announced, loud enough for nearby students to hear. "There's nothing that says I have to be faithful, thank Merlin. Just produce an heir. Ten minutes of unfortunate necessity, and then you can return to whatever sad little corner of the manor we assign you."

Nott and Goyle chuckled on cue, while Draco's eyes remained fixed on her, waiting for the hurt to bloom across her features. Needing it, somehow. Needing to see that he could still wound her, still maintain control over whatever this unwanted arrangement was becoming.

But there was something else beneath his cruelty—a question that haunted him more with each passing day: why did breaking her feel increasingly like breaking himself?

"Professor Slughorn will be here any moment," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he leaned in once more. "Let's continue this discussion later, when I can properly explain your place in my world. And trust me—"his voice softened to a silken threat as his fingers brushed against the edge of her parchment, "you'll want to hear every detail of how meaningless you are to me."

A strand of his immaculate blond hair fell across his forehead as he leaned closer, close enough that only she could hear his next words. The proximity sent an involuntary shiver of disgust through his body—or at least, that's what he told himself it was.

"Do you think wearing the Malfoy ring will make you worthy? That bearing my name will elevate your status?" Draco's lips curled into a cruel smile. "My father may have signed that contract, but I will spend every day ensuring you regret being bound to me."

He straightened suddenly, noticing a slight tremor in his own hand. This reaction to her—this intensity—was unacceptable. Infuriating. He shouldn't care enough to be this cruel. She should be beneath his notice entirely.

Draco's gaze drifted to her throat, to the pulse beating there, and something primal within him responded. The thought of her wearing his family's emerald pendant against that skin made his magic stir uncomfortably beneath his own.

"Perhaps," he continued, voice dropping an octave lower, "I'll invite you to watch when I take one of the pureblood girls who actually deserves my attention." His silver eyes glittered with malice. "Educational purposes, of course. You'll need to know what pleasure looks like, since you'll never experience it with me."

The classroom door creaked open as other students filed in. Draco's time was running short. With deliberate slowness, he placed both palms flat on her desk, caging her in his shadow.

"You have Potions notes from last week that I require," he declared, loud enough for others to hear this mundane demand. Then, for her ears alone: "My room. Tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't make me come looking for you."

He pushed himself upright, turning away as though dismissing something inconsequential. But as he stalked back to his waiting friends, Draco's mind raced with uncomfortable questions. Why did her scent linger in his senses? Why did the thought of Blaise touching her make him want to cast an Unforgivable? And most disturbing of all—why couldn't he stop imagining what she might look like, wearing nothing but his family's signet ring?