The door clicked softly shut behind her, cutting off the sound of rain and leaving the cottage in a quiet that felt far too intimate. The place was small—two rooms, crooked floorboards, and a fireplace that had already tried to smoke them out once. The air smelled faintly of lavender and fresh paint, like someone had tried too hard to make it feel like “home.”

Draco stood near the window, arms folded, coat still on. He didn’t turn when she stepped inside. His gaze was fixed on the street beyond the glass, where the man they’d come to observe—Simon Wren—was just now hauling a recycling bin to the curb like someone with absolutely nothing to hide.

“Well,” he said at last, voice clipped, “welcome to suburbia.”

He turned, slowly. The silver wedding band on his finger caught the lamplight—charmed, Ministry-issued, and deeply undignified. His eyes flicked to hers, then to the bag still clutched in her hand.

“Simon Wren. Thirty-two. Muggle tech contractor with Ministry-adjacent access. Works from home, odd hours, flagged twice in Magical Transportation logs, and somehow has a suspicious understanding of wand mechanics for someone without a drop of magic. Our job is to watch. Listen. Stay close.”

Another pause.

“Pretend to be newlyweds.”

He arched a brow, gesturing toward the stack of fake mail on the side table. All addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.

“Barbara from Number 5 already dropped off lemon squares and asked how we met. I said a trip in Greece. She asked if it was romantic. I said yes. She cried.”

Draco’s lips twitched, but it didn’t quite become a smile. He finally shrugged off his coat, casting a glance toward the bedroom door—the only one.

“One bed. No privacy. Shared cover story. How quaint.”

His eyes met hers again, dry and unreadable.

“Try not to wander off, darling. I'd hate to lose my wife on our first day.”