Little White House

Little white house

Pansy Iphigenia Malfoy prided herself on being the perfect wife. When Draco asked her to marry him, she said yes, and was immediately planning the wedding, and the rest of her life, as she would aid and support him in all his tasks. It was nothing less than her duty.

She was always diligent in the care and upkeep of Malfoy Manor, and could answer any question on its heritage and ancestry - she always knew that in marrying in, she would be becoming part of an older tradition, something larger than herself; a sense of living history that demanded respect and deference, and she did her best to live her to those demands.

Their wedding day was everything Pansy had dreamed - the best church in wizard London, with a suitably large sprinkling of the best pureblood families. Draco had looked perfect in his tuxedo and Pansy herself had been the blushing bride, suitably attired in virgin white. Despite some rumours that had chased her through the later years of Hogwarts, Pansy had never given herself up to Draco before that night, believing (as her mother told her) that the inherent magic of the wedding rite would imbue her virginity with a sacred status, and make the love-making more brilliant for it. Draco himself had shown no inclination to bed her before they were duly wed; but then, he was always the perfect gentleman.

That night had been...perhaps not brilliant, but Pansy had admitted that she would most likely expecting too much. Draco was very chivalrous, and very tender in bed - some might say slow, or lacking in enthusiasm, but Pansy was certain tender was the correct word. Some more experience women might have accused her husband of an almost mechanical, do-it-by-the-numbers strategy, as if he learnt lovemaking from a text book, in which the male had to proceed through steps one through five in order to insert tab A into slot B.

Fortunately for Pansy, she was not one of those women, and besides, the predictability of their sex was one of the many things she cherished about Draco. It was familiar, comfortable, and Pansy had never been one for surprises anyway.

After the wedding, their lives settled into a pleasant routine: Pansy took care of Malfoy Manor, acting on behalf of Draco's interests in order to maintain the house and its estates, and certainly, he absently praised her as a good manager. Draco was, unavoidably, often away on business, staying at the family's townhouse in London, or on the Continent: making deals, or tying up investments, making sure that all the pies the Malfoy family had fingers in were still viable. She didn't like the fact he was gone for so long, but his work seemed to engross him, and make him come alive; he burned with the chance to extend his influence further, or beat the competition with a carefully placed word or reminder of deals past. And she did so love to see that fire in his eyes, even if it wasn't turned towards her.

Every season he would take her shopping to London, or Paris and New York, and she would buy the most darling of clothes, and he would smile, and nod, and tell her that she would look as beautiful to him were she wearing the latest Armani or sackcloth and ashes. So thoughtful, so kind - that was her Draco. And when he returned back to Malfoy Manor, he would kiss her fondly on the forehead, and go over the accounts, and comment on her stewardship, and they would make love, slowly, rhythmically, carefully, as if he were unused to women and afraid he would break her.

Of course, if you asked her, she wouldn't have known that women were supposed to orgasm either. But, who needed passion? She had the perfect husband, and was the perfect wife. She was certain everyone who was anyone thought so.

When he was away, Pansy threw parties - lavish, opulent extravaganzas in his honour, to show that the Malfoys were the centre of the wizarding social calendar, and they had the money to prove it. And if he was there to attend, so much the better. He was always a charming host, and she a delightful hostess - she laughed at the jokes of all the right people.

She had once broached the matter of invitations to her husband - specifically, the matter of inviting Harry Potter and his husband, that scraggly redhead from school. Of course, she had treated Potter rather abominably at school, but then, what Slytherin hadn't? No-one had actually expected him to beat the Dark Lord, but then when he had, he'd proven himself to be exactly the kind of person who Pansy wanted centre stage at one of her candlelit suppers - a winner, and a famous winner at that. Draco, however, had had other ideas. He'd told her in a quiet voice that "the Weasel would never set foot in this house, not as long I'm still breathing." He'd continued, a quiet tremor of emotion in his voice that she hadn't quite understood - "Harry is always welcome, but I doubt he'd accept the invitation", before his voice grew steely and cold again, his familiar self-control reasserting itself. "That thing will never cross my path, or I'll kill it. And the only person who could persuade me to stay my hand isn't you, Pansy dear," he said softly, his lips almost quirking into a self-reflective smirk.

That, being Draco, was the end of that. He'd even taken her shopping again today, and she was certain she'd seen Harry Potter just a shop down in Diagon Alley. She'd felt like speaking to him, perhaps extending the invitation without asking Weasley - perhaps he wouldn't get offended? Probably not. It was a social faux pas, to ask one part of a couple and not the other. And to have the Boy Who Lived publicly reject one of her invitations - well, what would people say? She couldn't even imagine the scandal. There would go her candlelit suppers.

Pansy had caught her husband looking at the other man, and had to shake his shoulder gently to regain his attention back on her, and this wonderful blue full-length gown she'd found. Did he find the fact the back was bare to waist too immodest? No, Pansy darling, it looks fabulous on you, he'd exclaimed, quickly regaining his focus. But his eyes had strayed a little later, and his face tightened as if disappointed, when he'd found Harry gone.

He'd always been obsessed with him at school, and was probably just mulling it over his mind. No matter. She glimpsed him coming towards her now, as she lay on the bed, and her pulse began to quicken. This was a side of her husband she'd never seen before, eyes blazing with fire, fingers caressing her body, deftly parting her thighs...

Pansy unfolded her arms and clutched him to her neck, as he started to thrust deep inside her, and she moaned softly, deferentially, as a wife was meant to do when pleasured. Although she never would have dared to question this sudden fervour, if, before he fell asleep beside her, she had summoned up the courage to ask him why this of all days he had taken her, strong and loving in their bed, she would have been met with a wistful smile. Stumbling slightly over his excuse, Draco would have told her that the sight of her in that dress earlier today had filled him with passion, and Pansy would have accepted this without the doubts it raised.

It was, she decided a few hours later, the best sex they had ever had as man and wife, and as she looked over fondly at his sleeping form, softly brushing his pale hair, it demonstrated once and for all that he loved her with all his heart, and no other.