Lost To Me

He liked her in this position; pants around her ankles, knees filthy from dirt, mouth around his cock, pleading. Almost as much as he liked her spread along the grass, willing for whatever he offered. Freckles dotted along her chest, leading a trail down her stomach, dipping down into her thighs.

Power. That was his driving force, not sentiment or need.

Hot and sticky, he scourgifyed himself and left her a mess. When she smiled, eyes vacant of anything but need, he threw the white powder at her. Seeker reflexes caught the thing that held her powder. Eagerly she snorted some, as if she hadn't had a fix a few hours before.

He had done this to her, hooked an innocent girl unto a drug. His power. His control. He knew it and used it to his advantage. Morals were nothing more than a decoration for cowardice. Control over her, over her addiction.

She had come to him in need, for protection, a last resort. Never one to turn away good fortune, he had protected her, used her. Little more than filth in his mind, only his toy to play when he felt it, she had tried to leave once. It was then he had hooked her on the white powder; a trick his father had shown him with a mistress, one of many before the unfortunate incarceration.

He would visit her whenever he pleased, solely to please himself. No one needs ever matter, certainly not his addicted whore. She wore pristine white dresses as if a virgin, fooling no one, not even herself. Then he would arrive and the white would turn muddy, pristine illusions destroyed.

Along her body were bruises in a myriad of colors, old and new marring once beautiful alabaster skin long since turned sallow. Now, vivacious red hair hung limply, never quite clean. Brown eyes that once danced with mischief looked dully through life, waiting for the next fix. Once he had connected the freckles when she had passed out, but only once.

He could never take her out. Marriage permitted the act, but displeasure at his once beautiful wife's beauty prohibited the act. Malfoys never looked less than perfect, and a coked out wife did not portray the look well.

Instead, he took his mistress on his arm to parties, ignoring all the whispers in the corner. No one would dare argue with a Malfoy, in this reality where the Dark Lord had succeeded. Draco was the Malfoy now, part of the Lord's inner circle. His mistress hanging on his arm might be uncouth, but no one dared question him.

He left his unsightly wife alone with her pretty powder.

When he would need an heir, he would have one with the former beauty, but it would be a precise act that would last no more than the required contact. He hated her nose, her eyes, and her body. She was little more than a shell, a waste. Moral objection cropped once, and he ruthlessly squashed down again. She had tried to leave, that was her decision; retribution had been required. Her fault. All her fault.

He found her in her room, dead from an overdose. Hair haloed around her face, eyes vacant and staring into space.

He wouldn't feel guilty. All her fault; never should have tried to leave him. No one ever left a Malfoy. In a fit of rage, all the bottles along her vanity were pitched to the floor. Smells assaulted him as reality set in.

She had left him in a way he could never bring her back. All her fault. Everything was all her fault.

He sat on the edge of her bed, and screamed for the injustice of having to explain what had happened to his once beautiful wife. When he moved his hand, he found a letter addressed to him. Opening it, he found the explanation he had no need to hear.

Ferret, you were my only drug; before you corrupted me. I loved you once, you bastard. Rot in hell. I'll be waiting for you. - Weasel

He tore the letter to pieces. No, no, no. Never his fault. Always hers. Her fault. Somehow the idea rang hollow in his own ears did nothing to appease. He would not let her corrupt him. Weakness was never allowed, and morals were only a form of weakness.

He left the room and continued on with the business of burying. His mistress would be glad to have him over for the night, and then it was time to search for the next Lady Malfoy. Death was a fact of life, no reason to stop living his.