Trophy

Pansy Malfoy was a beautiful, pureblooded witch, raised in circles where women were not allowed to think for themselves. In other words, she was the perfect trophy wife for Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy estate.

As she stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she asked herself where she had gone wrong. Had her parents been too harsh, had she been too infatuated with Draco to see the real him? Was he such a great actor as to fool the entire world into believing he loved her?

The facts remained that he hated her and that she was almost a prisoner in her own house. In his own Manor, to be exact.

It hadn't always been that way. At first, he laughed at her jokes, took her for walks around Malfoy Park, he was gentle and considerate. It should've got her thinking, since Draco was not the gentle type, but she was in love. She was still in love when he became colder than stone.

Love had been her perdition. He started shouting at her. When he hit her for the first time, she didn't move from the spot where he left her for hours. She wept until there were no more tears to cry, and then she stared at the ceiling until he sent the house elves to fetch her for dinner.

They had company that night: Blaise Zabini and his wife, Magdalena. Pansy liked Magdalena a lot, so she was very happy to find the couple at the table. The women were clothed in the finest black silk dresses, perfect mirrors of each other to the smallest details. That's when it hit her: she was not special at all.

She was just a Death Eater's trophy wife. Arranged marriages rarely led to happiness, as she discovered, and lies are always uncovered in a couple. Draco's feelings were a lie which he found unnecessary to sustain after the wedding.

Guests came and guests went, talking to her numb ears and listening to her predetermined answers. They came and went leaving no trace in her, leaving her motionless.

Here she was, four years after her wedding, staring at her own reflection in the mirror of an imposing bedroom, wondering how she could reach such a low level.

She knew the answer. Love. Love had blinded her, love had been her anaesthetic when he hit her, love had been her sanctuary and her perdition. She had soaked her face in tears too many times to ignore the simple truth. She had to get away.

Draco entered the room, ignored her as usual, and went to the chess table. He sat down and started a game. She had to get away, but wouldn't let her leave.

She took a large, solid silver perfume bottle from a drawer next to the mirror, weighed her options and walked over to Draco's chair. He didn't turn to look at her, as if she was part of the expensive décor. That was his last mistake.

She raised the bottle high above her head and slammed it hard into Draco's head, just above the left year. He fell to the floor gracefully, blood trickling down his neck. She brought the bottle down again, causing a fresh wave of blood to pour from his blond head.

She kneeled next to him and traced the outline of his perfect, inbred face with a slim, inbred finger.

Pansy took the muggle Louis Vuitton suitcase she had prepared earlier that day from under the bed and fled the building. In her hand she held a British Airways ticket for France, the flight in two hours' time.

She was a trophy wife no more.