Disclaimer/Author's Note: The Harry Potter series is not my original work; thus, I profit from nothing. The following is strictly for entertainment purposes. Rated M for mature themes.
Narcissa?
No, she's a prude dandelion.
Andromeda?
She sympathizes with the opposition and would be struck dead halfway to the altar.
Reject them if you please. But that only leaves the Greengrass girl, the Rosier and -
It leaves more than them, actually. Black, I want Black.
I remember my mother exasperatedly throwing hands to the sky while my father, so thrilled at the flame of rebellion, gave a sly wink and left me to my thoughts.
Not that he was approving either - the eldest Black was what pureblood elders called a 'loose Bludger.' She was very headstrong, taking far too much pleasure in bucking convention. Hell, some whispered of mental instability. Bellatrix never gave me the time of day at school until she had to, on Prefect rounds, and even then I knew better than to address her by her first name much less the nickname reserved for parents and sisters.
When hooded stormy greys penetrated my amber as she walked to the altar, arm locked with her father's, I had no idea she would never truly belong to me nor was I aware that would be the last penetration I'd experience for years.
My friends were pardoned for their oblivious envy. I damn sure couldn't tell my parents. Mother's raised 'I told you so' eyebrow would set my teeth on edge and father would surely take the piss while questioning my manhood. But nothing could propel me to raise a wand to a pureblood witch and only heathens resorted to infidelity. There were far more important things in life than sex particularly maintaining a healthy bloodline.
Be that as it may, I did not take the years of celibacy lying down. Druella said all, and did all, but crawl over, kiss my shoes and beg me to reconsider divorce. Her husband, by contrast, who did not take me serious enough to lower the Prophet, now chuckled.
"My dear boy, go home. Our chimney blows enough smoke and now you wish to compete with it?"
"I'm serious, Cygnus," I spat, unrelenting. "I spared your family name from certain ruin when I married her. You forget yourself."
At this, he folded the paper and set it aside. The smile on his lips was not more pronounced than that the mirth in his heavily lidded orbs. Never had I seen him so amused.
"Tell me, son, your ears regard which as the larger scandal - one daughter, now dead to us, eloping with vermin or one our eldest divorcing her impotent spouse?"
There was no bluff to call. To a family all about appearances, mudslinging was fair play.
But, when it all boiled down to it, I should be the last wizard to speak of inequity. I, who have willingly taken the blame for my wife's shortcomings. I, who have been subjected to white hot bouts of pain from the Cruciatus. I, who have been thrown on top of Muggle corpses, in my own cellar, forced to inhale their putrid odors. I, who fought off those bloody Inferi and found my way out of that murky lagoon….
I have been a fool.
The study, ever my sanctuary, can't save me now. My wife has burst through the door at full throttle, wide-eyed and feverish. The ferocity of her kiss slams us both into the bookshelf and I notice she has forgotten to dress. Seconds later, we are both nude and she takes me into her hand.
Nine years, Black. Nine years of bottled tears and one sided affection….
"You'd have been a spinster - an old maid - if it weren't for me. When your …..ugghhhhh …. wretched s-sister ran off with that mudblood, no one wanted to associate with youuuu people! I am the hero, yet I'm treated like swine. I have made sacrifices most men would not or do my battle scars not move you? For better or for w-worse, this… is… a… partnershiiiippp!"
I surprise myself in that cum isn't the only discharge to expel. Unedited frustrations spill with my seed and I slump against the wall. Blurrily, I watch Black stand and rub it inside her.
"Nip it, Roddy. He knows!"
Mind fails to triumph pleasure. Patient in its dissolution, my arousal pilfers my consciousness. I should be livid at the disregard paid to my heartfelt confessions, beside myself at her readiness to share such a sacred moment. Instead, I am obliging.
And yet, as I near the rounded, cherry oak table and climb atop her writhing body, the fault (once again) falls at my feet. Eight years we've been wed and eight years are devoid of offspring.
"So highly irregular. But no worry, no worry. The Dark Lord is here to fix this little hiccup."
A child we shall have. Anything, for the pureblood code of honor.
Just as my teeth pierce her lips, fiery slits arrive, boring into skin, proctoring our session.
Once again, I succumb to what is not mine.
Fin.