He's not the boy you want or even dream of in some clandestine school girl fantasy. He's not even a passing thought. He's a whispered name you can hear through the walls of your home, the glint in Sirius' eyes when he daydreams of a place much better than this. He's a name and a hell wrapped up in messy hair and silly glasses.
He's grass stains on Quidditch robes and windswept hair. He's loose ties and slightly crooked teeth. He's an easy laugh and childish pranks. He's blank hazel eyes and a modest but pretty ring.
He's bitter words concealed under a pained smile. He's bored sighs during a selection of chiffon and silk. He's a resigned hand on yours with a light grip like he'd rather not touch your skin. He's longing looks at a redhead passing by.
He's hushed angry words in the corner. He's – I hate her, I don't want this! He's a brisk walk out of the stuffy, glittering room. He's a half-sincere apology on paper.
He's a miserable grimace as you walk down the aisle. He's trembling fingers sliding the ring on your finger. He's distracted eyes that look at anywhere else but you during the first dance. He's the cloying taste of cake in your mouth and the bubbles of champagne.
He's teary eyes and firewhisky on his breath. He's scorching hands and jerky movements. He's – Lily, I'm sorry, Lily. He's the cold that followed when he left your bed.
He's the fading fantasy of a baby with blond hair and grey eyes. He's the loss of a boy named after the stars. He's a reminder of everything you coveted and was denied. He's your nightmare come to life.
He's a last name that never looks right with yours. He's – Narcissa Potter, Narcissa Potter. He's your husband. He is yours till death do you part.
You're not a girl with scarlet hair and green eyes. You're everything he never wanted. You are cold when he seeks warmth. You're his jailor and prisoner.
You're his wife.