Lucius and Narcissa. Somewhere around Draco's toddler years. I don't know where this came from and it's a bit slapdash.
Prompt: Touch, because soft isn't one of them.
I don't own them, Ms. Rowling does. If you think she'd be willing to sell...
Her suite was her sanctuary. They were the first rooms familiar to her when she'd moved in after her marriage. She'd spent more time in them, surrounded by cream and pale pink and pale mint. In them she composed letters, she took her tea, and she day dreamed. In the early years no one set foot in her rooms besides herself. They protected her and offered a space for her to morn the loss of her childhood; its death had come far too soon. She hid in them when she was tired of being a wife and a lover. She, like many a woman before her, brought her son into the world in those rooms. They were the first to witness his cries and his breaths. They'd also, she knew, witness her last tears, breaths, and words. She smiled, she laughed, she cried, and she slept there amidst soft feathers and silk.
His, through a thick wooden door, were far from a haven. They were larger, of course, but rarely were filled. He took the occasional drink with the occasional partner in them. They, like the rooms next door, had witnessed acts of pure love, and acts of pure hate. They'd played host to lovers, partners, mistresses, whores, dealers, swindlers, healers, and once, a very distraught monk. They were not soft. Nothing in the room could be called soft or gentle. His son (and any other toddler, child, or babe) had no place inside. The walls of paneled wood locked you inside; shiny and smooth to the touch, but dark and enclosing in reality. Leather arm chairs countered her own cloth, cushioned ones. His bed was firm, the sheets thick and crisp to the touch. His curtains did not let sun penetrate. The floor had no carpet. Nothing in his rooms were soft.
Except her.
From the start of their marriage there was an unspoken agreement and method to their sleeping arrangements. He never would enter her domain. If they wished to couple, as they did very often in the early days, she would knock on the door that divided them and be swept in. He'd have to make his notions known to her before they retired, it would not do to have him pounding away at her door asking for her. That made him sound desperate.
When it came to her, he often was.
She would, on those nights, be the only soft, gentle piece in the room. She was a piece of artwork to him. She was a painted doll, much like the glass and china ones his mother used to keep behind sealed glass. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips in a slightly parted pout, and her skin as smooth as porcelain. She was the only soft, breakable thing in his rooms.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to break her, or if his actions just spilled forth as if he did. Perhaps he was unused to such delicate things as his flower. She was soft, constantly. Soft as he ran his fingers through her hair, soft as she arched against his hard body, and soft as he shoved and dug and dragged his fingers and hands and body against hers. Maybe he wanted to break her; shatter her into a thousand little pieces and consume her. Maybe he wouldn't be so desperate for her then.
They'd eventually collapse together, both smiling and cooing- like newlyweds, they'd always acted int hat manner and probably always would- and stroking and loving. His hands, now done breaking her, would run up and down her soft skin. She was still the only soft thing in his rooms. She's put her head on his chest and he'd clasp his hands around her body and in her hair. They'd whisper sweet nothings until she'd fall asleep. He'd pretend to do so, only to spent a little while longer holding her.
She'd be gone in the morning, she always was. Back into her sanctuary. He'd dress in fine, if not soft, clothing. She would dress in silk. She always did. He wondered if she was trying to appeal to his senses and dress as softly as possible. He would have told her she would better off walking around naked. They'd dine, they'd drink, they'd share a parting kiss. He'd leave for whatever would occupy his hours that day. He'd return, they'd dine, they'd drink.
And, hopefully, she'd forgo her sanctuary another night and knock on that separating door.