Shade

The front door closes and I hear the blind rattling against the glass from the momentum. Keys scrape against the bench, tossed from a careless hand.

You are home.

I finish conditioning my hair, letting the water run over my naked body for a moment before I turn off the shower. I open the glass the door, stepping onto the bath mat and leaving small imprints of my feet against the thick carpet. I am dripping water everywhere—something you will scold me for later—and as I step away from the mat, I see that the two footprints have elongated and blurred, no longer a mould of my feet, but now a giant's: fat and without shape, like a shoe made of clay that has been crafted by a novice.

The last few drips of the shower stop. All is silent but for the soft clip clap of your shoes on the wooden floor as you move about the house, a concrete and undeniable presence. Even quiet, you are impossible to ignore.

I pick up the towel and dry myself off, then wrap it around me to keep warm. I glance at the mirror opposite me. I see an outline of what might be a woman, a shade painted onto the moisture blanketing the glass. Her hair might be brown or perhaps dark blonde. Her eye colour is indistinguishable, as are the rest of her features. She has no face, no identity. She is a sketch barely started, or perhaps a finished piece of art that has been erased of its meaning.

I wonder if it is you who is the steam that smothers her.

Me.

Because we are the same, the shade and I. We are flailing in nothingness, trying to reassure ourselves of our own existence. You could make me real, but you don't. You will not let me discover who I am.

Who I am. Who am I?

A word shifts, and the whole meaning changes. One certain, one filled with doubt.

I had a name once, though I barely remember it. Now I am just 'wife'. Your wife.

"This is my wife," you say at every party, gesturing carelessly towards me.

The people look at me then, smiling and nodding, but they don't ask for my name. The conversation has moved on, as have their attention, and I am soon forgotten. I don't really need to exist as your wife, anyway. I just need to be there, like a shadow: silent but present. It was only my old name that mattered to you—mattered to anyone. The name you erased when you slipped the ring on my finger. The name that saved you when your parents saw your respectability tremble and so came to mine for aid. Purebloods must stick with purebloods, but you needed someone who came from a family untainted by the Dark Lord. Someone like me.

How lucky to be Mrs Malfoy, people thought, admiring your wealth and good looks. How lucky to have you as a husband. Except they didn't know it was an arranged marriage. They didn't know you cared nothing for me, or that you'd spend your nights with other women while I drifted slowly into obscurity, like an ornate vase going out of style.

Neither did I at first.

You don't see those women now, of course. You grew out of that. But I still remember. I remember every night I lay beside that cold, empty space that should have been warmed by your body. I remember the tears, the despair that curled my throat and choked my breath. I remember realising I would not get my happily ever after, even though I had married the prince.

Cinderella never told me the fairy godmother was evil. She never told me the glass slippers were just a trap to make sure I could not run and so be caught. I keep waiting for midnight to arrive so the spell will wear off, but the only charm that dies is the one that blinded me to your faults. My own Prince Charming, so handsome and perfect. So gently cruel in your indifference.

And yet I still hope. I still hope for you to look my way, to see me. To remember my name and make me real. To make me more than just your wife.

My eyes shut, and for a moment the world and I are one, united by our nothingness.

When I open my eyes again, the woman in the mirror has become clearer, though still distorted from the steam. With deliberate slowness, I wipe my hand across the glass, revealing a woman who is pale and unremarkable but for the large hazel eyes that dominate her features. She is not beautiful, and she never will be, but her face is clear now and I should be comforted. This is who I am, except I am still asking that same old question:

Who am I?

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

The words echo in my head, like church bells ringing over and over again, except these bells have no meaning, and I never receive an answer. You've taken too much from me now, and only you can give it back.

I want you to give it back.

Dropping the towel from my body, I walk naked out of the bathroom to where I know you will be. The door is already half open, as if in invitation. Except I know you don't really expect me to enter. There are rules in this house, and I'm about to break them all.

I slip through the door and stand before you, brown hair damp and already beginning to curl from where it has unstuck from my body. You glance up from your papers, and I see the way your eyes widen slightly, shocked at my nakedness, maybe even a little annoyed.

"What are you doing?" you ask, placing your papers down on the bedside table, meeting my gaze coolly.

We had an agreement, is what you're really saying. You don't bother me and I won't bother you.

Maybe I want to bother you, I respond, settling myself on your lap before you can stop me. Maybe I want you to love me as if I were really your wife, not just in name, but in heart. Maybe I'm tired of being your shadow.

I don't say this, of course. Instead I press myself closer to you, crushing my softness against your firm, unyielding body, as if hoping the contact will make me more tangible. I know you can save me from fading into nothing. I need you to save me, just as I saved you.

"Be with me tonight," I whisper, holding your gaze as I trail my fingers idly down your bare chest. "I want you."

My fingertips brush against the waistband of your pants, but then I feel a tug at my wrist.

"Don't," you say firmly, releasing my hand.

I can see that you are about to move me off you, so I press myself even closer, intending to brush my nakedness shamefully against your body to ignite the heat I know will make your resolve crumble, except my arms wrap tightly around you instead. I bury my face into your neck, holding you close like a child clinging to her parent when she is frightened. Except I am not frightened, and you are not my parent. You are my husband, and I just want you to notice me at least once. Just once.

A sigh escapes your lips, and then I feel your arms encircle me, cradling me against your chest as tenderly as any loving husband.

"Astoria."

The name is a whisper on your lips, almost an exhalation of breath, but it is my name, and suddenly I know who I am. I am Astoria Malfoy: a woman with hazel eyes and unremarkable features. A woman who is real and cannot be ignored. A woman who I know will one day be more to you than just your wife, however distant that day may be.

I clutch you tighter, closing my eyes against the tears that are building behind the veil of my lashes, though for once they are not tears of sadness. I can feel the nothingness inside me fading, chased away by the solidness of your embrace, by that simple acknowledgment of my existence—all I ever wanted.

I love you, I want to say. I have always loved you.

Except I don't say that. I simply relax against you, revelling in the feel of your firm, undeniably real body, and the steady beating of your heart. You don't say anything either, but you kiss me softly on the top of my head—a seal of possession, innocent as the gesture may be.

I smile and let my tears fall. I have heard your silent words.

I know who you are, Astoria. You are my wife, and one day . . . one day I will love you.