The word control echoed through his mind when he spotted his delicate, china doll wife bending gently over a pruned rose bush. In her hand, slender and long, just as her sons, there carefully dangled a slim, rosewood wand while the other swept across her warming face in a soft, elegant gesture.
Mine.
Studying her from the shadows, Lucius drew his black velvet cloak tighter around him and lifted his nose. Her slender, willowy body bent carefully, like a water lily swaying in a pond, and she flicked her wand, snipping an errant leaf.
Property.
She was that; a glowing, gentle treasure to dangle upon his arm for the world to see – for the world to know – the calibre it took to be a Malfoy wife; to bare the Malfoy heirs. Property, for there were times when she mattered as much to him as his pocket watch did, and other times when he'd gladly lay down his life to make her smile.
Ownership.
For he did own her. He chose what she wore, and what she ate, and who she spoke too, and she complied because she loved him, and was a dutiful wife, a wonderful wife. A trophy wife.
Possession.
Because every time she looked at him with her blue eyes sparkling and a smile gracing her red lips he felt bewitched, obsessed, and frenzied.
Narcissa Malfoy, former Beauxbaton patron, former paragon of virtue at Hogwarts had deigned to come down from her pedestal and become the lover of a blood drenched Slytherin; the bearer of his Death Eater children. She was tainted by him.
Stained.
Swiftly, knowing he could hold back no longer, Lucius went to her, wrapped his arms around her thin waist and was gratified to hear her gasp of pleasure.
"Lucius?" she whispered, as ever the will-o-wisp; the frail fairy swathed in white and yellow and blue.
He breathed in the scent of her hair without answering, enjoying the feel of her breeze cooled skin through his leather gloves, the heavy thickness of his cloak cutting her away from the world.
Trapped in the circle of his arms, forever
"Hello, darling," he murmured against the iced crystal scent of her hair. Her slim hands came up to touch his forearms, still unable to turn for his grasp was so tight. "I was watching you."
"Oh?"
She sounded slightly surprised, pleased, and Lucius slid his hands down her arms and over her breasts. She sighed, leaning her head back and letting him explore freely. His fingers trailed across her flat stomach, and stilled, remembering the reason he had been gone from Narcissa's side for an instant.
"Lucius?" she murmured, her voice a tinkle of bells.
She tried to turn, and he let her, staring into her hauntingly beautiful face and seeing the possible Veela ancestry that radiated from her like sin.
"Snape was here," he drawled.
"Did he say why?"
She cocked her head to the side, looking like a young, free girl instead of the society bride she was. This was a face reserved only for him. The useless, worthless crowds outside of Malfoy Manor would see only the cold, aristocratic pride of Narcissa Malfoy, for her inner softness was his zealously guarded treasure.
"I called him here," before she could say anything he grit his teeth. "It seems that Snape has taken a mudblooded student as a lover."
Her gasp could mean many things; horror at the thought of Snape consorting with the impure, repugnance at the thought of Snape molesting a student…Lucius had never questioned Narcissa's views on muggle born children and house types; he would let nothing mar her perfection in his eyes.
"Does he… Are they…"
"In love?"
He spits the words, finding it hard to believe that anyone would love a muggle sympathizer, let alone a muggle born mudblood themselves.
"Yes."
She smiles then, a soft, wilting smile, and reaches up to stroke his fine blonde hair. There is a secret in her cerulean eyes, and the fury inside him banks for she dares to keep something from him, but is pushed aside by the soft touch of her hand.
"I received a letter from Draco, today. He'll visit before returning to… him," she says, sounding happy, but the secret remains and Lucius understands now that it must be about the boy.
Another plea to bring him home? Another skirmish with some ill bred muggle? He decides abruptly that he will not waste his time on such things. His soft and gentle wife was standing before him in all her pale loveliness, and he would think of his offspring's shortcomings later.
"We shall retire, dear," he orders, and she slips her hand through his in a sign of acquiescence.
The thought of Severus with his filth displeased him, and he would sate himself in the purity and willingness of his wife. He would wash away the stench of the muggle loving from his mind, then absolve the world of the same, disgusting pestilence, one muggle slaughtering, Dark Mark lit night at a time.