Theme: Nothing

Couple: Tomoyo Daidouji/ Draco Malfoy

Summary: She meant nothing to him.

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She meant nothing to him.

A wife, a tool, a thing to be used to his pleasure and come at his every beckon-that was what he believed a woman should be.

And that was how it started.

It was a casual "Hello," a simple "Good morning;" little things no one ever notices or counts as anything but polite grace. It was a cup of tea here, an escort to the lavish party of some important wizard there, and a light hand upon his raised arm when he beckoned her.

A diamond for show.

Soft features and the makings of a long-standing history of rich; hair like woven midnight skies, and twinkling violet orbs that spoke volumes of innocence and heaven's forbidden stars.

When he looked at her every night lying beside him in their large bed, he couldn't quite grasp that she was real. Because the moonlight fell upon her features and then she would shift, and her hair would fall upon the pillows like strands of inky sky upon their silver silk sheets, and he would have to touch her face -if only for a moment- to remind himself that she was real, that she had no wings, and that most of all, she was his.

She never faded.

But there were times when he would come suddenly awake at night, sweat on his brow and fear clinching his cold heart heavily; because he could feel Voldemort's presence within him still- even after all these years after his supposed death and it left him feeling dirty then, but most of all used, like he held no sway in his messed up destiny.

Draco's steely blue eyes would be wide then, and he would be trembling and trying not to wake her.

But she knew; even while asleep she knew.

His hands would look for her in the dark, seeking warmth he never admitted to needing. Slowly, the tips of his calloused hands would seek her skin-gently falling on the curve of her cheek, her pink lips, dainty chin, and then following the swan-like column of her neck down past her collarbone to the place in her chest where her heart continued its strong beat.

Tomoyo would never wake, or just understood beyond anything he ever thought a wife would- she knew of his pride.

When his hand was resting over her heart, she would give a deep sigh and turn towards him (because even while asleep she knew he liked his space) and so on the rare occasions he silently asked for her warmth, she would give it without question.

Nothing would be asked, and so nothing answered. Her nose would come to nuzzle into his chest and it would remind him that he too had a heartbeat, albeit a colder one. The small breath that escaped her lips would be silent but warm upon his bare skin, and the thick of her dark lashes would stay closed peacefully, somehow calming even when covering the dark of her violet gaze. Then her dainty doll-like arm would come to curl around him securely, and before he knew it his too would be around her and she'd be past all and any barriers he thought he had fortified against her love.

Like they'd always been that close.

Then and only then could his eyes finally close firmly for the night. And in the morning, when he woke, she would be gone-already making breakfast (because a wife should always cook for her husband, even if she has maids), and last night would be nothing but a fading nightmare in the back of his head-a figment of his overworked mind.

Darkness does that to him.

And then there would be the casual "hello," the simple "How are you this morning?" Things associated with two strangers living in the same mansion, sharing the same room, sleeping in the same bed.

But then she would smile, and suddenly it's not so cold in the kitchen and she knows.

She's nothing to him.

Even if the dark of her eyes know different.