Love it

 

He loves what they're doing, because it's all wrong...

---

He’s always had a thing for breaking the rules. He’s always felt satisfaction soar inside his soul whenever he doesn’t follow traditions, and instead does the complete opposite. Ever since his Hogwart days of bullying first-years (as well as Potty and Weasel), he never stopped this addicting habit of his. He liked what he was doing – breaking the rules, setting the trends, changing beliefs. His father didn’t agree with him, though. His father was very strict whenever it came to traditions, beliefs and following them properly. But for now he couldn’t care much about his father because he was currently rotting away in Azkaban after supporting the Dark Lord in his almost successful attempt of world-domination and ridding the world of those with ‘dirty’ blood. (Gosh, didn’t his father read basic stories? The good always defeated the bad.)

One could say that (if they actually knew), keeping a ‘Mudblood’ as a mistress was certainly breaking ancient traditions. (Others couldn’t really care less.) Some would go on to say that having a well-known, once-claimed enemy as a mistress would cause a gigantic scandal, especially if, in terms of blood, one was superior to the other. In his particular situation of mistresses, that was the case. And those who thrived on gossip to make their lives a little bit interesting (they probably had the most boring lives if they actually bothered to scrutinise whatever was in the newspapers with plenty of time on their hands; he always had a low opinion of them) would say that it was even more shocking when they speculated why he didn’t have other mistresses around, because the truth was it was just her that he let stick by.

It was also due to his overwhelming love for turning everything upside-down and making the impossible acceptable that he absolutely refused to settle down and marry Astoria Greengrass, a ‘pureblood’ heiress (and as his mother claimed ‘the perfect match’ for him). As a girl, she was okay. Did he think about marrying her prior to their marriage? No (because she was a pain ever since he could remember; following him everywhere and all). So with all the power he could muster, he refused his father’s desperate plea to have the Malfoy family back in the good graces of the public (wouldn’t marrying someone who actually fought against the Dark Lord complete the task much more sufficiently? But then again, his father would never agree because all the Light supporters were ‘a disgrace to the world’) and his mother’s last cry to see her son happy and settled. He frowned. She got the latter but he knew that she knew that he wasn’t so happy with the marriage.

In all traditional wizarding families, there was a tradition of having meals with one another at an unnecessary long table. (He found it very amusing when he was younger as to why the table was so long and yet his family only used up a small proportion of the table; leading to afternoons of drawing, completing his homework and oddly enough, sleeping there.) He didn’t quite agree with the tradition and felt like the rule had to be changed. So now while there was a very long table occupying the dining room, it was never used – not even a single millimetre. It was cleaned every day to stop dust from settling and new flower decorations were being replaced every week by the house elves, but it was never used. Well, at the very least, it was never used by him.

He always had his meals elsewhere – outside, in his office, in another villa, but never on that table. He didn’t know if his wife (he detested the word so much that he spat at someone’s face whenever the word slipped into his ear) actually ate there or not. He couldn’t care less. The important thing was that they weren’t dining together. (He would hate that – it would be social suicide if anyone found out.) He always got the house elves to bring his meal, if he was in the Manor, to the room that he occupied when it was lunch. If he was out, he wouldn’t bother to notify the house elves. He never checked on his ‘partner’ (he preferred to call her ‘partner’, instead of wife because it was an arranged marriage and the word ‘wife’ was a little inaccurate). For all he knew, she could be whoring around and sleeping with men, jumping from one to another.

So when his mother decided to grace him with a visit to her son and her daughter-in-law (the way she said daughter-in-law and cooed it made him sick. He had asked his mother on several occasions to stop it but she never listened to him), he always sat at that ridiculously good-for-nothing table (well, he was more forced to sit there in his mother’s presence or rather, dragged there by the ear.)  And so whenever his mother decided to stay he jumped at every opportunity presented to be out of the house. Unfortunately, his mother declared that she was going to move in (he couldn’t believe his ears when he first heard and actually became to believe Descartes philosophy on our senses being unreliable) and that meant every meal that he had in the house was to be at that dreaded table. Then began the month-long business trips, the late nights, the checking-ins inside a cheap motel that he found nearby and staying over at one of his mates’ place – all of which lead to his mother angrily storming up to him and dragging him by the ear out of the bar.

Like any son, he could never avoid his mother. As a result, the hateful tradition that he had put a stop to months ago found its way coming back to haunt his every meal. It was during one of those dreaded meals that he had made a slip-up (it was called a slip-up by most married men, but someone like his father would say that it was merely small talk).

It was a normal breakfast with delicious bacon, eggs and sausages accompanied with toast and some pumpkin juice, with a wide selection of assorted fruits, other drinks and other pieces of buttered bread. (It was supposed to be a delicious meal but whenever he looked to his left; his food took on no flavour.) While it was a seemingly normal breakfast to outsiders, it wasn’t anything normal. There was a tense silence that hung over everyone’s heads and even the elves (who weren’t the brightest) could feel the tension in the air. There was only the sounds of slow, methodical chewing, the scrapping of cutlery and the occasional little sips of beverage.

What made this breakfast different from others (and what made it worse, in his opinion) was the absence of his mother. She said something about travelling to France for the opening of one of her close ‘friends’ (he didn’t think his mother had any real friends because they always back-stabbed one another to gain glory for themselves, and themselves only) for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until the next Tuesday. He had forgotten all about his mother’s vacation which was why he was seated at the head of the ridiculously long breakfast table that he hated so much.

He glanced to his left, observing his ‘partner’ and wondering what it was that his mother saw pleasant in her that he didn’t. She was beautiful, he supposed. But her lips were trembling and he noticed that her fingers were shaking. He didn’t like nervous women. He liked women who were confident about themselves (like Granger, she was confident about herself. At least, with him she was). His ‘partner’ was very careful with the way she ate (almost like a prey, like she was going to be captured and then skinned alive if she dared to make even the littlest of mistakes) and the way she carried herself. She seemed fragile and like she was telling him to be her saviour, be responsible for her, protect her from all the dangers that may come in the future (it reminded him of those wedding vows that he monotonously repeated a year ago, but never meant).

Apart from his habit of changing traditions and being the trend-setter, he also didn’t like responsibility. He didn’t want anything (and when he meant anything, he meant anything) to hold him or tie him down in any way. He wanted to be free to do whatever he pleased. This Astoria Greengrass (technically it was Malfoy, but he would never call her or consider her that) was exactly what he hated – a large packet of responsibility with the mandatory protection and ‘take care’ attachments with it.

It annoyed him immensely that he had a wife because he liked being in control; he liked being on top of everything. And for the second time in his life (the first being his father’s and the Dark Lord’s decision to have him become a death-eater. He grimaced. Even after all these years, the mark was still engraved into his arm like those horrible Muggle inventions called ‘tattoos’) he felt control slipping from his fingertips and into someone else’s. When he was told that he was to be married, he tried every method there was to avoid it. Unfortunately, while his father wasn’t around during his childhood, he could still predict what his son was going to do and prevented him from doing anything. (This meant him being locked in his room with nothing but his elf for any sort of company.)  

The only thing that was close to having love and not requiring any responsibility and attachments, in his opinion, was a mistress. They never expected anything more than he could offer. While he could shower them with materialistic gifts and kisses, he could never offer them a position by his side. Some of society (the ones that observed his every move and the ones that liked to gossip a lot) speculated that he had mistresses and probably several or so at one time that he could easily meet in a week. Some of them only lasted one night while others made it through a whole year or even longer. (The reasons for some of them lasting such a short time were because either: a) they weren’t mistress material or b) they nagged to be showered with gifts. Either way, they had to go.)

While Granger hadn’t reached any milestone for the amount of time she’d lasted, she was currently his only mistress (and he didn’t have a problem with that at all), and possibly his most favourite so far. She didn’t ask for much, she didn’t nag him about responsibilities or commitments; she just enjoyed the ride while it lasted. (Very much like himself – must’ve rubbed off from him.) Their affair wasn’t going to go on forever. It was an affair, a scandalous and socially disastrous one, and affairs were never meant to last forever. (Unfortunately, marriages were which always made him stomp his foot angrily and mutter curses at his father for his helpless situation.)

“Draco…”

He heard a muffle from beside him. He (almost rolled his eyes in annoyance because she didn’t know how close she was to stuttering. He would have preferred if he married a more confident and intelligent person. Like Granger) turned his head to his left and stared at the crown of her head because he cannot bear to look at her properly in the eye.

“What?” he snapped back impatiently. He knew that she was scared of him (and he smirked because he loved power) but she was too much like her mother (her mother nagged too much for her own good, reducing her husband to a whimpering coward). He knew that she was going to ask him something, which would ruin the surprisingly mediocre breakfast experience (it was because he had been thinking about his mistresses, which was why he wasn’t in such an unpleasant mood at breakfast that morning).

She gulps. (He’s beginning to hate her already until he reminds himself that he’s done this before: hating her.) “Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

Her question took him by surprise (but he didn’t let her see that). She never had the confidence to ask him about his whereabouts (maybe it was because all throughout breakfast he had been smirking, and that was why she found him so approachable?) when both of them know perfectly well what he does when he decides to go out. The prediction to the location is merely common sense. Where would she expect him to be?

He turns back to his food and doesn’t reply, completely ignoring her presence. (He wants to make her feel like she’s worthless and that her existence meant nothing to him, because it really did mean nothing to him.) His ears registered a clatter of cutlery and he knew (that she has been spoilt all her life and isn’t used to being ignored, like him but he was a lot more stubborn) that she’s angry. He was prepared for her outburst but he isn’t sure what to expect. The last time he heard her rant was when they were children and she was crying about something that he couldn’t remember.

“I do believe I asked you a question – Where were you yesterday afternoon? As your wife, I have a right to know about your doings whether it concerns me or not.”

He turns to her, disinterested in whatever it is she wants to say or know. Having been able to mask his emotions from a young age, he doesn’t let her know that he’s slightly amazed and impressed at her confidence to shout at him for his audacity to not reply to her. (He also inwardly scoffs at her attempt to seize power which has already long scrambled from her fingertips and her attempt to brand him ‘audacious’ when it is really she who is audacious.) He tries to sugar-coat his voice to give his next statement and mockery as a gift, but it doesn’t quite work. When he speaks, hostility blows inside the dining room.

“And tell me, since when did I have to explain myself to you?”

On one occasion, when he was bored and wasn’t really thinking straight, his brain conspired up some illogical theory that his ‘partner’ had feelings for him (feelings that he could never reciprocate and never, never to her), which would explain why she never complained about him treating her unfairly to anyone. (Even he admitted it to himself; he treated his wife like shit. Would he stop it? No, because quite frankly, he thinks she deserves every bit of it.) If this weird theory that his brain had come up with was true, that would explain why her next sentence came out almost forced, in a choking manner.

“You were with one of your mistresses, weren’t you?”

Silence greeted her sentence as he went back to calmly eating his food, finding her unworthy of his attention for even a few seconds.

“Of course you were. That’s where you are when you mysteriously disappear somewhere or work overtime at your office. You go and sleep with one of your slutty mistresses who have no dignity whatso-“

“Granger is not slutty and has more dignity than you ever will,” he replied in a cold voice, fury surging in his veins. He felt fury at his ‘partner’, and when everything decided to hit him like a hurricane, he was furious at himself before putting the blame onto Granger. She was the only one who was able to make him unleash his emotions.

His ‘partner’ looked at him with shock in her eyes and he knew what she was thinking. (‘Granger, what do mean by Granger?’) He stood up angrily, his breakfast no longer satisfying his hunger and he left the table, walking with large strides towards the great oak doors.

 

(For the first time in their marriage, he has lit a fuse that he doesn’t know how much damage the explosion can make.)