Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy was swimming through a sea of fabric. The perfumed, feminine scent of freshening powders and the musk of a woman filled his nose as he moved with tender caresses along pale inner thighs, under thin layers of cotton and silk. Above him, muffled laughter, like bells, from a cheerful French witch. He nipped at her soft skin and she gasped.
“Un coquin…” scoundrel… a teasing admonishment, he could just make out her breathy voice from under her skirts.
Draco wrapped his hands around her bottom and pulled her tight against his face, pressing his open mouth against her center and relishing in the moans he was the cause of. He could happily die here, smothered against Rosalie’s sweet cunt, trying to devour her with his tongue and lips.
He draped her legs over his shoulders and she squeezed his head between her smooth thighs. He could hear almost nothing and redoubled his efforts. Two fingers were pressed into her wet core which tightened like a vice. Draco knew she was close already - so many times with this witch and he could almost time her orgasms by the second. He smiled before sucking her clit into his mouth, feeling her as she trembled and came, rhythmically throbbing around his digits. Squeeze and release, squeeze and release. Rapidly then slower, tension fading from her body and her legs falling from his shoulders. He kissed her thighs and carefully emerged from his soft enclosure.
“You eat pussy like a Frenchman mon cheri.” Rosalie lay in repose on the chaise longue, catching her breath with her dark curls fanned out around her. The small room was warmly lit by candle, covered in brocade and furnished with dark woods. Draco’s icy grey eyes soaked her up and he wished he had some way of having her painted before he went back to England. He tried to hold the memory in his mind instead - the scene enough to keep him going for months. She reached out and smoothed his hair back affectionately. “I will miss it.”
“Me too.”
“England cannot compare to la France.”
“You will find me in complete agreement, Ros.” He watched from the floor as her small pink mouth pouted coquettishly and she shook a dainty foot, her slipper hanging off by her toes. Draco sighed and crawled over her, pulling her into a kiss. He knew she didn’t mind the taste of herself on his lips. “I’ve been called back and I have to go. My father isn’t well.”
Rosalie heaved a sigh.
“I got you something.” Draco lilted, trying to cheer her up. He half leaned off of her to dig in his pocket, withdrawing a set of pearl earrings. Simple drop pearls - he felt they would suit her complexion and dark hair perfectly. By her gasp, she agreed. He helped her put them on and Ros conjured a gilded hand mirror to admire herself.
He kissed her neck and she tilted it obligingly to the side for him, looking at him through her lashes in the mirror. Gently brushing her curls aside, Draco licked a line up her neck and flicked the pearl with his tongue. Rosalie giggled and let the mirror vanish, rolling to face him before pressing her hips up into his hard length. Draco blew out a breath.
“You now. Over there.” She nodded her head toward the large mirror leaning against a wall and he found himself smirking.
They both moved so she could watch as he fucked her. Ros stared at herself through the reflection, on her hands and knees and flushed with arousal while he pulled himself from his trousers. Strands of hair fell into his eyes as he looked at her through the mirror, watching her watch herself as he slowly sank inside of her. Rosalie’s mouth fell open and he sighed from the hot, tight embrace. It felt like coming home.
~
Wiltshire, England felt cold and sterile in comparison to Paris.
His father’s study looked and smelled exactly as he remembered. Draco was wrong to think that a few years away from the manor would enable him to stand up to his father, the family patriarch. One whiff of leather, old books, and dust, and he was a child again asking for forgiveness for whatever naughty thing he had done.
His father’s welcome home was a formal request to meet in his study.
Lucius Malfoy lectured him on the importance of family, the longevity of their name, the necessity of heirs - all things he had been told before. Core beliefs that had existed with him since he was in knee breeches.
He did listen, truly. Or at least, he used to listen. Out of school and years away from home, well into his 20s, the speech was so engrained he could quote it by heart. Now his pale eyes were free to search his father’s tired face without distraction, observing how the elder Malfoy leaned his weight to one side of his chair, the circles under his eyes, the thinning platinum blonde hair. This was why they were here. Why Draco was reminded of his responsibilities to the family name. Inevitable mortality.
“I have prepared a list of appropriate brides for you.” Lucius tapped a slip of parchment on his desk and Draco stirred himself, taking it into his hand.
Names… Some familiar, some foreign, their connecting factor being that they belonged to single, eligible witches.
“You had some time to explore the world and be a young man, but now you have duties to this noble house. I believe most of the ladies will be at the ball - I expect you to make some suitable connections.”
Draco said nothing. It was easier this way - silence was taken as acquiescence even if he had no joy in the plan. Lucius scanned his son's face carefully before he nodded.
“You may go.” Finally dismissed.
~
“So how long do you think he has?”
“I don’t know. A year, perhaps two?”
The following day he was enthusiastically welcomed to Nott Manor, taking solace in his friend Theo’s good brandy. Theo had a generally optimistic view of life for how tumultuous his own had been, and even asking when Draco’s father was going to die was managed with good cheer.
“He looks so much older than when I last saw him.” He drained the rest of his glass, thinking of his father’s lined skin and knobbly fingers. Draco wondered if he would look the same at that age. “In any case, he won’t be dead before I have to do something with this.” The list he had been given was raised between two fingers.
At the billiard table, their mutual friend Blaise Zabini struck the cue ball with a loud clack.
“Just pick the best looking one.” Blaise’s advice left much to be desired, but he could respect the man’s cavalier attitude. Neither of Draco’s closest friends had families that required the production of heirs so they had amusing perspectives.
Theo took the list from him and hmm’ed as he read through it for the umpteenth time that night.
“Pansy would be an easy option.”
“An easy option if I could stomach sharing a bed with a woman I look upon as my sister,” Draco said with a grimace. “To say nothing of how high maintenance she is.” Standing with his empty glass, he made his way back to the bar cart, pouring another drink.
“What do men look for in a woman?” Theo mused, sliding into Draco’s chair before he could return to it. “I’m told breasts are all the rage. Are we seeking the largest? The most buoyant?”
Draco grinned at him from the cart while Blaise groaned.
“We get it, Nott, you’re a massive poufter.”
“We will need an accurate system of measurement. At the ball you can distract them with your good looks and general peacocking while I cast a measurement charm.” Theo continued speaking to Draco as if Blaise hadn’t spoken, “When they’ve all gone we’ll consult the notes and choose the largest of the bunch.”
“I appreciate your help but breast size is the least of my worries.” Draco had surreptitiously drawn his wand and cast a stinging hex at Theo, who leapt from the leather chair, rubbing his hip.
“What about women not on the list?” Blaise leaned on his billiard stick, looking contemplative while Draco slowly exhaled and sat back down.
“I am shocked that even 7 witches meet my father’s standards.”
“He did include the Weasley girl.” Theo reminded him.
“Yes, he did.” Draco raised a hand and ticked off the requirements with his fingers. “Pureblood, gentry, young, sane, fecund.”
At the last word Blaise winced and Theo made gagging noises.
“And it is unlikely that he will drop any of these requirements,” Draco said thoughtfully. “He may relent on ‘sane’.” He amended after careful consideration.
“I’m sorry your father is still alive.” Theo said somberly, handing the list back to him.
They all fell into silence. Blaise resumed his game and Theo sunk into a chair of his own as Draco drank his brandy.
When his drink was gone and he was able to relax into the worn leather of his chair, Draco closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of an old home with the lingering taste of fine brandy on his tongue.
Nearby, Theo made a stray billiard ball roll and bounce on the floor with his wand, and Blaise tried to clean up his game.
Married life… He had no shining examples of a comfortable marriage. His father was devoted to his mother, as all Malfoy men tended to be, but the devotion stopped with her - his son felt none of it, nor did anyone else who knew Lucius Malfoy. Could Draco be that devoted to anyone at the expense of everything else?
Draco had never felt more than a passing interest in most of the women he met. Beauty caught his eye but once they were speaking he was quickly bored and eager to get away. The most interesting women he knew were French prostitutes - not viable options for wives.
Sometimes he thought of how much easier it would be if he shared Theo's interests. Men at least had more activities they could enjoy together. But men were also disgusting. Frankly, he thought it incredible that any of them could convince someone into their bed.
Draco dreamily thought of the women on his list that he knew. The Greengrass sisters would let him do what he wanted but it meant an excruciating lifetime with an empty-headed wife. Ginevra Weasley was a pretty, fiery thing. Truly she might be the optimal choice if not for her large and insufferable family. And could they really be married without fighting about something every day?
A house full of loud, rambunctious children filled his mind. All with red hair, snot-nosed, sticky-fingered. They climbed all over him and ruined the fine wool of his trousers. He tried to peel them off and they squawked deafeningly. Draco couldn't get them off fast enough and he fell as more duplicated to stick to him.
They just want to play with you, play with your children!
Ginevra Malfoy’s shrill voice came to him as if through water. He couldn't see anymore. He was submerged and struggling. The children clung to him like leeches with supernatural strength. He was too weak, old and dying like his father.
"Drake." Theo's voice cut through the nightmare and Draco gasped awake to find his friend looking at him curiously. "Do you need a carriage home?" he asked, looking with some concern at his friend.
Draco scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Just nodded off. I'm fine to ride back."
~
The night was pleasant for late April, lit by a half moon and innumerable stars. Draco leaned back in the saddle to better tilt his head toward the sky and took a deep breath of the fragrant and crisp spring air.
“No redheads, Bart,” he said to his horse, who chuffed in response.
~
Draco took the time to write in his journal the following morning.
April 30, 18- -
Below is a list of the marital options provided by my father:
Millicent Bulstrode
Astoria Greengrass
Daphne Greengrass
E. (I cannot recall her first name) Longbottom
Luna Lovegood
Pansy Parkinson
Ginevra Weasley
My father's requirements for these witches seem to be primarily pureblood, alive, and young enough to have children.
Since I'm here and feeling wistful, here are some of my own wishes for a wife: intelligent (she doesn't need to be a genius but it would be nice to not be bored by my own wife), beautiful of course, adventurous in the bedroom.
I suppose since I can be exceptionally picky in this imaginary list of personal requirements - I'll amend that I vastly prefer a brunette and as far as adventurous goes, a witch who isn't terrified of my mouth on her quim would be just wonderful. Of all the upper class women I have been with, all have thought the activity filthy. A shame.
I have preemptively crossed Pansy from the list. I see no possible future in which that marriage would work. We may have practiced kissing as children but the sexual chemistry between us now is nigh zero. Difficult for creating the heirs my father is so concerned with.
Speaking of sexual chemistry, I am tempted to remove Bulstrode from the list as well, but she may yet surprise me. Perhaps I have an undiscovered fetish in being physically overpowered by my wife.
I'm getting sidetracked by all of this talk of intercourse.
Last minute preparations for the ball have left the household in a state. Dinner was cold steak and kidney pie - palatable, but a far cry from our usual fare.
My time spent in France has given me a new appreciation for good food. I anticipate becoming overly thin again the longer I'm in England. Disappointing. Should I add a wife that can cook to my wish list?
Father has begun to take his meals in bed. His absence improves the dinner table, and I am a terrible son for thinking it.
He is unlikely to attend the ball tomorrow evening, another shameful boon.