Puritas Vincit - Part I

Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass found herself strapped within bolts of taffeta, lace, and silk, with a new husband wholly unwilling to divest her of the cloud of white.

An agreeable arrangement her parents assured her.

Your best match, the purest match. Her sister knew what purity meant to her, and worked to encourage the match. Daphne could never know what Draco was.

An agreeable arrangement, indeed. Agreeable for whom? Certainly not for her. Not while she rested steadfastly at her vanity, held together by thousands of yards of hand spun fabric, threaded like the fingers of a lover around her body. Complete mental and emotional fatigue bubbled in her abdomen behind walls of white, without a single drop of misery reaching her rosy cheeks.

Astoria was certain she'd heard of a term for what she was now, and it did not fall in the same category as "blissfully wedded wife" or a "bedded wife."

"Tory."

The whale bones in her corset were not as stiff as her spine. "Draco, I've asked you not to call me that."

Her husband cleared his throat. Twice. Rested his hand on her shoulder.

"I was certain you'd known before...before all of the arrangements."

Laughter left her throat involuntarily. The sound reminded her that the same church bells that rang in the village for weddings were the ones used for funerals.

"And revoke my right to a chance at a life with you, my husband, and an heir?"

"Surely, my mother-"

"Obviously not," she snapped. Regaining her composure before looking up into the mirror, she met Draco's gaze, unwavering.

He still wore the full dress robe regalia from the ceremony, bits of flower petals and pixie dust caught in the lapel, and the glint of a silver band on his left hand glittering in the firelight. Snow fell gently outside. Astoria wished it would erupt into the predicted blizzard already, so she wouldn't be the only one losing control.

What good would an emotional outburst be now, the ring fresh on her finger, barely warmed to her flesh after the cold air outside? White filled the edges of her vision: the snow, her dress, Draco's roses, the whites of her eyes slowly turning pink from the force of holding back tears. Anger, white hot against the walls of her stomach, choking her as it flowed up through her throat, she allowed herself a hearty swallow.

Without a word, she stood from the vanity. She did not turn to Draco, moving to the second set of doors in the honeymoon suite, the rooms furthest from the main house of Malfoy Manor. Their Portkey to Madagascar would leave in ten hours and she felt time slipping away through her fingers. The doors locked behind her before the first sob escaped her.

Astoria watched the lacquer melt from the wood of the chair near the bed, as she burned it wandlessly from the inside out. With any luck, the toxic fumes would suffocate her before she had to face her family, or her husband. A part of her mind knew the chair was likely invaluable, but a chair was replaceable with magic.

As if she'd heard the scraping of shoes over floorboards, the thought caught her attention. She lowered her hand to release the incendio. Without the power behind it, the legs of the chair hardened to charcoal, a trap for the next person who dared sit down.

Valuable, but replaceable. Just like her.

Like hell, if she had anything to say about it.

Draco needed a wife to further improve his standing among the pureblood society, and her family history was nearly flawless. She was young enough to not merit a trial after the war. Beautiful. Politically groomed. The bastard should feel lucky to have her.

Several strands of her hair drifted away from the rest of the curls woven atop her head, floating past her face, as slow as dust motes through the air. As she watched them fall, she noticed the tell of a slight breeze through the air. The movement was light enough she couldn't feel anything beneath the sleeves of her dress, charmed against the brisk air outside during the ceremony. The slight pull of the strands against her scalp, the fine hairs catching in her eyelashes, sticking in the gum of mascara.

Sitting perfectly still, she tried to locate the source. There. Near the trumeau mirror.

Damn drafty old Manor, she thought uncharitably.

Moonlight glowed along the snowy lawns outside of the windows, and she wished the storm would begin already. The cold against her hand alerted her she'd moved without thinking, standing to look out the artfully frosted panes, the winter faerie lights from their wedding winking out one by one as the midnight hour approached. She moved her hand away quickly, her already chilled fingers losing feeling at the tips.

A few soft raps at the door broke the relative solace of the room. "Astoria?" Draco's voice was muffled, but markedly solemn. His yelp as her stinging hex hit his foot beneath the door gave her a bit of satisfaction. Reacting with violence was more her sister's forte than Astoria's, but she understood Daphne's inclination to it. But, pure Ministry record or not, they still threw witches and wizards alike in Azkaban for murder. Stinging hexes would have to suffice.

Astoria listened from her stance by the pier glass and windows, wand forgotten within the sleeves of the voluminous dress. The cold receded just enough from her fingertips that feeling returned. She could feel the pull of the draft again, and her hand wandered to find the source. The cool feeling of dry sand brushed across her hand, her full attention drawn to what appeared to be a missing appendage...but she could still feel it.

Her left hand sunk into the mirror between two ceiling-high windows, disappearing up past her wrist. Against her first instinct, she moved her fingers, and watched ripples appear over the surface of the mirror, distorting her from bride to spectre.

Astoria continued to move her hand around in wonder, until a hand and a sharp yank pulled her through the looking glass.