Malfoy Manner: Society Page

Draco didn't bother knocking. "Mum. Knot this bloody thing, will you?"

Narcissa turned away from the gilt full-length mirror. "Very well."

He tried not to look at her as she took the edges of his cravat in knowledgeable hands. But he failed. She was nearly naked, ample breasts tamed by a smooth silk bustier, and soft lace knickers hugging low her taut hips. Pale and perfect… "We could stay in," he whispered, tracing an edge of lace.

"We could," she replied briskly. "But we won't." She finished the classical knot and turned away. Her dress hung from the mirror and she pulled it down.

Draco huffed and sat on the edge of her – their? – bed. It was a wreck. He made a note to have the elf change the sheets. "Why are we doing this?"

She was adjusting her wide off-the-shoulder sleeves. "Because we were invited. And that means something right now."

"Means fuck all," he groused.

"Draco." She tugged his shirt - hastily discarded a few hours earlier - off the heavy mahogany headboard, waving it as she spoke. "I know you don't relish the society page. Neither do I. But the fact is, we are re-establishing ourselves in this world. And mingling with…Ministry officials and the like is the proper way to do so."

"The proper way," he repeated. He held up a torn silk stocking. "What, exactly, is proper about us, mother?"

She snatched the stocking. "Fix your cuffs."

"You look dead gorgeous."

"I know." She was making for the hamper in the bath chamber when she suddenly stopped, turned, and held up his shirt. "Draco? What happened to your collar?"

He winced. Shite. "I tore the tag out."

Her mouth fell open. "You what? Whatever for?"

"It bloody itched my neck, mother! Does this really matter?"

"It's ruined!" She cried. "You mean to tell me you couldn't just vanish it?"

He blinked. "I didn't think about that."

"Oh, gods!" She sighed in complete exasperation. Her voice echoed in the lav. "Did you fix your cuffs like I asked? We'll be late."

He slid off the bed and sauntered to her vanity, fingering her jewelry laid out there. "Which cuff links?"

"Whichever you prefer." She emerged with a different hairstyle, a thick black curl and a thick blonde curl falling over one bare shoulder. "Just not the spiders. They'll match my earrings."

"Merlin forbid." He opened the top of the jewelry armoire and selected a pair of simple onyx squares. "These?"

She gave them a glance as she sat before her vanity. "Perfect," she said. "Though I do wish you wore less black tonight. You look funereal."

"I feel funereal."

She tisked, adjusted her earrings and applied a red gloss to her lips. She didn't wear much make-up and he was glad. He hated the taste of lipstick. "D'you like the dress?" The inquiry was off-handed, but he took it for what it was: an invitation to compliment her properly.

He stroked down her arms. The silk was soft. Her skin was softer. "You look like the goddess Aphrodite herself." That satisfied. She smiled her little secret smile and allowed him a kiss to her cheek.

The elf waited by the first floor floo with their cloaks levitating. "Thank you, Mint." Narcissa spoke kindly to the creature, slipping into sweeping black velvet.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Mint, change our sheets." His mother shot him a mortified glare. "I mean, change your mistress' sheets." The glare did not abate. "Please," he added.

Narcissa relaxed. Mint popped away. "Mother, it's the elf. Who is it going to tell?"

"I greatly value my privacy, Draco, even if you do not." She stepped into the floo. "Careful with the powder. I don't want this dress completely ruined."

He nodded. "I'll remember that when I tear it off of you later." He directed "Ministry of Magic" before she could retort.

They stepped from a Ministry floo into the decadently decorated lobby. An elf scurried up to collect their cloaks. Fairy lights tinkled in midair, and at least a hundred purple-draped tables supported sprays of colorful roses. "Quite lovely," Narcissa breathed, which meant 'it's appalling.'

Draco, however, saw only the masses of witches and wizards who would just as soon hex him as shake his hand. And the elaborate Ministry fountain had been charmed to issue champagne rather than water, so said masses were already quite well on their way to drunken revelry. An orchestra somewhere played a waltz.

"Well," he said. "This has been lovely. Shall we go?"


Either she was speaking in Parseltongue, or she'd just shushed him. He didn't care for either prospect. And that's when Kingsley Shacklebolt approached.

"Mrs. Malfoy!" The stately African man seemed genuine in his warmth. For some reason, Draco didn't like that. "We are so glad you've attended our celebration tonight." He looked at Draco and extended a hand. "Mr. Malfoy."

Draco shook the hand. It was firm, but not too firm. A gentleman's shake. "Minister." He afforded Shacklebolt a brief bow. "It's an honor to be invited tonight, sir."

"Well…" Kingsley smiled. "I'm just glad to see you both. Feel free to mingle, and of course, have champagne." He gestured to the fountain. "Dinner will be served at seven. An elf will gladly escort you to your table."

"Thank you, Minister," Narcissa purred. She took her son's arm and turned them toward the fountain.

"Oh, Mrs. Malfoy?"

They paused, and Narcissa glanced over her shoulder. "Yes, Minister."

The man was still standing there, hands behind his back, looking a little nervous for one in his position. "Kingsley," he corrected. "I…I wondered if I might trouble you for…a dance. After dinner, of course."

Draco stiffened. He held his lips tightly together as though afraid of what might escape them. He watched his mother smile a smile he only saw after two or three orgasms and nod just once. She answered Shacklebolt demurely, blue eyes meeting his from under her long lashes. "I would be delighted…Kingsley."

Draco tugged her, not looking at the Minister. "What the fuck was that?"

She squeezed his arm – not affectionately. "Draco, it would not do to deny the Minister of Magic a dance."

"That was not about dancing, mum. He was ogling you from the time we stepped out of the bloody floo! And you?" His voice dropped as they neared the fountain. "You practically encouraged it! I know those eyes you gave him."

She stopped suddenly, and even through the smile on her face, he could sense the strain. "Quiet, darling," she cooed. "I assure you the Minister has no questionable intentions toward a Death Eater's widow."

Draco smiled back, as if at some private joke between them, and leaned to her ear. "He was undressing you with his eyes, mother."

Narcissa was unperturbed. "But you will be undressing me with your hands, will you not, son?"

So simply, her warm breath puffing his ear diffused him entirely. The tension left his shoulders. The stinging pain in his back subsided. He thought of what was beneath her dress and felt hypnotized. "Yes," he sighed.

"Good." She stepped away. "Let's have a drink, shall we?"

Several smartly dressed elves circled the fountain with champagne flutes. A cleverly altered Geminio charm allowed them to create a flute for any attendee who requested it. Narcissa addressed one of the elves as she filled her flute. "Could you possibly direct me to the Malfoy table setting?"

The elf bowed deeply. "Table 19, Madam."

"Thank you." She gestured with her glass to the clusters of tables. "Shall we, son? Dinner is nearly served."

He nodded, placed a guiding and entirely innocent, non-possessive hand at the small of her back and led her through the throngs. The faces they met on the way were smiling, mostly, or at least pleasant. Draco relaxed even further. He stopped occasionally fingering the end of his wand hilt.

Glittering above each flower arrangement was a revolving table number. He spotted 19 and blanched. "Gods, no. Mother, please."

"What, Draco?"

He stayed her with a firm hold on her elbow, kept an acceptable distance between them and whispered desperately in her ear. "Potter, mother. Potter is at our table. Not to mention Weasleys and I am quite certain where they are, Granger shall be." She actually appeared momentarily shaken, concerned. He attempted to take advantage of her hesitance. "Honestly, mother. Can you sit beside the witch who killed your sister? Or the one who writhed on our drawing room floor? And do you imagine for one second that they wish to sit beside us?"

She was quiet, her pretty eyes moving quickly as she considered her options. Draco licked his lips eagerly and pressed on. "Let's just go, mother. Let's get out of here. We don't have to do this. And I promise you when I get you home, I will fuck you so sweetly you shall feel no lack at all for leaving."

She pinkened. That was a sign his words were working. And he wasn't lying in the slightest. In fact, ever since the Minister's eyes had raked over her body so boldly, Draco had thought of nothing but having it for himself as soon as possible. The thumb above her hip pressed unnoticeably into her flesh. "I promise you," he repeated solemnly.


He froze, swallowed audibly, and turned. "Potter." An awkward nod.

Potter, ingratiating as ever, bowed to Narcissa. "And Mrs. Malfoy. I hope you don't mind, I asked that you be seated with us."

Draco had only seen this look from his mother once before – the day the Dark Lord slaughtered a roomful of goblins before her very eyes. It bespoke fear, mistrust and a good dose of 'what the hell.' And he had no answer for her.

"Please," Potter went on as if he'd expected their reactions. "Come and sit. We'll eat soon."

As if pulled along by an invisible cord, the Malfoys followed The Chosen One to The Chosen Table. A few people rose as they approached, including Arthur and Bill Weasley. There were nods and murmurs of greeting all around. Draco noted that Granger barely looked at Narcissa, while Molly Weasley couldn't seem to stop looking at her.

He seated his mother. More champagne was served. Arthur Weasley, quite red in the face, resumed an anecdote he'd been telling before their arrival. The champagne must have been getting to Narcissa, as well, Draco thought. She was leaning forward interestedly listening to Arthur's diatribe.

"They call it a 'bris,'" he was saying. "These muggle religious leaders – I think he was called a rabbit – come to the home to perform the ceremony! And there are prayers and such and a meal…"

"Still, it sounds just awful!" Ginny Weasley cried.

"It's really not," Hermone spoke up. "These rabbis have done this for centuries. They're even specially trained!"

Harry, attentive to the new arrivals, elaborated on the topic of conversation. "We were discussing Mr. Weasley's visit to a muggle Jewish Bris the other day." He blushed a little. "Are you familiar with Judaism?"

"Vaguely, Mr. Potter." Narcissa waved a hand that Draco recognized as meaning 'I haven't a clue, but I don't really care, so do go on.'

"Well, a Bris is a jewish circumcision ceremony. Arthur got to see one in person." Harry appeared apologetic. "He's pretty excited."

"What's a circumcision?" Draco asked.

"Nothing to be discussed over dinner," his mother answered.

But Arthur had already started. "Well, you see, muggles take the foreskin of the penis –"

"Arthur." Molly nudged her husband, embarrassed at where this was going.

" – and they slice it off with –"

"ARTHUR!" This time, Molly pinched her husband soundly somewhere under the table. He yelped. "That's enough, dear," she said firmly, "of that story and the champagne."

Arthur nodded. "Sorry," he apologized to the table.

But the damage was done. Draco's stricken face met his mother's gentling one. "That's…that's just wrong," he whispered. Her pinky finger rubbed the side of his hand. "Muggles are barbaric." She just smiled her social smile.

It was obvious that the mood had changed at this table since the Malfoys arrived. These witches and wizards were familiar to each other; best friends, couples, family members. And the two striking blondes were outsiders, one of whom still carried a faded Dark Mark. Draco followed his mother's lead and remained silent, politely answering when spoken to.

It wasn't until dinner was served – an extraordinarily dry turkey with vegetables cooked into submission – that Draco noticed Potter staring at Narcissa. It was unnerving; not in the way Shacklebolt's lusty stare had been, but in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on… For her part, Narcissa didn't seem to notice. She pushed carrots around on her fancy china as if trying to segregate them from the other food she'd been pretending to eat.

Bored, Draco leaned into her space again. "Fancy some air, mother?"

"I'm fine," she answered.

Beneath the table, he nudged her foot with his own. "Perhaps you need the witches' room?"

This brought out a full humiliated blush. She remembered their encounter in the Three Broomsticks last year. "I'm quite fine, thank you, son."

"You smell divine," he murmured, knowing she could feel his breath on her neck, wanting to keep her flushed. "Spicy. What is it?"

She moved ever so slightly away from him. "Something from India…lotus flower, I believe. Now sit up and mind your manners."

He sat up. A lull in the table's conversation piqued him. "I say, Mr. Weasley." He could sense his mother's surprise at his sudden socializing. "I understand you fancy muggle restaurants?"

Arthur nodded eagerly. Faces around the table looked skeptical.

"Ever sampled any of their Indian fare?" Draco spread his hands, making the question open to anyone present. "I adore it, myself."

This time, his mother's foot found his. He wrapped his instep around her ankle and slid her legs apart. She yanked her foot back, violently jarring the table. "I'm so sorry," she said. He knew she could have melted.

So he continued. "I had the opportunity to try it this past year." He raised his fingers to his lips and kissed them. "Magnificent. Spicy. Earthy. Tangy and sweet." A savoring sound emerged from his throat. "If possible, I think I would enjoy the tastes of India all day long." He literally felt his mother's embarrassment. Served her right.

When he looked at her, she was pursing her lips. A sure sign of irritation with him.

"I grew up eating Indian food." It was Hermione Granger who spoke, rather hesitantly, from across the table. "There was this shop right at the end of my street. It really was good…Draco."

He leaned forward. "And you were fortunate to have it so convenient…Hermione." The muggle-born smiled as if in great relief. Potter was smiling, too. 'Well aren't we all just getting on so nicely?' Draco thought. Glancing askance at his mother, he went in for the kill. "I'm afraid I've been remiss, Hermione, in not telling you all this evening how absolutely lovely you look in that frock."

He was lying. It was a truly ugly frock. She looked like she dressed herself from Sybil Trelawney's closet. But her smile of gratitude was genuine, and Ron Weasley looked a little murderous. Then everyone was standing for some reason, and Draco turned to see Shacklebolt approaching. An Order of the Phoenix reunion commenced, sans a few members, and Draco felt blissfully ignored.

"Mrs. Malfoy?"

Her gaze caught his on purpose as she looked up at the Minister. "Yes, Kingsley?"

"Is it too early to collect that dance?" His deep voice was low and sensual.

"Not at all." She slithered out of her chair and took a dark, waiting hand.

Draco could only imagine the contortions his face suffered; trying not to scowl, curl his lip, narrow his eyes or crease his forehead seemed to make all those things happen at once. At least it was a fast waltz. Of course, as soon as he reasoned that, it slowed down. 'Damn it.' And to top it all off, Potter wanted to talk.

"Draco. I truly am glad you and your mother came tonight. I know there's been a great deal of…animosity between us in the past, but the truth is…well, you and your mum…you both saved my life. And…"

Draco watched Potter's lips so he'd know when the man had shut the hell up, but it didn't look like that would be soon. All he could think about was his mother…her perfect curves under another man's hands. He felt his fingers stroking the end of his wand hilt and consciously stopped them.

"…and something something something your father's execution…well, we all hoped that nattering nattering nattering more bollocky bollocks bugger and bullshit," Potter said. Thankfully, he seemed to be finished. "You understand?"

Hell, no, he hadn't understood a damned thing. But he lowered his head and appeared somber for a moment. It worked because he felt Potter's hand clasp his shoulder. "I just want us to be friends, Draco."

Perfect. He nodded, finally looking at Potter's emotional face. "Friends then, Harry." They clasped hands. Potter had obviously accomplished some great task he'd set before himself (nothing new there) for he seemed greatly satisfied by their exchange. 'Well, bully for him,' Draco thought.

Where the hell was Narcissa? How long did a bleeding waltz last? He refused to look around, refused to scan the room. He would not be jealous. 'She's right, after all,' he thought. 'I'm the one taking her home tonight. To our home. Our bed. She is my mother. My lover.' (And he certainly would not dwell on just how deranged that thought was.) 'And the things I am going to do to her tonight will be made illegal in the morning.'

As if on cue, she slid into her chair beside him. He heard a rustle of silk, and then her soft voice. "Alright, son?"

He couldn't prevent his nostrils flaring. "Fine, mother. You?"

She was smiling a full smile. A big one. "Quite." She was also completely unfazed by his scowl. Her cool hand fell on his wrist. "I'm rather in the mood for dessert. Are you?"

"I don't believe dessert is on the menu, mother. And if it is, I doubt either of us would want to eat it."

"No," she agreed. "But I believe we could find something sweet at home, perhaps?"

That was her seductive voice. Excitement flared in him at the prospects of escape and sex. But she wasn't off the hook just yet. He tried not to appear too eager. "Perhaps."

"Come," she said. "Let's get our cloaks."

Their good-bye's were graceful and well-met. He was a bit stymied when Potter embraced him in some sort of one-armed hug. He returned the firm pat on the back a bit uncertainly. "Take care, Draco," the Scarhead said.

"Right. You, too…Harry."

He knew she would say something as they left. He braced himself for it.

"Well, you and Mr. Potter appear to have become friends."

Finally, he could curl his lip. "He said something about friends, yeah."

She squeezed his arm – this time affectionately. "I'm pleased."

"Good. Did you and Kingsley become friends, as well?"

She chuckled. "I suppose. He wants a meeting with us, soon."

"Whatever for?"

"Oh, he thinks we can help with a few Ministry projects."

They'd reached the cloak-check. "You mean he thinks our money can help." There was no elf at the tiny counter.

"That is more likely," his mother agreed. They stood at the counter for a moment, looking about for an elf. Draco reached for the little magic bell, but Narcissa stopped his hands. "I don't think it's really necessary to summon the elf, son. I can collect my own cloak."

He looked at her incredulously. "You can?"

"Mm. I believe so." She was actually entering the dark closet behind the desk.

"Well, then." He shrugged. "Will you collect mine, too?"

She stopped in the doorway. Looked over her shoulder at him with the same eyes she'd given Shacklebolt earlier. "I believe you can collect your own."

She couldn't mean… But his cock was well ahead of his brain, and he followed it into the cloak room, checking once to be certain they were unnoticed.

It was dark as pitch inside. There was a wall to his left, so he stepped right and drew his wand. "Lumos." The room was thin; little more than a hallway, really. Sleeves and cloaks of all sizes and materials brushed his arm as he paced forward. Finally, he saw the far wall, but not his mother. He was about to call her, when hands pulled him into sheets of hanging fabrics.

One of those hands wrapped around his wand. "Finite," Narcissa breathed. Darkness again. The hand stowed his wand in his suit jacket, then joined another in embracing him. "You were so very good, tonight, my dragon." Her silk-clad body slid against him like water. "I hardly know how to thank you."

"This will suffice nicely," he murmured. She was a wet dream moving against him, finally kissing him. Her lips tasted only slightly of lipstick, and mostly of the sweet champagne they'd embibed. He moaned and cupped her firm arse.

Peeling the dress from her torso was like peeling a ripe peach. Her skin was so soft and supple. He kneaded her back for a moment before settling her breasts over the top of her bustier. They sat higher this way, so he needn't bend so low to find her nipples.

Said nipples pebbled under his tongue as he laved them, knowing every crease and nubbin by heart. His mother's long, elegant fingers scraped nails across his scalp, down the back of his neck and up. He growled. She knew just how to set him afire…

But he'd picked up a few tricks, too. She hissed in his ear as he slowly, carefully sluiced her skirt up her smooth legs and thighs. She'd holstered her wand on one of those thighs tonight, and the feeling of the cold wood and silver beneath his hot palm was enticing. "You're some witch, mother," he whispered, tugging at her knickers.

"Thank you, son." She shimmied out of the lace. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and his fingers into her hidden folds. She bucked. With darkness blinding him, he let himself pleasure her by touch alone, controlling her head with his free hand.

Her clit was swollen and slightly distended. It felt like a tiny marble under moist satin. He flicked it back and forth, pinched it, loving the vibration of her groans in his mouth. A little more moisture was always welcome, so he dipped a finger lower and stroked her slit shallowly. She bucked harder, eager to be fucked by his hand.

But he pulled it away and she mewled, breaking their kiss. It was his turn to shush her this evening. "Shh, mum." He brought his hand to his lips and sampled her wetness. "Spicy," he rasped. "Earthy. Tangy and sweet. Taste." Stroked the fingers across her mouth. She sucked them and his knees buckled. "I'm afraid a taste won't satisfy me tonight, Narcissa," he told her. "After such an…unsatisfying dinner, I'm starved."

She whimpered, knowing what was to come. "I'm going to eat you out, mum." His fingers stroked her some more to get her bucking again. "Not til you cum. Just til you're as tight as I want you. Alright?"

He knew she could barely think, much less form coherent sentences, but he liked to make her talk just the same. "I said, alright?"

"Yes!" She gasped. He slid down her body, let her skirt fall over his head. She smelled like summer dirt, warm and fresh. She tasted like bitter coffee. He'd have to tell her that, sometime… But at the moment, his tongue was stroking her slit, just tapering off over her clit. He teased her this way for a time before giving her the firmer side to side strokes she craved. Occasionally he sucked, and her head banged the wall behind her each time. When he introduced his fingers, pumping them slowly inside her, she talked in earnest.

"So good, Draco. So good, son. Oh!" She lifted her skirts to clutch his head. "That's it. I'm so close!"

He pulled back immediately. She sobbed and reached for him, helped him struggle with his trousers and untuck his shirt. "Turn around, mother," he said. "And brace against the wall, please." She adored good manners, and soon he slid into her from behind.

Her breath caught when he was seated fully and his jaw went slack. From her hips, his hands slid to cup her breasts. "I love your tits, mum, your body… Christ, tell me you want this." He gave a little thrust.

Her voice was gone, replace by an eeking, desperate keen. "Yes, Draco. Please…"

He thrust. "Please what?" He was sweating, It stung his eyes.

"Oh, please fuck me!"

He grinned. She always gave in, caved and begged for it. And he spoiled her; did exactly what she asked, what pleased her; cupped and squeezed her breasts, pulled her long, silky hair, delivered a smack or two to her gorgeous arse, worshiped her. And when the time came, when he knew he was close and needed her with him, he slid questing fingers back to her feverish pussy and pinched her clit. He tugged at it gently, working it in tandem with that secret spot inside her only his cock could reach.

It was a guarantee every time. And if he was persistent, with perfect pressure, pitch and timing, he could wring several little deaths from her lively little body…just like in this cloak room. She abandoned herself in these moments, forgot society and propriety and came like a common slut on his cock and hand, almost weeping from the pleasure, feeling his balls contract as he, too, let go of reason.

Her body was shaking, her arms the worst. She'd supported both their weights for some time and under great duress. Draco wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her up. They heaved air for a time, kissed softly.

"Alright, mum?"

She smiled. He always asked if she was alright. "I'm quite well, thank you." She patted the arm around her waist. "Go on out. I'll be a moment."

He nodded. She liked to perform her cleaning in private. He tugged his cloak down from above her head and kissed her one more time. "I'll meet you at the floo."

He stopped at the door, light and sounds from the now-swinging party assaulting him. He turned. "Mother."


He smirked. "This was…incredible."

"I know."