As always to my dragon, who inspires me and whatnot. Note that all quidditch terminology can be found in "Quidditch Through The Ages" by the honorable Kennilworthy Whisp. Thanks to all who have followed and favorited. I understand your lack of reviews and forgive you; you are obviously frightened to show your faces, shameful for reading such unapologetic filth. Isn't it fun, though?

Malfoy Manner: Reverse Pass

His mother was not happy. Firstly, she despised travelling by portkey. "It's so…provincial," she complained. Secondly, she did not care for the cold. "I always develop a cold in the open weather." Thirdly, she detested crowds – particularly large crowds. "My personal space is so named for a reason."

Fourthly, and most importantly in this instance, she abhorred quidditch.

"It is a ridiculous waste of time and energy, Draco. I firmly believe that any leisure activity should be just that: leisure. Speeding about hundreds of feet in the air lobbing objects at one another can hardly be considered relaxing. It's far too dangerous for pleasurable sport! People die! I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you made it through Hogwarts alive for playing the bloody game. I've read that nine out of ten wizards and witches who play end up with debilitating injuries. And blah blah blah yakkity yakkity on and on and whatnot…"

Finally, he could take no more. He interrupted her tirade. "Mum. Please. It's just a game. I enjoy it. Can't you at least try to?"

She'd paused on the field to fix her shoe. Her heels kept getting bogged in the soft dirt. "I cannot. It's infantile."

"Then let me be an infant! Just for tonight?"

They were walking from the portkey station to the massive stadium erected for the Quidditch World Cup. Around them, magical folk laughed and frolicked, decked head to toe in the colors of the team they supported. This year, England was playing Poland, and Draco was excited to see his own country's team take the Cup.

He didn't understand why his mother was complaining so much. They were sitting with the Minister of Magic, after all – in a luxurious private box where she would have access to a non-communal loo. The stadium came into view and Draco looked around at the thousands of poor sods who would be lacking such luxuries. Not that he felt pity for them…he just liked looking at them.

To their right was the expansive campground for the fans who stayed weekend-long. He remembered that as a boy, he'd once told his father it would be fun to camp there. Lucius had quickly shushed the issue with a cane prod and a reminder that "Malfoys don't camp." He cringed a little at the memory, but shook it off for a devilish bit of ribbing.

"Hey, mum."


"How about we camp here tonight? I always wanted to. We could rent a tent, I imagine."

She'd stopped. He stared at her. "Have you lost your mind?" He hid a grin and shook his head. "Draco…" she paused, searching for words. "I have made a few…questionable exceptions for you in this life, but sleeping in a tent shall not be counted among them. Ever. We are not hunting horcruxes."

"They're nice tents, mum."

She carried on a head of him. "And I've a nice bed, son. Come."

He did like her bed. Couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in his own, in fact.

Navigating through the throngs of quidditch fans was challenging. Draco took hold of Narcissa's hand tightly and led her into the noisy stadium. She winced from the offensive clamor. "Sorry so loud, mum!" He shouted.


She obviously couldn't hear a thing. "I said 'I want to eat you out, mum!'" He shouted again.

She was annoyed that she couldn't understand him. "Alright! Just go!"

He laughed and pulled her along. After much jostling, squeezing, inching and excusing, they arrived at the Minister's well appointed box seats. Draco was pleased to see the Minister decorated for England, and produced the tickets he'd been given. They were ushered inside by the Minister's nervous aide – a man whose name they'd learned was Cramden Brownwidth.

It was far less noisy in the insular confines of the box, the chill winds were cut, and it offered a truly spectacular view of the pitch. Draco stopped to take it in, turning when he heard his mother's voice.

"Why yes, Minister. It's just lovely." Draco could hear the lie behind her teeth.

"Ms. Malfoy, I've told you many times now, you must call me Kingsley." Shacklebolt was taking her elbow, leading her…who knew where. Not good.

Draco cleared his throat. "Mother?"

The Minister turned and had the audacity to look surprised to see him. "Mr. Malfoy!" He boomed. "I didn't see you enter!"

'Of course you didn't, you randy bastard,' Draco thought. "I was enjoying the view." Was what he said. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate the invitation, Minister. It's been some time since I've been able to enjoy the Cup." He ambled up to Shacklebolt, smiling genuinely, and took his mother's other elbow. "Shall we sit, mum?"

Narcissa curtsied a little to the Minister. "Thank you for the offer, Kingsley. But I'm afraid Draco has offered to teach me a bit more about Quidditch at this game."

Kingsley looked truly disappointed, but bowed out gracefully. "I understand. It's important to have this time with one's family." He gestured all around. "Sit wherever you please. The lavatory is up those stairs and to the right. And should you care for refreshment, call my elf, Cyrus." With a last glance at Narcissa, he headed up the stairs himself, back to a group of stuffy Ministry types.

"What the hell was that all about, mum?"

Narcissa was stepping gingerly towards a pair of seats in a shadowy corner. "He wanted me to sit with him."

"Not over there, mum. We won't be able to see shite. Down here." He pointed to seats in the center of the box. She hesitated a moment, then followed.

The seats were surprisingly comfortable. 'Probably cushioning charms,' Draco thought. Once they settled in, he leaned towards her. "Kingsley wanted you to sit beside him?"

She nodded. Draco grinned. "Holy hell. The Minister of Magic wants to shag my mother!"

That earned him a stricken glare. "Draco!"

"It's okay, mum!" He touched her shoulder. "In fact, it could work to our advantage."

Her eyebrow raised. "Oh? And if I did…shag…the Minister of Magic, Draco?"

He imagined he paled a little. Thank gods for bright stadium lighting…everyone looked washed out. "I'm not saying you would, mum."

Her other brow raised. "I wouldn't?" She looked briefly over her shoulder at Shacklebolt at his cronies. Draco followed her glance. "Kingsley is a rather attractive man."

He wouldn't be swayed by her teasing. "Well," he snapped. "Pansy Parkinson's mum is quite fit, but you don't see me shagging her."

Narcissa laughed. "Clairellen Parkinson? She's a cow, Draco!"

Her laughter was contagious and rare. Draco laughed, too, glad his mother seemed to be relaxing. "Mum," he whispered. "I don't want the Minister of Magic for a stepfather."

This time she tittered behind her hand, looking at him askance. It made him…uncomfortable. "Alright, son. I shall reign in my baser desires."

"Oh, don't do that, mum. At least, not with me."

They stared at each other for a second. "Draco," she murmured.

"Yes, mum?"

"Let's go home, son." She spoke quickly, seeing she was losing him. "We don't have to be here in this noisy, freezing place! We could have a nice, long hot bath together." Her fingers discreetly caressed the inside of his wrist. "Draco. I would do anything you want tonight. Anything."

He looked at her, gauging her seriousness. All the signes were there; pupils dilated, a high blush, lips moist. It would be a hell of a night…


They sprung apart - Shite! Were we really just that close?- as Harry Potter approached their seats. Draco groaned, and he didn't miss his mother's chuckle. They stood together.

"Harry," Draco greeted.

Potter approached and Draco tensed, but was pulled into the weird one-armed hug, anyway. Over Potter's shoulder, he could see the Weasel and Granger speaking to Shacklebolt.

"Kingsley told me you were coming," Potter said. "I'm really glad." The Scarhead gave Narcissa an impressive little bow. "Mrs. Malfoy. It's good to see you, too." She curtsied a bit. "And you look really…lovely."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she crooned sweetly. "I must say it's good to see you looking fit, as well."

Draco looked between the two, wondering briefly what his face was doing. Potter blushed profusely and Narcissa smirked. Did my mum just flirt with Potter? She is truly asking for it…

Then Potter turned to his friends. "Ron! Mione! Come on down here! Draco's found the best spot!"

The Fates were evil blind bitches, Draco decided. He looked helplessly at his mother, who sat resigned in her seat again. He was further galled when Potter took the seat on the other side of her, leaving the Granger beside himself. "Hello, again, Draco," she chirped.

Her hair was…simply everywhere. "Hermione," he inclined his head.

"Oy, then. Malfoy." It was the Weasel.

"Weasley," he replied. He could swear Granger elbowed the ginger.

The twenty box seats soon filled with a chattering crowd, and Draco heard another peculiar chattering to his right. His mother's teeth. "Oh!" He remembered, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and retrieving what looked like a thick, embroidered handkerchief. He snapped it open, and with a wave of his wand, laid a thick tapestry blanket across his mother's stockinged legs.

She looked at him gratefully. "How thoughtful, son."

He waved off the comment. "I knew it would get cold."

She added a warming charm and pulled the blanket's edge up to her chest. "Thank you."

"That's a beautiful blanket," Granger commented.

Draco tried not to look disbelieving when he smiled at her. "My grandmother made it, I believe?" He checked his mother's nod. The blanket was a rich green velveteen with silver snakes embroidered on it.

Granger was about to say something else, but was drowned out by Kingsley's booming voice under a sonorous charm.

Draco looked over to see the Minister standing on a raised dais, addressing the gathered masses. "Welcome," he cried. "To the Quidditch World Cup!" There was insane applause and cheering. Magical fireworks lit the night sky beautifully. Kingsley went on to introduce Poland and then England, both teams vying for the most spectacular lightshow.

Potter was saying something to Narcissa, but Draco couldn't hear over the din. She was smiling and nodding her head quite close to The Chosen One's mouth. The teams swooped about in formation for a time, showing off and stoking the crowd to a frenzy before Kingsley again spoke. "We anticipate an awesome match this evening! Let the game…begin!"

Somewhere far below on the field, the quaffle was delivered, the bludgers released and the snitch zipped into obscurity. Draco tried to concentrate on the game. He felt daunted. Granger and the Weasel canoodled on his left, while Potter was gesturing to the players on the pitch and animatedly chatting up his mum. He huffed a little and stared out at the game.

Only a few minutes in, he and the Weasel leapt from their seats at once. "That was bloody flacking!" They cried. England nearly scored with the quaffle, but the Polish keeper reached into the hoop to punch it out. Clearly a penalty. A whistle sounded, and the referee made the call.

Draco relaxed, catching the Weasel's eye as they settled back down. The Weasel nodded tightly. Draco returned the gesture. Clearly, the Weasel was for England, too.

"Is it necessary for you to react so violently, son?"

He looked at his mother sharply. "Is it necessary for you to snog Potter, mum?"

Her face remained remarkably pleasant, and she simply looked away. Draco's nostrils flared. He put his entire attention on the game. Why he was there, anyway…

Over an hour passed. The match was intense. Two equally matched teams in nearly every way made for exciting play. Again, he and Weasley were on their feet when a Polish chaser cobbed an English beater, and again when England was penalized for stooging.

"No!" Weasley cried. "Biggles clearly pulled back!"

"He barely touched the scoring boundary!" Draco agreed loudly. "Arse-bugger this ref!"

His mother tugged him back to his seat. "You mind your mouth!"

He glared at her, adrenaline pumping from the game and the fact Potter had monopolized her. "You mind my mouth too much, mother," he hissed. "I intend to enjoy this bloody game and refuse to let you suck all the joy out of it like some dementor."

She looked away. Said nothing else. He felt a small victory…until he saw the tell-tale twitch of her lips. Not the purse that said she was annoyed. Or the thinning that spoke of anger. It was the tiny spasm at the corner that spoke of hurt. Her elbow trembled against his. Under their blanket, he put his hand on it. "Merlin, mum. I'm sorry."

Surely she knew she was the only person in this life he would humble himself before. "I got carried away by the game. I didn't mean to be so harsh."

Her mouth stilled. She was mistress of self-control. "I understand, son." She nodded to the players. "It is very exciting. Mr. Potter is kindly explaining the finer details to me."

"Oh." Draco smirked, leaned a bit closer to her ear. "I thought he seemed more interested in your finer details, mum."

Her breath hitting his cold ear was warm and gooseflesh tingled up his torso. "I assure you Mr. Potter has been a perfect gentleman."

Granger and the Weasel snapped their own large blanket out across their legs, and Potter wrapped his coat more tightly about him. Draco realized he too, had chilled quite a bit. "Share, mum." He took hold of the edge of the blanket she'd tucked beneath her bum. She raised up and he freed it. It was quite toasty. "You've a warm arse, mum." She scowled at him.

No sign of the snitch. Nearly two hours in. Some of the players seemed a bit exhausted and got careless. Both teams were penalized for blatching more than once. But at least England was leading by 80 points. Draco rolled his neck and rubbed his freezing hands together under their blanket.

His mother noticed and refreshed her warming charm. He smiled at her. She smiled back, then looked back to the pitch. Draco studied her profile for a moment. Gods, she looked young. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes lively. She hadn't a wrinkle to be seen. He hardly believed this woman – this witch – was his mother. And he supposed that might explain a lot about them…

Ironically, it was upon this thought that he felt her hand cover his own. He squeezed it affectionately, pleased it was warm. Then, she moved her hand…pulling his with it. His forehead creased. He suddenly felt the hem of her wool skirt, and she was slipping it further underneath…

He looked at her in alarm and wonder. She nodded her head towards the game, indicating he should watch it and not her. He gulped, but followed her gaze.

The next time Weasley leapt from his seat, Draco stayed firmly rooted in his. He was distracted by the clips on his mothers garters, the edging of her silk stockings, and finally the moist heat of her center. He brushed his fingers over her gently, amazed she seemed to show no reaction whatsoever.

Even when his index finger slipped past the hem of her knickers to sample her wetness, her face remained impassive. Under the blanket, however, he felt her hips shift forward and her legs fall open just a bit more. Perfect. He was able, with some minor wrist maneuvering, to stroke her hot slit from bottom to top. Now, he saw the miniscule flare of her nostrils. She licked her lips.

He leaned in. "Can you tilt up a bit, mum?" Somehow, she did. He wished he could use his left hand for this, but leaning across her would definitely seem odd. He had to make do, but did so quite well.

He'd begun a subtle back and forth flick across her swollen clit when Potter leaned into her again. "See?" Harry gestured to the game. "England's seeker is acting as though she's spotted the snitch! And maybe she has, but she could be faking just to throw Poland off the trail."

"Ah!" Narcissa cried a little as Draco chose the moment of her response to pinch her firmly.

"I know!" Potter took her reply for excitement. "We'll see what happens."

Draco drew some moisture up from her slit to better lubricate his attentions. Her breaths were coming in short, shallow snatches now, but she was still well composed. He felt a quiver in her thigh and knew she was close. He sped his fingers' attentions. He heard a tiny grunt from her throat, felt her hand clench around his wrist, and then a roar from the crowd. "SCORE!" The Announcer cried. "England has caught the snitch!"

"They have it!" Potter cried. He jumped up and down. The Weasel joined him. They looked ridiculous. But suddenly Potter was hauling him from his seat, pulling him into a three person victory hug. Awkwardly, he glanced at his mother. She was smiling placatingly and fiddling at the hem of her skirt.

He saw Granger catch her eye. "Boys," Narcissa purred. Hermione grinned and nodded.

The Minister made his way through his box, patting backs and shaking hands, heady with victory. He lingered a moment too long over Narcissa's elegant fingers before dropping a kiss upon them and turning away without a word. Draco gave her a look that said 'Told you so.' She rolled her eyes. The stadium cleared out to rampant singing and cheering. The campsite in the distance could be heard livening up. They waited til the way had thinned before leaving the box, making their way easily through the empty seats.

Outside the stadium, Weasley invited the Malfoys back to his family's tent for celebratory revelry. Both Potter and Granger looked shocked. Draco looked to his mother, who seemed perfectly agreeable to socializing, then back to Weasley. He shook the ginger's hand. "I'm afraid I must pass this time, Mr. Weasley. I've business tomorrow, dull as it is, and I must escort my mother home. She despises the portkey."

Weasley seemed almost relieved. Draco understood. "Well…next time then, mate."

"Next time," Draco agreed. They turned to leave.

"Oy!" Weasley cried out. "It was a hot match, eh, Draco?"

Draco nodded. "Couldn't agree more."

He took his mother's elbow. "Why, son," she said sweetly. "Have you made friends with a Weasley now?"

"No, mum!" Draco was scandalized. "But I did wipe my fingers on his sweater."

Narcissa's mouth fell open in disgust. "Oh, Gods…"

He chuckled as they approached their silver creamer portkey. "Let's go home, mum. That bath sounds…extraordinary."