Thank you always, dragon...for being quite handsome when hatted, and thanks to Eryk Lestrange for the encouraging compliments.
Malfoy Manner: Haberdashery
He woke up alone on Wednesday morning and scowled. She usually slept in with him. He sighed, supposed he should dress and…pretend to do some 'work' in the study. His stomach growled. After breakfast, of course.
His trousers were dangling from the fireplace mantel, his shirt rumpled on the floor. He grinned as he put them on, remembering the circumstances of the clothes' careless placement the night before. She must already be at tea.
But she wasn't. The tray was still out, a warming charm on the pot and muffins. He propped his bare feet on the table and listened to the peacocks scratching outside the window behind him. Where the devil is she?
"Mint!" The elf popped up at his elbow. He buttered a muffin. "Where is the mistress of the house?"
"Mistress is in the Master's closet, sir."
He spilled tea on himself and spluttered. "She's bloody where?!"
"Mistress is in the –"
"Yes, yes, I heard you," he snapped. He dabbed at his shirtfront with a fine napkin and stood. "Stupid bint…" He stormed from the solarium, taking steps two at a time to the second floor. He flung open the door of his rooms. "Mother?"
She peered around the door of his walk-in closet. "Yes, dear?"
There were piles of clothes all about. His clothes. "What…what the fuck are you doing?"
She disappeared again. "I'm minding my language and cleaning out your closet," she called.
He approached cautiously, almost afraid to see inside. And he'd been right to feel that way. Nearly every hanger there was empty. Built-in drawers were opened and ransacked. Shoes were scattered in patterns that seemed completely random, though he was well aware there was method to her madness.
He rubbed his face with both hands. "Why?" He wished he didn't sound so whingey…
"Because I can articulate past constant profanity you need new clothes." She was inspecting a dress shirt.
"My clothes are fine, mum."
She held out the shirt. "Draco. You mustn't tear out the tags. It frays the hem, and the collar begins to unravel."
"They fucking itch!"
"Then bring them to me and I shall resolve the issue. I know a spell." She cast the shirt onto a pile.
"You know a bloody tag-removing spell?"
"I do." She looked at him properly and sagged. "Look at yourself!" Her hands were suddenly unbuttoning his soiled shirt. "This is what I mean!" The shirt joined the same pile as the previous shirt. She gestured to his trousers. "You look like a…ragamuffin!"
"Well, now I'm a half-naked ragamuffin. And it's your fault these are rumpled!"
"My fault? Pray tell how!"
He grinned a lecherous grin. "You are the one who undressed me last night, are you not?"
She flushed bright pink.
"And you were a bit…eager, were you not?"
She turned away. "Beside the point."
"No, you're right," he said, leaning in the doorframe. "The point is, this is our house, where we can walk about as we please. We expect no visitors. And it's not as if we're going anywhere, so I can look how I like."
She looked over her shoulder at him meaningfully.
He blinked at her. "We're going somewhere."
He sighed. "Where?"
"Oh, hell no, mum!" He crossed his arms. "You want to go shopping! My clothes are simply a convenient excuse. And I am not going to totter about like some henpecked husband carrying armloads of shrunken packages for you today. No bloody way."
She ignored him. "Mint?" The elf appeared at her side, quivering with excitement at the thought of being useful to its adored mistress. Narcissa smiled at it and began pointing at various piles. "These may be laundered and re-arranged in the master's closet, Mint. Those are to be destroyed. And those may be packaged for…donation. To needy young wizards. Understood?"
The elf was beaming. "Yes, Mistress!"
"Thank you, Mint." She looked at her son, hands on hips. "And you may bathe and meet me by the floo. We leave for Diagon Alley in one hour. Understood?"
He was slightly aghast, watching the elf spin in and out of the room with his clothes. She walked past him, taking advantage of his speechlessness. "And do wear something that doesn't look like a mudblood beggar cast it off in a gutter, son." His door closed behind her.
Gods, she could be a complete radgey bitch! Draco shook his head. It was a good thing she was such a pliable fuck; otherwise, he might have made himself into a parentless son by now who could walk about in utter rags if he pleased.
As it was, though, he made for the bath like a whipped puppy.
Twilfit and Tattings' magical bell tinkled when Narcissa pushed the door open. Two wizards glanced up from behind a long ornate counter, and realizing the identity of their guest, rushed toward her.
"If it isn't our own beautiful flower!" Tattinger Twilfit trilled.
"Oh, Tatty, hush! You'll frighten the delicate blossom away!" Twillinger Tatting reprimanded verbosely.
Narcissa accepted cheek kisses from the unashamedly homosexual shop-owners. "Gentlemen," she purred. "You do flatter a witch!"
Draco rolled his eyes at the disgusting schmoozefest unfettered before him. It was always like this – for as long as he could remember. And he knew he'd get his, too.
"Surely this isn't your little dragon?" Twilfit clapped his hands, eyeing Draco head to toe.
Draco felt…molested. Tatting squeezed his arm. "Oh, my! Twilly, he has grown!"
"I'll say!" Twilfit agreed with waggling thick brows. "Strong and handsome. Just like his father!"
Here, Draco's lip curled. He bit his tongue. His mother rubbed his back. "Honestly, Twilly," she said. "You would be surprised how very…different Draco is from his father." He relaxed and looked down at her gratefully. She smiled.
"Indeed," she continued, "we are here for Draco today. He needs new attire. I think…an entire wardrobe is in order."
It was just the subject-change needed. The old fops erupted into giddy wiggles and hand-fluttering. "Oh, how simply delightful!" Of course, Malfoy money seemed to have that effect on many. Tattinger reached for Narcissa's hand. "We'll put on the kettle, princess. You know to make yourself at home! You, too, little dragon!" The ancient perv audaciously pinched his cheek. Draco grimaced.
'Making yourself at home' at Twilfit and Tattings meant browsing overpriced finery while the two haberdashers prepared a magically expanded dressing room to accommodate hours of dismal fitting. He watched his mother begin pulling trousers, jackets and shirts from various ebony racks. It all seemed so…pretentious.
"Draco," she called. "I'd like to see you in some color, you know. Look at this blue." She held up a shirt. "It matches your eyes."
He rolled said eyes. They practically ached from rolling. "Whatever you like, mum." He'd noticed something in back of the store, and wandered over to investigate. She was well-distracted.
Gorgeous, tiny lacy things. He bit his bottom lip. She was terribly practical when it came to her undergarments. He fingered a wisp of nearly sheer silver silk. Some kind of camisole…and attached to the hanger was a slip of a thing he deduced to be knickers. All tied on by dainty green bows, it seemed. Slytherin colors. He liked it.
Tattinger approached him with ninja stealth. "I see the young dragon has found something that…appeals?" The lecher asked.
Draco grunted noncomittaly.
"Hm." The shop-owner winked. "I can keep a secret, you know. For…select customers. Do you know your young lady's size?"
He checked his mother again. She was feeding Twillinger clothing to fill the dressing room and chatting away. Shopping seemed to put witches in their own little worlds… Convenient, really. He took the plunge. "She's…she's exactly my mother's size, actually," he whispered to his co-conspirator.
"Perfect!" Tatty exclaimed. "And shall I…establish a bit of a secret account on your behalf, sir?"
Draco liked that idea rather a lot. "Yes," he replied confidently. "I'll also take the little black thing there." He pointed. "And…some of those stockings…with the line up the back."
Tatty's dictoquill was scribbling furiously. "Well. The young Master Malfoy has exquisite tastes! I'm not surprised." He patted Draco's arm. "She's a very lucky witch." He winked.
Draco smirked. "She has no idea."
He ambled back to his mother's side. She thrust some trousers at him. "Here. Start with these, son."
He headed for the dressing room, hearing her tinkling laughter echo behind him. True to their word, there was tea. A flowery porcelain service set upon an expansive vanity. He closed the door, revealing a hat rack with various hats still upon it. Randomly, he grabbed one and set it on his head. He checked the results in the vanity mirror. A striking black fedora perched cockily over one eye. "Huh. Not bad."
He kicked his shoes off. Plush purple carpeting caressed his toes. A blood-red chaise upholstered in thick velvet beckoned him. He flopped onto it, unbuttoning his trousers in no particular hurry. They'd be here all bloody day, it seemed.
He was unceremoniously chucking his slacks onto the vanity when he noticed the walls. He noticed himself, actually; or rather, his self's reflection. He was surrounded by mirrors. Fantasy tickled his crotch. A decision was made without thought.
He opened the door a crack. "Mother!" He called.
"Could you help me, please?"
"However do you need my help, Draco?"
He sighed impatiently. She was trifling at times. "I'd like your opinion," he said. "You are my mother!"
He heard a disheartening impatient huff. The lechers were laughing. "Oh, they never change!" One crooned. "Always wanting mother's approval!" Draco made a face. Her approval was the last thing he wanted at the moment. He usually had to work for that. But the work was usually exquisite.
He heard her heels clicking the oak floor and scrambled into the new trousers he held. He wanted her to know – or think – he was making an effort, at least.
"Take your time, lovely mother!" Tattinger sang. "Just call if you need us!"
He heard her rings plink on the doorknob and leapt onto a fitting ottoman, looking nonchalant.
She slipped into the dressing room looking harried. "What?" She gestured to the hanging garments. "I thought you would want to do this on your own."
Draco slipped out of his shirt. "Not this time."
Her glare slowly morphed into a gaze. "Where did you find that hat?"
He didn't answer. His shirt slipped down his arms onto the ottoman. She swallowed.
"I'll make a deal with you, mum."
She looked from his crotch to his head, then back to his crotch. A fairly good sign. "Go on," she drawled. She had to know where this was going, had to be accustomed to his flights of fancy by now.
"I'll let you pick everything, anything you want me to wear…if you'll let us have a go in here."
Her arms crossed. "Draco…" She took a considering breath and chewed her bottom lip. "This penchant of yours – "
"Of mine?" He interrupted. "Cloakrooms, mum? The bleeding Quidditch Cup? Not my ideas."
Her eyes were soft and dark. He smiled. She was his.
And she seemed unhurried, as well, sauntering to the door and pulling her wand. She cast a locking charm, then a silencing charm. Inside his head, Draco pumped his arm victoriously. Outside his head, he minded his manners and didn't press his luck. She slipped out of her heels, kicked them beneath the vanity and laid her wand atop it. She hung her long jacket on the hat rack, revealing an equally long satin frock beneath. It buttoned up the back. Draco licked his lips when she finally turned again toward him.
"Those are a bit big," she said. She came to stand in front of him and curled her fingers into his waistband. He flinched and grunted at the tickle. "I think the next size…down." Her long fingers were unbuttoning the placket.
"Of course, mother." The trousers made a soft 'fwoop' as they pooled around his ankles. Hands shaking, he reached up to remove the silly hat. Her hand closed around the erection bobbing nearly at her face level.
"Don't,"she said softly. "Leave it on." Her eyes flicked up to his.
"Yes, mother." His voice scratched his throat.
Her lips – glossy and pink – wrapped around just the tip of his cock, delivered a kiss. "Oh," he whispered. He controlled his hips, which wanted to buck, and slid his hands into her silken hair. A bit clumsily, he removed the onyx barrette holding that hair away from her face. He liked running his fingers through it, fisting it.
One hand on his cock, her other gripped his arse cheek. She licked up and down the length of him. "Narcissa," he murmured. "That's bloody good." Her answer was a moan as she took him fully into her mouth. His knees shook and his head fell back. He looked in mirror, saw the image of her head bobbing rhythmically, felt her tongue swirling. She sucked him sweetly, never increasing the suction enough to challenge his stamina – though he knew she easily could. She was diabolical at giving head.
Her nails dug into his arse cheek occasionally. The twinge was grounding. He hadn't realized her fingers had been moving until he felt the tip of one gently prod his arsehole. "Fuck," he spat. That was a new move. The finger was pressing in, the nail biting slightly…a bit scary. "Mother, please."
But he didn't know what he was pleading for, really. For her to stop, or continue? Her eyes again met his from underneath the shadow of her dark bangs. Desperately his fingers pushed the veiling hair aside. She was a masterpiece; mouth full of his cock, cheeks hollowed, an innocence in her irises that didn't match her finger's progress.
He avoided the mirrors. "I can't last, mum," he told her in strained tones. "Not like this…" She was a genius, tapering off her sucking rather than stopping short. The finger retreated with equal deliberation. His knees were relieved when her mouth left him, a spider-silk line of saliva and pre-cum stretching to her lip. Briskly, her fingers severed it.
He needed to brace against her shoulders as he stepped from the ottoman. His hot sticky cock brushed cool satin and he angled her head to kiss her deeply. He loved kissing her this way, owning her mouth and invading it. He tasted his own salty sweat on her lips.
Listlessly, his fingers moved down her back, unbuttoning the slippery buttons. She scratched his back the way he liked. Her bared flesh was as feverish as his own, but smoother. He buried his face in her neck. She whimpered. "Draco…"
The dress fluttered to the carpet. In the mirror, she was a pristine piece of porcelain in his gangly, imperfect arms. He clutched her up to him, then turned her. "Look, mother," he whispered. "You are so beautiful." He popped the hooks on her simple satin corset and tossed it aside, palming and kneading her heavy, firm tits. "You've the most perfect breasts." Gently, he pinched her nipples. Her arms slid up behind his neck in a swan-like backward embrace, fingertips nudging the fedora just a little more over his eyes.
Her eyes were slits, but he knew she could see what he meant. She regarded the mirrors unashamedly and he knelt in worship, pulling her knickers down her sleek legs. He kissed in their wake. Her fingers tousled the hair at his nape and his fingers stroked the trim fur over her mons. Then he kissed it, too.
He nudged her toward the chaise. "Lie back, Narcissa. Let me taste your perfect pussy." She complied, lip firmly between her teeth as he arranged her, both occasionally checking their semblance in the many mirrors. He dropped one of her creamy legs over the sloping back of the sofa and took the other over his shoulder.
Above anything else they did together, he loved pleasuring his mother with his mouth best of all. She was unbridled when it came to this particular activity, mewling before his mouth even touched her. And when it did, her body moved as though possessed. She groaned, growled and tossed, arched into the touch.
He prided himself on his thoroughness; knew to trail just the tip of his tongue up her slit, to flatten it against the sides of her clit, to open her up with his fingers when she began to pant, to suckle her when she began to speak.
That was the moment he ached for – the moment she forgot her own censor and veritably vomited lust language. "Oh, son," she whined, clutching his hatted head. "Oh, Draco. Fuck, yes…my baby my dragon…Merlin, that's sweet! Shite!" Her teeth gritted and guttural noises escaped as though angered. And then, the demands came; the obscene, pornographic and licentious oral instruction. "Suck my clit, son…yesyesyes like that…your fingers, Draco…give me your fingers."
He fucked her with two fingers – not fast, but hard enough that she knew she was being fucked. He could only brush her g-spot with his fingertips, and he knew that little tease would have her begging for cock soon enough.
And he was right. She raised up through a combination of tugging at his shoulders and pushing against the chaise. "Now," she panted. "Please, son, now. I want you inside me."
But he wanted her to come first this time. There was a vast difference in fucking his mother before and after her orgasm. Before, she was ultra-tight and yes, that was fabulous…but after an orgasm, she was supple and pliant, still tight enough for his pleasure with the added benefit of being relaxed enough for him to enjoy her in a multitude of compromising positions.
And he wasn't wasting these mirrors on a fast, tight fuck. So he pushed her back down with a hand to her chest. She surrendered, so close it didn't matter. She shattered when he delivered a few sharp hand-smacks to her cunt. It always surprised her. She clenched and quivered around his fingers, emitting short, whining cries into the back of the couch.
He didn't give her time to catch her breath before folding her like a collapsible chair and bending her over the stout cushioned sofa-back. He tugged her hair firmly and she gasped. "Watch, mum," he ground out. "Watch me fuck you."
He slipped inside her easily, bending to bite at the place where her shoulder met her neck. She grunted like the animal she was as he pumped. He watched the mirrors; the way his shiny, bruise-colored cock battered her swollen, rosy folds. She was plump and ripe.
'Fair is fair,' Draco thought. He nudged his thumbtip at her arsehole, the tight pucker resisting at first, then contracting slowly to allow entrance. "Oh, yes!" She cried. He learned something new every day…
"Fucking hell, mum." He pumped faster. "Such a sweet little slut." She clutched the cushion, voice gone, reduced to pants and sobs. "Come for me, Narcissa." She shook her head. "No?" He asked. She shook her head again, indicating it wouldn't happen this way. He growled. "Like this, then." And he flipped her so quickly she lost her breath entirely, choked on a gasp.
Her head angled awkwardly agaisnt the chair back, but he was able to angle and shallow out his strokes the way he knew she liked. "Come for me, Narcissa," he repeated. He looked at her face, now, not the mirrors. Watched her eyes widen as the shock of renewed pleasure washed over her.
She tightened. He pulled her flush against him, sweat making their bodies slick. He whispered to her. "Let me feel you, mum. I need to feel you come around me. I love it when you do. I love your scream. I love you, mother."
And there was the spasm, the deep pull of a blackhole drawing him in. It pulled the spring taut that had coiled in his balls and belly. His entire world exploded. She screamed, yes…but he roared a dragon's roar, soaring off with the maiden clutched in his indestructible grip.
The hat had tumbled to the floor at some point. He saw it still wobbling there when his vision cleared. He was chuffing breath into thick velvet. Felt his mother's heartbeat slowing against his chest. He pushed up to look at her.
Her eyes were now closed peacefully, tear tracks shining against her temple. He kissed the moisture away and didn't speak of it. It happened sometimes.
Quietly, they redressed and reappointed themselves. "Alright, mum?"
She was sitting on the chaise now, having performed the necessary charms on it herself. She was holding the hat. "I'm fine," she answered. He sat beside her, tilted her face and kissed her. "Oh, Draco…"
He stood and poured them each a cup of tea. They drank thirstily, greedily. "Come on," he said. "I think we've been in here long enough."
She nodded. He took the hat and placed it back on the rack, but she plucked it off again. He shrugged.
They left with clothes. A great many clothes. They'd spent a ludicrous amount of money, yes, but they'd been in rather good spirits after the fitting. Twilly and Tatty couldn't have been happier. On the rain-slicked cobblestones of Diagon Alley, Draco perched his new hat on his head. His mother smiled.
"You like the hat, mum?"
It's black," he reminded her.
"I know," she said. "So are most of your new clothes."
He stopped, shrunken bags bumping his legs. "I thought you wanted me in colors?"
She shrugged. "I've come to accept you're quite handsome in black."
She rolled her eyes. "Now. Tell me what was in the package Tatty gave you."
She'd seen that? "What package?"
"The tiniest one in your jacket pocket."
She was too damned observant. He grinned. "You'll find out soon enough, mum. Shall we have a proper tea?"