The Hands of the Sisters
I used my sleeved elbow to wipe a drop of sweat from my nose. I smelled fresh, moist dirt on my hands. Despite my care, I knew it was on my nose and cheeks. I huffed and patted the soil down around the base of the shrub, then moved on to the next.
I aimed my wand at the cleared area of ground. "Cavocavo." A hole smooth and round appeared. My bare hands shifted the woody plant into it. I was shoving soil around the roots when a shadow fell across my sun. I shielded my eyes and looked up. Smiled. "Son."
He smiled back. "Mother." He crouched beside me. "More gardenias?"
I nodded. "Yes. Last one."
His clean hands joined mine in settling the last flowering bush into its plot. Our fingers brushed. "Smells wonderful," he murmured.
"I think so." The last of the dirt settled in, he tilted my face up with his fingertips. My eyes darted to the windows overlooking the patio.
"He's passed out in the study."
"Oh." We kissed sloppily. The smells of dirt, gardenia and my son's warm skin overwhelmed me. He pushed me to the ground. I didn't mind at all, wrapped my arms around his slim, firm shoulders.
"Mmm, I've missed you." He nestled between my legs, nuzzled my linen-covered breasts.
He snorted. "You had me last night, mother."
"But I've missed you today, dragon." I mussed his fine hair. His fingers were raising my skirt. "Here, Draco?" How did he make me both nervous and aroused at once? "We're both dirty…"
He chuckled. "Yes, we are, Narcissa." I felt the dry soil on his fingers sloughed off on my thigh and then the fingers… I hissed. "And you are very wet."
Yes, I was. I wrestled briefly to get my hands between us, then past my rucked up skirt to unfasten his trousers. It seemed that in the weeks since the war ended, I didn't feel complete unless my son was inside me. Even with my husband wandering the halls a wraith, Draco and I remained lovers.
In his bed, my bed, behind the many warded doors of our great home we fucked and frolicked. There, in the garden – in the half sun half shade beneath the patio – he tore my bodice and explored me as if it were the first time again. We awkwardly shed my knickers and shifted so that I straddled his lap.
A gardenia blossom brushed my ear, unleashed its scent powerfully between us. I gasped and clutched Draco close as he slid inside me. "Oh, yes," I hissed. His cock filled the void – the void my dead sister left, the void of my absent/present husband coupled with the stigma of surviving as wife and mother to exonerated Death Eaters. Fucking my son helped me forget I was the witch who lied to Voldemort, the witch who betrayed one cause and shirked another, the witch who whored herself to darkness to see the light of day.
The sandy soil under my knees sent pinpricks of pain up my legs as I rode him hard. Knowing the burn of our joining and the jolt of his hardness against my cervix, I was in a bliss of pain. The burn flared quickly and Draco's rough grip on my hips bruised.
I wanted to scream when I came, but I settled for wrenching his ear to my mouth. I whimpered to him unashamed of my abandon. "That's so good, my dragon. That's it. Make me forget. Draco, give me your teeth!"
Obedient as ever, he bit down on the tender place beneath my ear, growling to me the while. He drew a little blood. I came, gasping, "Perfect, son!" Then, so swiftly my breath was taken, he flipped me so my knees and palms suffered the unforgiving ground's sting. Oh, and he could be violently punishing when he was close to his edge... The small of my back ached and my cunt blistered deliciously under his battery.
I lost my balance and folded to an elbow, scraped it through my dress sleeve and bumped my nose on a stone I'd unearthed. He gripped me so hard when he came - groaning - that I thought he cracked my ribs.
I needed the pain so I could recall having a soul…
And I sometimes let the need eat me up, let thought and regret cloak pleasure. It was a mistake Draco could sense doubtless before any other lover ever could. When it happened – when I cried, panicked and gouged his forearms, begged him to fuck me harder, to hurt me, bleed me, bite me, tear me open, make me come apart… He kissed me sweetly.
He slowed or stopped altogether, made me look at his face, into his eyes. "Forget," he would whisper. "Just let it go, mother. It's over. We're alive. We're together. We did what was right."
We did what was right. Only after those words could I make love to him properly, be a human again. It was a reciprocal relationship.
My son was not without his own demons. He'd confided he often heard Albus Dumbledore's invitation to the light when he closed his eyes to sleep at night; that he saw the old wizard's forgiving eyes, his reaching hand; that he felt the flat choke of Severus' arm pressing him into invisible walls, begging him to trust, to reason.
Then it was my turn to soothe him, to be mother and not lover. I rocked and cradled him. I could never confess to him the ghost touch of Severus that I felt, or the heat from invisible eyes burning into my flesh.
We were all haunted. No doubt Lucius' phantoms were the worst. Many a night I woke in a sharp panic, hearing my husband's screams from down the long corridor. And I remained a dutiful wife – disengaging from my son's arms to comfort my son's father. I didn't love Lucius, but I sympathized as one would with a dying animal, its ignorance making the death more frightening.
I climbed into his bed and held him and stroked his hair and whispered to him. He clutched me as if he feared I would apparate away and sobbed apologies over and over. I doubted Lucius would ever feel absolved…and perhaps that was appropriate.
Severus was absolved – unquestionably. I was absolved by a lie. Draco was absolved by inaction. And in my own sleepless nights, I decided that Bella was absolved by death.
The only thing that could have saved my sister from herself, from her evil, was death. That great equalizer. That inarguable right.
The one thing that could defeat my sister. Death.
Staring into night's black, inches away (just) from my son's warmth, I would think of Bella; of her untamed curls and untamed spirit, her vicious wrath and equally vicious loyalty, her thin frame and thick skull. I remembered her insane cackle and shivered, remembered her abandoned joyous laughter and nearly smiled.
I can only ever nearly smile when I think of Bella. Her strength and her fragility astounded me. Her deep loves and hatreds overwhelmed me. I envied her power. I loved her as a sister. I hated her for becoming what she was.
But Merlin, help me; she gave me strength. She taught me to fight. She moved through storms I could hardly imagine any other witch or wizard navigating.
Hell, Belle... You made those storms.
AN: Now. Call your sister and tell her you love her.