The Drunken Waste and the Sorry Whore:

A Love Story

Love

They were prompt and elegant for a formal supper. Draco even seated his mother. It had been eleven days since their confrontation. They'd succeeded in distracting each other; reading, playing wizards' chess, walking the gardens. But they'd barely spoken beyond pleasantries, and today, they'd been tense and terse, intolerant of each other's company.

Draco's hands shook as he took up his wine glass. Not wine. Just juice. He scowled at the beverage, feeling like a child.

Narcissa's hands shook as she laid her serviette across her lap. She smiled at her son. Just smiled. A cool numbness made her cheeks too taut for much else.

"Mother."

"Son."

He served himself a helping of Welsh rarebit and motioned for her plate. She drank from her own glass and his lips tightened. "Is that wine?"

She set the glass beside her plate, stalled a moment. Sighed. "It is."

He chewed thoughtfully. Poked a potato fingerling. "I see. Don't suppose I could have a glass?"

Her hands went to her lap. "Draco. I don't think it would be a good idea."

"It's unfair."

Her nostrils flared. "This isn't about fairness. You asked me to help you –"

"By flaunting drink in my bloody face?" He leaned forward.

"I didn't think!" She snapped.

"You rarely think."

She seethed for a moment. "How dare you… How dare you insult your mother at her own table?" Her voice rose.

"Your table?" He scoffed. "I am the Malfoy heir at this table, witch." He gestured to the firmament. "This belongs to me. You should count yourself fortunate to continue drawing your sleeping breaths beneath this roof considering your recent transgressions." He narrowed his eyes at her gaping shock. "Shall I write to father for his opinion on your behaviors? I'm certain he would adore news of his family in Azkaban's cold walls."

"You're a beast!" She shouted. "Even without the drink, you're a beast. I'm wasting my time on you."

"Bitch," he hissed. "You call me a beast? You're a whore. Or worse. What do the muggles call them? A slag. Carrying on like a commoner." He didn't see the movement of her hand til it was too late and he was splattered violently with red wine.

"There!" She spat. "There's your beloved drink. I never raised a son to call me names!" But there were tears on her face.

Draco scowled deeply and licked his lip. He wiped his face, thinking. "A fine vintage, mum. I didn't know sluts were versed in wine." He tossed the napkin to the table. "How would you feel…how would you feel if I were bringing lovely witches home by the dozens and fucking them in your bed?" Her lips trembled and she stared straight ahead. "That is how I feel watching you drink before me."

Her lips quirked. "You couldn't."

"What?" He cocked his head toward her.

She leveled a vile expression at him. "I said you couldn't. As with most sots, I expect you've gone…soft."

The final word fell from a prim, challenging smile.

For a moment, his face went entirely blank. Then, a tiny struggle of tics erupted there. He shoved away from the table with such suddenness she jumped. "Draco." Her voice held a warning, a hesitation.

"Oh, you're right to be scared, you filthy harlot." He gripped the back of her chair and pulled, whirled her to face him. "Your mouth has much to say without a cock in it. I can remedy that quickly." His tone was dangerous, eyes flashing steel flecks.

She shoved at his shoulders, sending him slightly off balance. "You're spitting in my face, you spoiled little shite! And I suspect you would have some expertise in the cock-in-mouth department." She stood. "How did the Dark Lord's taste?"

The slap was hard. More than a slap, really. He watched her reel from the force of it, felt his hand tingle and throb. It was as though he was a voyeur – not the one who'd hit, but the one who criticized the hitting. Fuck.

She steadied herself on the back of her chair. Breathed deeply before swirling in a swish of satin to face him. A neatly manicured finger wiped the trickle of blood from her chin. She puked her next four words, nearly sobbing on each one. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "Just like your father." He froze, the sympathy building in him staunched. She continued, chest rising and falling like a trapped rabbit's. "A hard hand and a soft cock. With the same amount of respect." She scoffed softly. "Lovely."

And he snapped. His hand shot to her throat, wrapped around it. Her back slammed into her plate and she gasped for breath, staring up at him with wide, timorous eyes. Hands clawed at his grip on her neck. Her vulnerability, his own anger – these things frightened him with their prevalence. His hand loosened, but didn't leave her neck.

"I'm not my father," he whispered. Her legs scrappled for purchase on either side of his thighs. He shoved her further up the table. "I'm not my father!"

She stilled beneath him, forcing a calm into her body. "Prove it," she bit out.

Her breath smelled of wine. He could practically taste it. He wanted to truly taste it. Instinct drove his actions; his mouth lingering over hers, enjoying her delicious, submissive puffs of air before licking her lips. She twisted her head to no avail, and barely aware of his actions, Draco kissed her.

She groaned protests. Her throat worked under his hand. His cock hardened quick and shocking in his trousers. This was his mother… He felt her breasts pressing against his forearm as she breathed, let his free hand grope one. The nipple hardened in his demanding palm. She made a choking sound. A click flicked beneath his gripping hand.

He pressed his hardness to her crotch. "Feel that, Narcissa?" She whimpered. "Told you I'd make you feel again."

He stared at her face. Saw the tears streaking down her temples. He felt his resolve evaporating. He was breaking. "I'm…I'm sorry," he said. Then he wept. The hand at her throat slid to her jaw, pushing her head into a salad bowl. "Did he ever say he was sorry? My father?" His head fell to her chest, face rubbing the softness of her breasts helplessly.

Her hands stroked his head, combed through his shaggy hair. "No, no he didn't." Her voice was hoarse.

"Forgive me?"

"I forgive you, Draco."

He looked up at her face, the pained expression there, the swelling of her cheek and coloring around her eye. She was the most fucking beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He kissed her with that conviction, and after a moment of not-quite-resistance, Narcissa kissed him back.

They tasted tears on each other's tongues; tears, forgiveness and apology; lust, iron and blood; the heat of a forbidden dessert, sugar cracking on top. And suddenly, Narcissa was waking up.

She did feel – her son's firmness, his suppleness, the sinew of his muscle and the awkward jab of his bones. His lankiness fit her curviness. His desperation was the same as hers. She tugged free his tie, heard the tac pop off in the distance. Her fingers attacked his shirt buttons as his pawed and pulled the bodice of her frock.

They straightened, kissing and attempting to mesh bare skin, to shove back together the entity they'd once been – the oneness. Draco staggered backward til he hit the dining chair behind him. He fell into it, pulled his mother onto his lap.

He devoured her breasts, loving the way she abandoned herself to his mouth, loving that he could offer her this pleasure, this feeling she craved. Head back, she moaned for him, hardened his aching cock even further. He answered her. "I want to be inside you, mother."

"Yes!" She grappled with his shoulders, kissed his ears, neck and back as he struggled to bunch her skirt over her hips. Her own hands were like sin incarnate unbuttoning his trousers. They tested his hardness and found it to their liking. "Gods, son…"

Then so simply, and yet so intricately, they were joined. She felt split open as she lowered onto him, pierced properly. And it had been so many ages since the hurt had been so bloody good and so bloody bad.

They growled in each other's mouths when she set a fast, demanding pace. Her cunt burned. Her hands held the sturdy mahogany spindles over her son's head. She needed steadying, grounding, or she just might dissipate in effervescent pleasure.

"Does it feel good?" The agony on his face was deceitful. It was willful delectation if anything.

"So good," she whispered. Her concentration was on that tiny bubble of yearning that jolted every time she fell on him. He was shaped for her, made for her. The dignity that held her together jarred and threatened to topple off the shelf.

"I think I've forgotten…"

"Wha?" She could barely hear him speaking over the rush of blood in her ears.

"I said I think I've forgotten!" The deceitful agony broke like a fever. "Fuck! Narcissa!" He thrust upward, forcing her over the cliff of sanity. Deportment dashed on the rocks below and she howled like a whore in his ear as she came with him.

The dining chair wobbled precariously, but the witch and wizard in it were secure in each other's arms. Narcissa kissed her son as if he was a babe again, and he kissed his mother as if she were a maid again. "I want more," she admitted feebly.

He heard shame in her voice, denied it. "I'm yours. Blood, muscle, bone and mind."

"And heart?" Her tears dried on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes. "That's always been yours, I think."

"We're sick."

"We're getting better."

"Perhaps." She wiped her face with her hand. "Can we go to bed?"

"Mmm." His softened cock began to harden inside her. "Together?"

She wiggled a little on the burgeoning erection. "Yes. Together."

"Very well."

They were broken people. Addicts. Drunk and sorry. Remorseful for all they had done and all they hadn't done. But drunk is always temporary. And sorry has to end somewhere. So together, they found something maybe lasting, and something to cease being sorry over: Love – in the strangest of guises – that great forever fix.