The Red Nightgown

Moments mold a person. A mere second can mean a lifetime mutation – an alteration of personality tantamount to rebirth. If there was ever a testament to this fact, it was the surviving Malfoys.

Narcissa had experienced plenty of these small defining instants in just the last year or two. During the war, she'd become practically a different person entirely. At least in her opinion. Much had ceased to matter to her; blood, money, power and influence. All the conceits that had earlier (and for most of her life) made her a bundle of inimical neuroses seemed to smelt and cool, harden into a hematite shell.

She was protected from the after-war eyes – the haunted, haunting stares that followed the names. The names of the fallen, falling or faltering. Malfoy. Lestrange. Potter. Weasley. Black. Snape. Dumbledore. Longbottom. Lovegood… It was hard to call anyone a survivor – harder still to call anyone victorious.

And the Malfoy name in particular bespoke ruin. Lucius had successfully degenerated anything his ancestors may have built. He'd been sufficiently punished, however – sentenced to life (as it was) in Azkaban.

But that meant his wife and son were sentenced to life, as well. Life in seclusion, in regret.

Narcissa rarely left the manor. She milled about mostly in the dim corridors, tended plants, crocheted, baked and shopped by catalog. She also cleaned, occasionally, without complaint. They'd procured a paid elf, Peppa, but she only came thrice a week. So Narcissa took up the slack. She'd also taken up magical sewing, and had a penchant for creating elaborate frocks in sumptuous materials. Her marriage chamber was converted to sewing chamber – piled high with velvets, silks, embroidered Chinese brocades and gossamer Venetian tulle.

Her son humored her. Besides, he reaped the benefits in her winsome creations. Draco would confess he appreciated luxury, and silk suits of midnight black or well-appointed linen sleep pants were welcome trappings. Not to mention her sense of style translated well for his purposes. He appeared often at the Ministry, donated to various charities and offered assistance to wizarding causes. He was working earnestly to improve the Malfoy name's reputation – to cure its pox.

He did this because he had to live with the name, as did the witch who'd coveted his life above all others – his mother. And no amount of reward or recompense could ever be too great for her.

She knew this. Ever since he'd learned about her vow – about her lie to the Dark Lord – he'd fawned upon her. Spoiled her. Doted upon her in a way his father never had. And strange though the dichotomy was, she flourished in it. She lapped up his attentions and gifts like a greedy stepchild, and returned the gestures in droves.

She cooked his favorite meals, baked his favorite deserts, read aloud to him in their library, prepared his baths, repaired his clothes, tied his ties and patted him off to each board meeting or ribbon-cutting with a tip-toed kiss on his cheek. Less a mother...more a wife.

And perhaps they realized the odd role fulfillment, but neither complained. The young man lived in a constant state of distraction and busy-ness. His mother lived in a constant state of dreadful waiting – waiting for him to be done with her. Waiting for the day he was a man, for the arrival of the first 'girl,' for his own marriage, for his leaving or worse – his rejection.

So she fretted when he was away and broiled in spoilage when he was present. He ignored and she allowed the ignorance.

They were a tragically divine aberrant mess. But they were fine.

Until the seventeenth of November.

On that crisp, bleak evening, Draco apparated to his stoop with a fresh, excited face. His mussed hair swung too-long into his eyes as he breezed through the main doors. "Mother!" He always called, but she was always there at the bottom of the stair, expecting him.

"Draco!" She swooped in to collect his cloak – lush French velvet in charcoal – and kid gloves. "How was business?" She always asked.

"Good." He always answered. Then came the briefing as she walked him to the supper table. "I toured the new maternity ward at St. Mungo's. Very nice. Good to see our money went to something worthy – unlike that sad Ministry of Magic museum debacle…what a right mess." She nodded as he seated her, then himself at table's head, and continued. "And the damned goblins are demanding higher wages again. Higher wages!" He served up the roast tenderloin for both of them. "As if they aren't paid handsomely enough. You know? I'd wager Grogan Farthingblood – the new Gringott's executive – makes nearly the Minister's wages in a year's time. Ridiculous. Potatoes?"

"Yes, please."

"Smells delicious, mum. Really. Are those roast apples?"


"You're a goddess." He ate with a centaur's appetite and she warmed in the rays of his pleasure, listening contentedly to his talk of happenings in the outside world.

After dessert – ganache with caramel dripping – Draco leaned back in his chair. "I believe you've outdone yourself again."

She controlled the toothy grin to a tight smile. "You always say that."

"I always mean it." He reached into his jacket. "I got you a little gift."

"Did you?" She could have positively erupted with delight.

"I did." He tapped a shrunken parcel with his wand. "I hope you like it. I'm becoming rather good at ferreting out these treasures."

She untied the twine and unwrapped the brown paper with undisguised relish. When her breath caught, it was not a show. "Oh, Draco…" Her fingers snapped away from the delicate contents – almost as if they were too dirty for contact. "It's acromantula silk."

He nodded, leaning forward in fascination. "Yes. Old Borgin said you'd like it. Apparently, he's been holding onto it for a few days and was getting a bit nervous."

Narcissa nodded. "Well, it's illegal to sell it. I can understand his worry. Oh, gods. It's simply…" Finally, she held it up. In the candlelight, it was revealed for the wonder it was. Sheer, but shimmering; light, but heavy with motion. "Exquisite," she breathed.

He was smirking at her pleasure. "Certainly isn't much for what I paid."

She defended the material. "Well the creatures only lay silk twice in a lifetime, son. And harvesters stalk them for days to retrieve it – at great risk to themselves!"

"I heard." Draco shook his head. "I hope there's enough for a scarf, at least." His fingers drummed on the table. "Perhaps a nightgown."

She paled, then flushed. It was a startling moment veiled in innocence – the implication of her son appreciating her intimate attire, especially attire so obviously…small. Briskly, with shaking fingers, she re-wrapped the silk. "Perhaps." She caught him looking at her gaugingly. She looked away. "Well. Shall we read for a bit?"

He blinked. "I'm all for a shower, actually. Hot as bollocks at the board meeting today. I sweat like a hippogriff. Meet you in the library after?"

She nodded. They rose together and parted ways on the second floor landing. Narcissa lingered in her sewing room, fingering the incredibly delicate silk for a moment. It could only be charmed once, so she would have to choose her color carefully. Perhaps something dark…even red. Burgundy? She sighed. A nightgown… Gods above.

Passing her son's open door, she spotted his frock coat on the floor. Tisking, she entered, bent to retrieve the garment. His white cotton oxford was a few paces away, alongside silk suit pants and jacket. "Dammit, Draco…" She muttered to herself as she gathered the apparel.

Stooped in the lavatory door for his tie, she heard a sound and looked up. The moment fell brick-heavy on her shoulders.

Draco. In his marble shower stall. He leaned on the wall there, having shut off the water flow, an arm stretching up to replace his shampoo.

A quiet gasp escaped Narcissa's mouth. Her eyes devoured his form; long, flexing arms; strong, sinewy shoulders that tapered to a lean back; ribs curving just above a barely visible stomach comprised of hills and valleys.

He turned. His chest – smooth save for a smattering of blonde fuzz – was cut as though carved. The blonde fuzz narrowed to an arrow, pointed, led her eye down…

She shook. She may have moaned…and he may have heard her. He noticed her at last as he reached for his towel. So innocuous, his face. So naïve. "Mother. I didn't hear you come in."

"No. You didn't." He had no shame. His white towel – concealing little – was a hot foil to her red thoughts. She heard her lust sizzle, practically smelled it cooking. "You should take better care of your clothes." She gestured with the handful of his cast-off's.

He cocked his head. Wet blonde shadowed a curious gaze. "I apologize." His mouth – too red and ripe for a man – spoke sympathies. But her ears heard want, and burned with the hearing.

"He's your son," her inner Malfoy matron whispered. "Such disgusting thoughts!"

But the Black in her whispered, "He's yours. You made him. Take him. All he is – all he has – is owed to you. Think of the sacrifices you made…" She shook her head against the devil's voice, tracked the succulent path a water trickle cut down his body – over his hip. His buttock tensed and relaxed, shivered like a stud's haunch.

She gathered herself quickly, turned to leave. "I should apologize," she said. "I didn't mean to…intrude."


She paused in the lavatory door. "Yes?"

"It was no intrusion."

The days rolled on and holidays approached. Snow fell, and the manor was blanketed in muffled white silence. Narcissa kept to herself. She joined her son for meals, then hid away. She sewed Draco a thick wool cloak lined with satin and produced a similar piece for herself. She embroidered an elaborate silver dragon onto Draco's, and more than satisfied with it, decided it would be a Yule gift.

And again, she fingered the silk he'd given her. It had languished in its packaging for weeks. She took a deep breath. Raised her wand. Whispered the spell. Her breath stopped at the result. She barely wore red – and never red like this. It deepened and absorbed the light – the silk turning it dark like blood. She draped it across her bare chest and neck and examined herself in the gilded mirror.

"Oh, goddess," she murmured. It was a dramatic contrast – the crimson cloth against her swan-white skin. She bit her lip in anticipation of the feel of it ghosting over her curves and sat to her magical machine.

She lost track of time, so detailed and careful was her work with the silk. She sewed through lunch, and didn't realize the hour until her growling stomach roused her from her bench. She was done save for some delicate hand stitching, and she'd wasted none of the exquisite material.

Light from the library door stopped her on her way to the dining hall. She peered inside and saw her son. Resplendent. The warm light of the fire livened his nearly shoulder-length hair, and his concentrating face created fascinating shadows. He was reading an aged and cracking leather tome and eating pistachios.

Narcissa leaned in the doorway, unnoticed…watching.

He was draped across the chaise like an afghan, one crooked leg swaying over an arm. On a low table was a bowl of his favorite nut, white in their casings. He reached lazily for one occasionally, never looking away from the printed page.

His fingers were brisk in shelling the kernels. He had an impressive one-handed technique that involved squeezing each fruit btween thumb and forefinger until the shell snapped into his palm. The discarded shells were deposited on the silver tray, while the nut was brought slowly to moistened lips. There, it lingered; played with by the pouting mouth, teased by a lazy tongue, and finally (finally!) suctioned into the darkened orifice and chewed with relish.

Narcissa's jaw tightened. Her nostrils flared as though smelling her own desire. A sharp stab of crave shocked and dampened her cunt. She swallowed. "Draco." Her voice was low, and she blushed.

He flicked silver eyes her way. "Mother."

Subtly, subconsciously, her lip curled at the word. "Dinner," she said simply.

"Mm." He rose, stretching, laying his book open across the back of the chaise. "Right. Shall we?"

He pressed a long, firm hand to the small of her back, steered her down the hall to the table. "Did you cook, mum?"

She shook her head as he seated her. "No. Peppa today."

"Ah." He sat and popped his napkin. She jumped at the sound. "Well, I suppose that's alright. Smells good." He served them buttery seafood over pasta. "I missed you at tea earlier."

"I know. I'm sorry." She fiddled with bread. "I was caught up in my sewing.

He grinned around a mouthful of bread. "I'd no idea such a tiny scrap of silk would prove such a horribly magnificent distraction."

"Indeed." She blushed and stared at the bread basket.

"What did you decide to make?" He asked cordially.

She chewed slowly. Wiped her mouth. Stalled. "I've not enough material for much. I chose…comfortable sleeping attire."

"Sleeping attire." He was looking at her in that way that demanded she look back at him. His silver eyes sparkled. "Awfully small sleeping attire."

She cleared her throat. "It's not as if anyone shall see me in it, son."

He quirked his brows. "Huh. True." He looked back to his plate, sopped up some butter. "I always sleep naked, myself." Her fork crashed to her china plate and again, he cut eyes at her. "Alright, mum?"

Narcissa took a healthy draught of water, choked and coughed. Her eyes watered. "I'm fine, Draco."

For a moment, he looked as though he might say more, but did not. They ate in silence and after ice cream, Narcissa pushed away from the table. "If you'll excuse me," she murmured.

"Mother." He looked at her with mild frustration on his features. "Are you angry at me?"

She melted. "Oh, Draco. No! Of course not. Why would you think that?"

He spread his hands as if to say, 'Really?' "You've avoided me for days. I only see you at meals, and not even all of those. I assumed I'd offended somehow."

He was giving her a chance, she knew. And there was a part of her that wanted to tell him – to warn him. But what to say? Her fingers worked the spindles on the back her her dining chair. Son, I have improper thoughts about you. Too ambiguous. Draco, I want you incestuously. Too blatant. I sometimes imagine you as the lover I wanted as a young witch – when I was ripe and new. I think of your graceful hands – the family Black wizard hands – caressing my skin…slipping inside me to the place you came from. I imagine eating your mouth while the cock I haven't known since your infancy fucks me.

She shuddered and bit her lip. Too damned honest. Best to lie – to protect him. "I've been…tired lately. I apologize if I –"

His sharp sigh cut her short. "Right." He stood abruptly from the table. "I'm your son. And you're all I have in this world. But if you feel you can't talk to me…" He nodded, gentled his tone. "If it's something you're not comfortable saying to me, just…Fuck. Never mind." He breezed past her, out of the dining room.

She stood clutching her spindles until the elf popped in to tidy up.

The gown hung from the open door of her wardrobe. Narcissa sat on the end of her enormous bed, staring at it. It was simply perfect. Lovely. So deeply red it made red weep. And she'd worked with the shape of the material, making very few cuts. Thusly, it tied on one shoulder, draped like a Vestal Virgin's shroud and hung asymmetrically to one knee, revealing an obnoxious amount of thigh on the other side.

When Draco left for business with the Welsh ministry three days earlier, she'd devoted her heart and fingers to the silk. And now she stared at it expressionless. Should have done something practical, she thought. Camisoles or a slip.

It fell from its hanging and into her hands. She thought for a moment it would trickle through her fingers. This serves absolutely no purpose.

But she shrugged out of her dressing gown, anyway. Fresh from a bath, she felt clean enough to let the fine fabric feel her body.

And feel it did. Back to the mirror, she rolled her heavy head on drunk shoulders. Oh, it felt like sweet, sweet sin. It was cool, then quickly warm. Deceptively heavy. It tickled her bare arse cheeks and she toyed with the idea of bedding down without knickers to fully enjoy the sensation. She smirked at the thought and turned to the mirror.

A gasp. Who is that woman? She stepped forward, tilting her head as if challenging her reflection to match each movement. Thick, white curls spilled over bare skin and swayed with her body. French manicured fingers trailed over the same skin, then touched the same lips.

It's cursed, she thought, fingering a hem. The silk reddened her mouth, cinched her waist and puckered her nipples. It's turned me into a siren…with no one to hear my song. She groaned and cupped her own heavy breasts, fell into her bedfolds. Then her hands were all over her body.

The silk caressed her where her hands did not. Her body stirred, demanded more sensation. Knowing the manor was empty save for herself, she raised her knees and surrendered to the want. Her stomach tensed and flattened; the silk slid up it like blood over ice.

Her fingers quested into wetness she hadn't felt in years. Her cunt was swollen and aching, demanding attention. "Oh," she moaned helplessly. Awkwardly, she curled to better reach herself, pinched and flicked at her hardened clit. The pleasure drove her to cries and whimpers; the cries and whimpers drove her to oblivion.

Impatient after years of numbness, she roughly thrust one – two fingers of her other hand into her tight slit. The strokes she set were rough and straining, but never quite reaching… She hissed and huffed with effort and frustration, desperate and keening for that elusive orgasm. The pinches tightened. The flicks became rubs. Shards of pleasure beckoned her to more, more, more… She was near weeping and wet with sweat.

But the curl that finally unfurled was less an explosion and more a controlled fire. It flared to hot life, then just as quickly died to an ember. Exhausted, close to disappointment, she withdrew her sticky fingers and stared up at her canopy.

Simply won't do…not when it could be his mouth, his fingers, his cock…my son. She sighed, tossed onto her side and avoided her drying fingers. But that will never do, either…most certainly not. She slept fitfully, and woke desperate for a bath.

Draco returned at noon. This time, she did not wait on the stairs. Instead, she stood awkwardly behind the settee in the drawing room, biting her lip. She heard him bustling in the foyer. "Mother?"

She skittered into the hall, unable to control her grin when she saw him. "Draco."

He swept her up in an unashamed embrace. "Oh, you feel good," he breathed.

"Mmm." He felt good, too. She gripped his strong, shoulders, felt the snow melting on the thick wool. "I missed you."

"Missed you, too." His leather gloved fingers were cool on her face. He kissed her sweetly, if lingeringly, just to the left of her lips.

A whimper nearly escaped. He pulled back and looked at her with something hardening in his eyes. They stared in silence for a moment.

"Well." He let her go. "I'm starved. And I've much news."

She tugged his cloak from his shoulders and wand-waved it to a peg on the wall. "Good," she said. "I've cooked today. Pheasant."

"I love you," he jibed, taking her arm.

"I know." They made their way to the dining room. "And there's brandied pudding for dessert."

"Is it my birthday?" He seated her. They ate, happily discussing the newest additions to the Ministry's various boards and committees, the gossip and facts, the rising price of goblin silver. "You were asked after," Draco said, looking at his plate.


He nodded, a baby scowl clouding his face. "Arcturus Greengrass. Some cousin of his…expressed some…interest in you." His lips tightened.

"Oh." Narcissa nodded. "How kind."

Draco's nostrils flared. "It's disgusting," he muttered. She looked at him in surprise. "How purebloods act." He glanced up at her. "You've not even been a widow a year, for fuck's sake."

She swallowed, taken aback by the bitterness in his tone, the passion. "I see."

The young man was obviously upset. He dropped his fork, met her gaze matter-of-factly. "Then he starts on about how I really should consider visiting his girls, soon. That they're of an age where courtship should commence. Bloody courtship!" He scoffed. "Doesn't he think I might want to mourn my father? That my mother might enjoy empty thighs for a few more nights?"

"Draco!" She colored immediately.

"Why is it we live in a world where connections are all that matter? Where whose name you sport defines how happy you are?"

"I don't know, son." She wanted far away from this conversation. His mention of the Greengrass daughters had dropped a stone in her belly.

"Well, I'm happy like this, dammit." He gestured to her. "What about you, mum? Are you happy?"

She nodded quickly. "Of course, I am."

He looked away, then back to her. "Be honest with me?"

"I wouldn't lie to you, son."

"Are you ever…lonely?"

She smiled, aimed for brightness, but probably achieved pained. "I have you. How could I be lonely?"

He leaned forward on his elbows, eyes narrowed some. "You know what I mean," he said lowly.

She colored further. "I should fetch the pudding."

"Mum. Fuck the pudding." She plopped back into her seat. "I want to talk. Truly talk." She nodded, blinked at him expectantly. "I um…" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I get lonely. Sometimes."

"Oh, son." Her heart cracked a little.

"But." He held up a hand. His own face colored. "I get out more than you and I…" He sighed. "I found some…companionship." He looked at his half empty plate. "Paid companionship. You know."

Her heart broke completely. A force very cold moved up her arms to her chest. She swallowed something that made her face turn slightly sour. "I – I see," she whispered because she seemed to have lost her voice.

He suddenly looked very sad. "I mean – not all that, mum! Not yet, anyway." His face spasmed. "I can't seem to bring myself to…to fuck them."

She couldn't hear anymore, pushed away from the table so quickly her chair nearly toppled backward. He rose, too. "Mum, don't. Don't walk out on me." She was walking out, feeling a little dizzy, reaching for the door's stabilizing arch. "You know, mother!" He was shouting after her. "You know because you're a Malfoy, too! The only way we'll ever know anything beyond hate is if it's bought or bloody contracted!"

She took the stairs two at a time, letting the tears come. He couldn't see them. She pulled her wand as she approached her doors, slammed the cherry wood behind her and swished the ebony to ward herself in. Or him out. She wasn't certain. Only that she needed to wretch.

Leaning shakily on her sink, she caught her breath. Whores? He's consorting with…whores? She turned on the taps, tried to shut off her hatred, her disgust. He's a man now. And he's right. He's a Malfoy. She sobbed openly, slapped her hand across her traitorous mouth. And I can play mother and wife to him all day, but I can't play lover…no matter how much my sickness may want to. But whores?

She splashed her face, felt some reason returning. What if he contracts some kind of…pox? They're filthy! And the blood… Not a pureblood among them!

She ripped pins from her hair, let the bun unravel messily. Tomorrow. I shall…talk to him tomorrow. She popped the fasteners of her frock coat, dropped the heavy velvet onto the marble tile. She unlaced her frock with similar impatience, and dressed unthinking in the red nightgown.

It was early, but she longed for the comfort of her bed, the solitude and smell of her linens. She flicked her wand again at the floo, set roaring a cedar fire there.

Shock, not cold, numbed her toes and fingers, making turning down her heavy emerald duvet a hassle. Fresh frustration heated her face and teared her eyes. Whores! My son…I would… She shook her head, but the thought persisted. Even his own mother would be better.

Her knee bent onto the feather mattress when his knock came. "Mother." He sounded insistent, but defeated. "Let me in. I want to talk to you, dammit."

She froze, hand still clutching her wand, toes barely touching the thick Persian rug. "I shall talk to you tomorrow, Draco." Her voice nearly broke. "I'd like to be alone now, please."

"We've the rest of our lives to be alone, mum."

She felt his magic prickling her wards. He wouldn't! But he did. He broke her wards quickly, easily. She heard the latch click and scrambled off the bed, suddenly aware she was in the red nightgown. A pulse of air and a crackle of magic hit her when he pushed the door open forcefully.

She stood by the bed, wand clutched at her side and one arm folded across her chest.

He stilled when he saw her, seemed to catch his breath. "Gods," he murmured. Whatever he was out to vent seemed to be lost. "Is that the silk I brought you?"

Nervous, she nodded. She felt his eyes eating her. "Draco."

"Hm?" He hadn't looked up from her exposed thigh.

"Draco." She tried to keep the tears from her voice – she really did.

"I disgust you."

"No!" She raised a hand toward him. "I – I'm trying to understand! I just… Oh, I just worry for you. Those filthy –"

"I know what they are, mother." He turned from her as if the sight of her was too much. "But I can't…" He leaned against her wardrobe. "I can't ignore the want."

Anger flared in her. "You can't?" She hissed. "You've no idea what want even is! You're still a boy."

He slammed a fist into the wardrobe, startling her. "How dare you call me that?" He stormed toward her. "And who are you to call a whore filthy? Look at you! Even the whores wear more to the boudoir."

"You gave it to me!" She shouted back. His words stung. "It just looks different on a pureblood woman than it does on a diseased slip of filth you have to pay for –"

He hushed her, grabbing her arms and giving one firm shake. "Shut up!" She grabbed at his own arms, her wand hilt pressing into his shoulder. After a tense second where he seemed to…sniff her, he threw her away from himself and to her bed. She whimpered there, not pitifully, but angrily. "At least they don't judge," he muttered.

"You pay extra for discernment," Narcissa whispered.

"Fuck you, mother!" Draco snapped.

But she stood and grabbed him, whirled him to face her. "Arcturus is right, then," she spat. "It's time you took up with one of his girls. Before you ruin yourself and this name further with cheap trollops who only shut their mouths when there's a cock inside."

Draco loomed over her, made her cower back just a step. "Just listen to the mouth on you, mum… At least those cheap trollops mind their manners." He halted abruptly, gave her one more withering look and headed back to the door. "I'm going out."

One more moment.

One more moment molded the Malfoy matron. The moment he opened her door. The moment she watched his back as he walked away from her that evening. She was pliable as potter's clay, spinning on a wheel of fate, loosed from the hands of the artist.

She rushed after him. "Stop." Her voice was calm, but carrying. There was magic in it, and the son obeyed.

He looked back at her, seven steps away in the corridor. The dimly lit sconces darkened his sullen features. A remarkable poise oozed over her. She swayed the seven steps. "Before you go to your whore…" She stood inches from him, leaned toward him, then away slowly. "I'd like to make you an offer."

"An offer?" His pupils were huge black disks. His voice was weak. "What's the offer?"

She raised a brow. Trailed the tip of her wand down his arm. "Me," she said simply.

Draco took a step back. Sweat broke across his top lip. He jerked his arm from her wand as if it burned him. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be naïve," Narcissa purred. She began a slow rounding of him, watching him like a predator. "You're obviously a worldly…young man." She tugged at his tie, pulled his ear close to her lips. "I offer you a proper woman. A pure blood witch. A clean cunt."

The feel of her breath on her last two words caressed his ear sickly. He jerked back, but her hold on his tie stopped him short. "You're my mother," he hissed.

She chuckled. "Indeed, I am." She released the tie and he very nearly staggered backwards. "That's to be considered, I suppose. And to teach you a bit about the…want…that I've fought."

"You're sick." But his words lacked conviction.

"Perhaps I am." She stopped her revolution to face him squarely, all but on her toes. "But even the ill await answers, darling dragon." Almost sympathetically, she stroked his face. He flinched, but didn't pull away from the touch. "So what's it going to be, Draco? Yes…or no?"

So it was the younger Malfoy's turn to be molded. He looked down on the woman who'd birthed him, the witch who loved him unconditionally. He saw her body's every secret in the corridor's flickering flames; the shadow of fur between her thighs, the pert tents of her nipples.

Did she know? Did mothers know their sons' guiltiest secrets – their darkest desires? Was he so obvious?

Yes, he'd wanted her. He'd hired the blondest whore he could find to suck his cock, imagining his mother's head instead. He'd muffled his own cries in his own pillow many a night as he'd imagined fucking this witch.

She'd been his most coveted secret, the thing that awakened his first true lust.

And now she offered herself to him. He closed his eyes, jerked his head, desperately tried to dislodge the images flooding in to drown him; the possible sound of tearing acromantula silk, the feel of her sticky wet heat slapped against his balls as he made her scream.

He groaned. Her screams… He would eat them.

At his groan, she pressed herself against him. "Draco…"

"Yes," he said. Awkwardly, his arms wrapped round her. His hands folded last against her back, tensed at the feel of the silk.

"Afraid to touch me?" She asked.

He shook his head. She wet her lips with her tongue. "Kiss me, darling."

Her lips were impossibly red. He dipped his head on a whimper…and tasted them for the first time. The tip of his tongue worked tentatively between her lips. She was spice and sin and the fruit of forbidden knowledge. His fingers worked the silk between his fingers, kneaded it and let it hint at the feel of her skin beneath it, the soft, full flesh of her arse cheeks.

When she deepened the kiss, folded her arms round his neck, he took the dive and cupped that splendid arse in his hands. Rucked the gown up further, stroked the mysterious cleft of her peach-hips' meeting. It was downy fuzz inside, and must have tickled because she surged forward. Their tongues dueled for dominance.

He didn't realize he was moving, drifting backward, not feeling the floor. His knees buckled suddenly and he broke from her face to look behind him. Somehow, he'd reached her bed. "Oh," he murmured. Things were a bit hazy. Why did he feel so lightheaded?

Her hand was in his trousers with the answer. "Gah!" He fell back, boneless, as she stroked his erection. He groaned helplessly. "Mother…please…"

The hand took its time departing, then she was swiftly undressing him. He could little more than let her. "Draco."

"Huh?" He rose up on his elbows, gazed on the red-clad goddess with unfocused eyes.

She used her wand to gesture up the bed. "Scoot," she instructed.

He scrambled to comply, strangely compelled to comply, and she was swift crawling after, stilling his legs with her arms when she had him where she wanted him. She mounted his quaking thighs. He reached for her, finally finding his will, but she pressed his arms down. "No, no, dragon."

He reached for the tie on her gown, one hand groping a breast. "But –"

"I said 'no.'" A flick of her wand and his arms straightened over his head.

He felt invisible bonds snake and tighten around his wrists. "Wait!" He gasped. "Please!"

"Shush. Or I'll gag you, as well." Her finger pressed to his lips firmly, then dragged down his chin. "And I would hate to impair such a blasphemous and…talented mouth." He kissed at the finger and she smiled. Slowly rose onto her haunches. "You wanted to touch my breasts, dragon?"

"Yes!" He yelped.

"Would you like to see them?"

"Yes, gods." He lurched toward her.

She grinned and untied the silk over her shoulder. His eyes widened on the sight before him. Mother or not – the witch had a fantastic pair of tits. The little pink nipples hardened and tightened when she pinched them, biting her lip at the sensation. "Mmm, I can't wait til you're touching them, Draco."

He writhed against her spell again, growled. She slid a hand beneath the silk round her waist, obviously stroking that hidden part of herself. "Oh, I can't wait til you're touching all of me." She tweaked a nipple while she fingered herself.

"Narcissa," he breathed.

She cut him off with a sudden motion. Hands planted on the mattress beside him, she dragged her body up his. Her sticky hot wetness scraped up his straining cock and he shouted out. "Hell, mum!"

"Yes, it is, darling." She answered, ran her sinful hands up his taut arms. "Draco. Look at me."

"No!" He turned his head, wouldn't let the succubus torture him this way. But a moist finger penetrated his grimacing lips, and his traitorous mouth sucked at it. He tasted… "Oh, gods." He groaned, finally looked at her smiling face.

"Good?" She asked.

"More," he demanded.

"Say 'please.'"

He thrust his hips up against her bum. "PLEASE, witch. For fuck's sake…"

Her laughter pissed him off, enflamed him, made him want her, made him love her. He watched her in his odd hatred as she held the hem of that damned red nightgown up just enough to awkwardly crawl over his face…but just out of his mouth's reach. "Damn you," he muttered.

His breath hit her aching cunt. "We're both damned, love. Straight from the tap," she said. "Drink me." Then – finally – the scratchy flax over her apex teased his lips and he lunged, loving her gasp of surprise. "Oh, gods yes Draco, my sweet dirty son!" Her hand tightened in his hair almost painfully, holding his head steady.

He sucked, kissed, nipped, lapped long and short. He chased her hard, dancing clit as well as he could without aid of his fingers. And he was doing damned fine until her hand curled around his cock. He shoved his tongue in her slit in response.

"Just returning the favor," she whinged. "Oh, dragon, you might make mummy come!"

He groaned loud into her folds. If only, he thought. Her hand worked him mercilessly, smearing the generous strand of pre-cum down his shaft. His balls swelled and burned.

And then she was gone. One hand pulled him away by the hair while the other pressed his head to the pillows. "No." She snapped. "I want to come on your cock, baby. Can I?"

"Fuck yes! Goddess please! Anything…" His eyes were captivated by the shapes her hips made as they lowered over him, teased his cock to standing attention, then sank. "Ohhhh, Merlin…" He squeezed his eyes closed against the sensation of first pussy eating his essence. He couldn't restrain his bucking, but the witch riding him didn't complain.

"Good, darling! Good, dragon." Her eyes were slits. She rubbed her nipples between rough fingers, sent those rough fingers back beneath that silk.

"Let me!" He cried, unable to stand it. "Let me touch you! Let me see you!"

"Can you?" She asked breathlessly. Her cunt slid up and nearly off of him. Her hips swiveled. "Can you touch me properly?"

"Teach me," he heaved. "Fucking show me. I'll do anything you want."

Her wand swished. His arms tingled as he dragged them down the duvet. At her thighs, his hands paused, still just a bit numb. "How?" He asked, raising up.

She went lax, let him level the playing field. He laid her back, didn't once break their connection. She took hold of his hand, insinuated it between them. His fingers felt her wetness. "Flick," she instructed. "Like wingardium leviosa."

He smiled before tasting her mouth again. He'd do his best to levitate the witch…

She planted her heels at his hips, finger-pushed his mouth away from hers. "Fuck me, Draco. Fast now. I'm close."

"Yes, ma'am." He snapped his hips and she arched off the bed.


He grinned into her neck. Wingardium leviosa, indeed. Fucked her savagely. "I want you like this forever, mum. Just like this."

"No whores," she panted, scratching at his back.

"No whores," he panted back. He looked down, saw his cock glistening with her juices, saw the red silk rucked around her waist, watched her breasts jiggle in time with his manic thrusts. "Fucking come, witch!"

He latched his teeth onto her neck, her shoulder, tasted blood.

Her fingers clutched his back, drew her own blood. And as the pleasure battered her, unwound her and destroyed her, she raised her bloody fingertips to her lips…and tasted her son's hot, sticky life.

They came together. The moment made of blood, cum and sweat molding them to one entity, one animal, moving together, growling, feeding, surrendering and conquering.

Moments mold a person.

The witch knew that.

Her son settled wet, hot and sticky against her nakedness. Just like when he was a babe. A new person. She slicked his hair from his forehead, kissed something salty from his temples. "Very good, Dragon," she soothed.

"Was it?" He asked, kissing her breasts.

She nodded, sighed happily. She could do that, now. She was a new person, too.

He was sitting on the bench against the cool tile wall, watching. Narcissa peered at him from the shower stall through a billowing mist. She turned, smiling, and gave him a show. Soaped her breasts lovingly, caressed her soft nipples to inviting peaks. Bending to retrieve her shampoo, she knew he was hard as a rock. "Join me, darling."

She never had to tell him twice. Her dragon took direction well. Under the water's hard spray, he massaged and worshipped her slickened body, held her back to his front. "Shall I pleasure you, mother?" His fingers lingered at her welcoming entrance.

"Mmm, I'd like that."

He drank a trickle of water from beneath her ear, whispered to her. "My fingers, mouth or cock?"

She smiled…such a good boy, she had. Taking his hands, she moved them to her hips and bent forward. She took firm hold of the gilded bar before her. "Fuck me, dragon. We've not much time til breakfast."

He grunted as he positioned his impressive morning erection. "As you wish, milady."

In only a short time, he'd learned the subtleties of her body – that when she was hot and swollen, she wanted him fast and hard; that when she was reticent, she wanted a thorough seducing; that if she sucked him off, she expected an all-night second performance. It had taken very little training, and she was pleased with his progress.

This morning was no exception. He took her briskly and with purpose, making her shout with each thrust. Perfect. And he knew quite well that she didn't fake a thing, that when she shifted up a bit, he should angle downward; that when she started to shake, a clit-pinch could send her over; that if his timing was just right (and because they were already in the shower), she just might reward him for his devotion.

Sure enough, as soon as she'd buckled and taken her first orgasm of the day, she growled at him over her shoulder. "Thank you, sweet boy. Would you like to…finish on my back?"

He needn't answer that. He was already only three strokes away from firing hot, white cum up her spine. His jaw went slack as he watched the mess. She knew he loved it, and knew why. It was his offering to her, his gratitude, his piety. So she bore it in glory.

They dressed congenially. Breakfasted together. Draco went to the Ministry with a kiss on the cheek, knowing he had far finer kisses to enjoy upon his return. Narcissa sewed and baked, humming her fulfillment and anticipation.

And when he arrived in the foyer that evening, she waited on the stairs. His mother, wife, lover...and his perfect whore in a red silk nightgown.

AN: Birthday smut to myself, I'm afraid - and one more installment in a healthy, inspiring filth-throw-down with the darling Narcissa's Dragon. It seems the more we attempt to outdo each other, the better we both become.