For mr. milfoy - Auror of my heart. Happy Valentine's Day, and thank you for doing the best that you can.
Dusty Books and Wire Rims
"Mother?" He looked into the sunny solarium, now empty save for a small table and chairs and a few quivering orchids. "Mum?"
He wandered into the well-windowed kitchen, spats clicking on the bright white tile. "Mother?" Naught but a plate of scones cooling upon a counter. "Hm."
The door to the drawing room creaked open loudly, announcing his presence before he called. "Mother?" His frustration mounted. She'd been quite clear that she wanted tea together, and now she was nowhere to be found. Growling, he hurried up the stairs and down the corridor. Windows were open here, allowing in a generous dose of afternoon light and warm summer breeze. "Mum!"
"In here, darling!" Her musical voice carried over the lightly billowing curtains.
The library? He stepped into the little used room. "I thought you wanted..." His thought process slowed to a halt. Dust motes swirled and glittered around his wondrous expression.
Stacks upon stacks of books. The dark-stained floors nearly covered. An ample desk invisible beneath and behind books. A chaise lounge disguised by books. Two wingback chairs somewhere under books. Many shelves - built ceiling high - completely emptied of tomes. And there, perched on a rolling ladder like a Sunday pigeon, was his mother.
He blinked. She was a vision; hair dark and light coiled elegantly into a tight bun, a high lace collar tickled by tendrils of loose locks, ivory sleeves puffed to perfection, inches of buttons and blouse enclosing graceful wrists, a fall of rich burgundy sateen skirt swishing gently about Victorian-heeled ankle boots. "Draco?"
"Huh?" His eyes traveled back to her face...and he felt part of himself melt. Perched on her Patrician nose was a delicate pair of shining wire-rimmed spectacles.
"You thought I wanted what?" She was peering over said spectacles at him now, expecting an answer. Her fingers rested inside the book cracked across her lap.
"I thought you wanted tea." Why did he sound so embarrassingly mousy? He cleared his throat. Manned up. Deepened his timbre. "With me."
"Oh!" The exclamation shaped her mouth prettily. "I was so distracted up here. I apologize, son. I simply forgot."
A war of contrition was waging within the young Malfoy man. A war between fond love and appreciation for his devoted matron...and an intense, incestuous and deeply disturbed bastardization of every young man's innate desire to fuck the fettered and fastened, prim and proper librarian of his dreams.
"You could bring it up."
"What?" Had she spoken? He was humiliated by his distraction - imagining what the lingering smells of sex and books might be like.
"The tea." She gestured. "If you like. We could have tea here in the library. And then..."
"And then what?" A flare of hope sharpened the question to an eagerness.
She grinned oddly, probably confused by his manner. "And then...if you like..."
"Yes!?" Difficult to tell if the word was a question or an answer.
Her grin shifted. Smart witch, she was. "...and then you could help me finish organizing the library. Those Aurors certainly made a mess of it."
Hope spiraled Icarus-like into the stagnant sea of reality, hissing when its flaming, waxy wings hit salty surf. Bitter, defeated though never a contender, he reddened and gazed down at the edge of Persian rug. A sullen foot kicked at the tassels taunting him there - as if the frayed knots themselves could say, Afraid not, Mr. Malfoy! "Oh." He doubted the comment shaped his mouth as prettily as it did hers. "Right. Shall I fetch it, then?"
"Would you, darling?" Lashes batted like wet wings over her glasses. "That would be simply lovely."
He hoped his departing grunt sounded simply vexed and not dashed upon the rocks by a stormy sea of forbidden familial lust. His footfalls were significantly heavier on his descent to the kitchen. With no elf about now, menial chores seemed to fall most often to his hand.
Stupid elves. He snatched the tray of scones from the counter. Stupid Aurors. He waved his wand over the kettle. Stupid war. At the almost instantaneous whistle, he poured nearly boiling tea into the silver service. Stupid father. Angrily chucked sugar cubes into the little ornate bowl. Stupid Azkaban. He dumped the scones onto a china plate. "Where's the fucking cream?" He asked aloud. The icebox door slammed. He kicked closed two cabinets and hurled a spoon into the porcelain sink. Still grumbling to himself.
The kitchen was a disaster area after just this task. He couldn't be arsed. The tea tray clattered with every jarring step as he pounded up the stairs again. Stupid stairs. He shoved gracelessly into the library. His mother had cleared off a few feet of desk for the tray and was looking at him with a slightly disapproving - if patient - expression that said she'd heard the commotion downstairs and didn't appreciate it at all. Her lips pursed tightly at him and she was still bloody beautiful.
Stupid incest. "What?" An echoing cacophony as he set the service on the desk.
She breathed deeply, calming herself, and arranged the overturned cups in their saucers. "Next time, I shall prepare the tea as you obviously find the task abhorrent."
He watched her slender fingers prepare her cuppa. A sharp pang of shame stabbed at his spine. He could apologize, or he could do what he knew he would do: whinge about it.
"What I find abhorrent is that we have to live like a couple of mudbloods in this dilapidated homage to past glory under the constant threat of Auror raids with the family patron rotting in prison."
She perched on the edge of the desk, a shapely hip inviting him to do the same. "I'm sorry, son. I imagine my insistence upon the temporary nature of this situation shan't satisfy? You simply must do as I do." She sipped her tea, scowled at it.
He wasn't offended. Knew he was shite at preparing tea. "And what is it you do, mother?" He prepared his own cuppa as she drank, well aware the futility in anticipating a delightful first sip.
"I distract myself," she answered simply.
"I see." He was right. The tea was awful. His tongue recoiled, then accepted its fate. He sipped again. The taste didn't improve, but his tolerance did. "How so? Rearranging the library?"
"It was a mess," she replied. Her mouth made a precious moue of distaste. She'd reached the sugary deposit at the bottom of her cup.
"So is the kitchen." He glared at the offensive tea. "We need another elf, mother."
She glared at the tea, too. "I shall see about acquiring one."
She seemed so tired. He softened and set his cup on the tray. "Mum." He fingered the crumbly edge of a scone. "If there's anything I can do for you..."
Her fingers touched his, caressed gently before maneuvering them away from the scones. "You can help me organize the library today. I would...enjoy that."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Well, then." He poured them each more terrible tea. "Cheers."
The heat of the sun increased exponentially with the progress of the day. Draco found the temperature nearly as intolerable as his tea. Coupled with his mother's nearly neurotic organizational detail the atmosphere definitely bordered on torturous. He'd removed his smart suit jacket an hour into shifting history and was unknotting his tie ten minutes into shelving biography.
He used the tie to swipe his sweaty brow before casting it aimlessly amidst the books. They would find it in a year or so. "Merlin's salty sack."
"I believe that one goes with anatomy," his mother spoke calmly from her perch upon the ladder. She'd done little more than supervise for the last two hours.
Draco groaned and looked up at her. She was repairing the spine of a particularly aged volume, the wand work intricate and her face studious. He watched her lips work over the spell and licked his own. "Aren't you hot, mother?"
She paused. Looked down at him. "It is rather balmy in here, I suppose."
"Rather?" Draco scoffed. "I'm fairly certain this is one of those rings of hell muggles write about." He raised his wand and directed another stack of books up, up and away. At the sound of a click and whish, he glanced left. His mother had opened up the two high library windows and parted the draperies. He glanced at her. "Thank you."
She lowered her wand. "You're most welcome." And she was back to her mending.
But the breeze although nearly constant was still a summer breeze. And while it had begun the day as benign and even pleasantly warm, it seemed determined to devote itself to the will of a great broiling evil. At the end of magical language - a blissfully small section - Draco paused yet again, this time removing his charcoal shirt.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was sudden and quick in the sweltering silence that had settled. It sounded almost panicked.
He turned to her, shirt collar just beneath his shoulder blades. "I'm taking my shirt off, mum."
"Is that really necessary?" Her eyes were darting quickly over his bared form. She clutched a book to her chest.
"D'you want me to melt?" He asked.
"No! No, of course not." She shook herself. Looked to the book, then back at him. She swallowed as the shirt slid down his arms. Visibly flinched when it hit the floor. "Feel better?"
Draco took his wand from the stack of books that had served as his table. "Much." He watched her finger her high collar. "Why don't you take yours off, too? We'll be even, then." He used his impish grin to tease her.
She turned as red as her skirt. "Draco..."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself." But he felt her eyes on him as he started fiction. He felt the warmth of the room - and the warmth of her attempting to ignore him - pressing against his back the entire time he worked. It was distracting, and curious. Left him wondering... and wanting. So when he ran across a torn spine, he viewed it as an opportunity of fortune.
"Mother?" There was a spreading moisture across her back and shoulders, making her blouse nearly transparent there. It was somehow reassuring to know his unshakable matron was indeed daunted by the heat as he was. A nice reminder of her humanity.
She turned on the ladder, looked down at him and took in the book he held. "What is that?" Moist hair curled at her temples, loosed by the work they were doing. She looked harried, exhausted.
"Another project for you, I'm afraid."
A bothered tisk. She turned again on the ladder, gracefully plucking her long skirt up a few inches before she sat upon a middle rung. Draco passed up the injured book, easily at eye level with her pale, stockinged calves. A shimmer passed over the silk in the sunlight.
"Aren't these hot, mother?" Casually he stroked the slick material hugging her leg, dragged the tip of his fingers up to just beneath her knee. It was incredibly provocative, watching his hand disappear beneath the yards of skirt.
She very nearly jolted off the ladder. Swatted at his hand. "Draco!" Her smack resounded off the back of his hand as he withdrew it.
"Ow!" He chuckled, but sobered quickly at the bright flush and fluster on her high cheekbones. Again, he wondered.
She settled the book and drew her wand. Pushed a few strands of loose blonde behind her ear. "Not so bad," she murmured. Caressed the spine's tear. She raised her wand to begin mending and Draco took the most terrifying chance of his life (and considering the terrifying life he'd led to date, that was saying a lot).
His long arms and legs made the maneuver quick and effective. Grasping the ladder near her hips, he pulled himself up and between her bent knees. She gasped, reached up and back to steady herself. Her wand clattered against the rung above her head, bounced off of her bun, then rolled loudly into a shelf behind her. "Oh! Draco! What are you -"
"I refuse to believe these aren't dreadfully uncomfortable right now, mother." Boldly, as fearlessly as he'd ever been, he sleeked his hands again up her legs, over knees to find the hems, clips and ribbon that marked the ends of stockings and beginnings of garters.
"Son!" As if reminding him might stop his madness. "Don't do this!" She reached for his hands underneath fabric, jarred the book off her lap. It landed with a thud and the ladder shook violently. Realizing the precarious nature of her position, she again shot steadying hands to the ladder - one above her and one below. "Draco." She whimpered this time, perhaps understanding she was at the mercy of fate, lust and her own squelched desires.
Draco watched her head roll to the side, took in her clenched eyes and flared nostrils, the whitening of her bitten bottom lip. He saw the sweat that had permeated the sides of her blouse. Felt the moisture on her thighs, the quaking of her frightened form. He held to her legs, using her as his own bastion against gravity.
She breathed heavily and he was assailed by scents, by sensations: her breath, her sweat, the gooseflesh pimpling, dusty books, her musky arousal and the slip of her silvery frames over her wet nose. Sex. He ached, hot as hell and trousers tight.
After only a second's hesitation - a second of this-will-change-us-forever-and-there-is-no-going-back - he let his fingers fold inward, stroking up the inside of her thighs. She sighed and shuddered and he nuzzled her knee.
"Draco," she whispered.
"Shhh." He kissed. The lacy seam of her knickers was sodden and when he flicked a finger underneath it, she jolted again.
But she wasn't protesting. She wasn't looking, but she wasn't protesting. Still working beneath her heavy skirt, he snapped open her garters with ease, noting that she shifted forward just slightly so he could reach the back ones. He smiled as he rolled moist silk stocking down each leg til it curled around pale ankles. "You know you're beautiful right now?" He asked.
She shook her head, pinched her eyes shut even tighter if it was possible. Draco was unswayed by her doubts and self-deprecations. Almost casually, he flapped at her skirt, bunched it up around her waist as best he could. "You are," he murmured. Again holding to her thighs to steady himself, he kissed the creamy skin above her knee. "Too pretty to be my mum."
He kissed further up and she squirmed. Her fingers flexed on the ladder and she made a tiny mewling noise in her throat. At Draco's quiet command, she used her back to leverage up on the ladder, allowing him to tug her knickers down and off. Briefly, the lace snagged on a boot grommet before settling on a nearby pile of books.
Draco settled one of her feet on a ladder rung, hooking the short heel there for support. One last look at her surprised and hypnotized face, and he plunged into her essence.
Narcissa tensed. Cried out at the pleasure of her son's forbidden tongue cracking the secret of her undoing. The ladder creaked as she undulated against his face, controlled by desire. "Oh...sweet...yes..." Breathy prayers to dust motes swirling.
Draco followed his mother's sibilant syllabic instructions, guided by her tensions and the seizings in her thighs. She tasted of sweat and heaven. Folds of her skirt both hid his ministrations and muffled the few sounds of the room: the ladder shifting beneath them, peacocks calling and scratching outside, the occasional snap of a curtain in the hot breeze.
He suckled at swollen clit, stroked feathery folds and tasted as deeply as he could an ancient taboo. Needing her close, needing to savour her release, he wrapped an arm low round her hips and held tight - put his free hand to work alongside his mouth.
She was so quiet, strained and clipped in her exclamations - even as his fingers insistently fucked her. Sighs, whimpers and the occasional barely whispered plea comprised the score accompanying her fracture. And Draco drank her every ounce of nectar.
More complaints from the ladder as he climbed. She settled back on a rung and relaxed her arms around his shoulders when he drew level with her face. His hands held the ladder now, an odd embrace. "Amazing," he murmured, nudging her chin with his own. Up, and he kissed her, let her taste herself. Let her feel his hardness pressing her still contracting core.
Her fingers explored the sticky skin of his shoulders, reached as far down his back as they could to quest his spine. "Hold on," he muttered. She wrapped around him and he slid smoothly the few feet to the floor, whisked her to the book-covered desk. A shove moved the tea tray and sent several stacks toppling to the floor.
She made no protests when he began work on her blouse's pearl buttons. In fact, she bussed his chest sweetly and unbuckled his belt. "Narcissa -"
"Shhhh." She kissed his mouth. Stroked his hard cock in its hellish confines. The air felt lovely. Then the sussing sounds of his trousers falling and her silk shirt pooling on the blotter. Her cuffs were a damnable nuisance. He abandoned them in favor of attire he could operate - the back clasp on her brassiere. It sprung open and he tugged her roughly to the desk edge.
A short gasp shared by both as he slid inside her - then a long sigh of bliss. Draco watched her face shift with his hips, nudged her glasses up with his nose. He thrust once and reveled in her choked grunt. "Oh, gods...you're as tight as my fist," he growled in her neck. Bit at the lace. Thrust again.
Her breasts shook, free from their plush prison. The desk quaked with his pace and he felt her boot toes dig into his hips. Arms restrained by blouse still, she held him as best she could. "Draco!" A desperate whimper.
"Faster, darling," she hissed in his ear.
"Shite." He gripped her back and shoulders, lowered her to the leather desktop and let go control.
Peacocks calling. The snap of heavy curtains. The great desk grinding an inch or so as the bodies atop it slapped, groaned and spat pleasure. Draco whinged into his mother's mouth. Her teeth scraped his tongue and her nails scraped his ribs. He felt and heard her throat click on her own muted cries, felt the winding in her cunt and answering coiling in his bollocks. "Mum, I can't..." He rasped.
"Then don't." She answered simply. She bit her swollen lip. Her glasses glinted in the sun. Her cheeks flushed brightly.
Helplessly, he curled to her and came. Not to be outdone, Narcissa curled her legs around his hips, worked her body against his and followed seconds later.
Sweat sealed them together. Draco's arms and his mother's back peeled from the desk's surface and the blotter clung momentarily to her shoulder before falling back with a thwack. Standing now on shaky legs, softening inside his lover, he smiled against her forehead. "Will it always be so quiet together?"
Her fingers tugged down at his chin and their eyes met over her spectacle rims. "Only if we're in the library," she answered.
He hugged her, scrunched moist, mussed blouse in clinging fingers. Her answer was good enough for him. He suspected organizing the library would take a few weeks at best. And after that?
Well, there were plenty of other rooms the Auror raids had left in disarray...