F A N F I C T I O N > M I S C . F A N D O M S
Mother Figure by Amberina
Mummy's hair is piled on top of her head, shining and pale, pale blond like Draco's own. There are lines forming around her mouth, and the last few months seem to have aged her. She never used to look over twenty-five, but now her forty years are showing, and Draco finds it rather sad.
Not that he doesn't still find her beautiful.
The corners of her mouth twitch as she sits down on his bed beside him. She seems as if she's going to cry. She always looks like she's going to cry lately.
"Draco, darling," she says evenly, and he's not surprised at the lack of emotion in her voice. "There are some things I need to tell you about your father."
"I know," he says quickly. He doesn't look at his mother. He can't look her in the eye. "I know he was a Death Eater."
"You know?" she asks, genuine surprise evident in her voice, before she quickly recovers. "I see."
Draco finally looks at her, and he sees something in her eyes he never thought he'd see. Tears.
"I'm sorry," she mutters.
Draco shrugs. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. He just wants his mummy to stop crying.
He wraps his arm around her. "It's not your fault," he says softly. "He's a very..." he swallows hard, "very disturbed man and..."
She looks him in the eyes and Draco tries his hardest not to shake.
"...you should know I disapprove of what he's done," he lies. "He crossed a line he should have never crossed."
She shakes her head. "Draco Malfoy, how stupid do you think I am?" Her voice is harsh and he scoots away from her a little, feeling as though he's been struck. She sighs, "You're not going to end up in Azkaban, you hear me? You're not."
He can't say anything. He can't breathe.
"Your father -- I knew what he believed but I never thought he'd... " she looks down at her hands in her lap. "I saw my sister brainwashed by Voldemort, I saw her carted away to Azkaban as if she was some common criminal, and then I realized -- she was a common criminal. My sister, my husband..." She sighed. "Not my son, you hear me? Not my son."
Draco stares at his own hands. Shaking in his lap. Only his mother could do this to him, only his mother could make him shake like this.
She continues, her voice evening out a bit. "The first time he was accused, I was shocked. I was appalled. But he promised me that he was past that -- he promised me that he was a new man." She scoffed slightly and Draco felt intensely uncomfortable. "Your father never changed, people never change. Draco, I see you -- I see how you treat other people, and it's disgusting. I see your father in you. I see an insolent little brat who's going to grow up to be a vile man. I don't want that for you."
"I'm sorry, mother," he manages to choke out.
"No, Draco, you're a Malfoy. You're not sorry. I know you better than you think I do, and I know that you're saying that just to humor me." She stares at him and he feels like her gaze is going to burn a hole in him. "I don't like being humored."
His voice catches in his throat. He feels like he's been cornered, and usually when he gets this feeling, he comes out swinging with words. But this is his mother, and she's so fragile, and he just can't.
"Draco, say something," she demands.
"I can't, mother," he manages quietly.
She shakes her head and stands. "You're exactly like your father." Disgust drips off her tongue. She leaves his bedroom and Draco can't do anything but stare at the wall.
Night falls, and Draco lies in bed, listening to his own breathing. He can't do much else. Sleep evades him, and at this hour, there's not much he can find to amuse himself. Not since the bloody house-elf was sacked.
He so used to love playing kick the Dobby.
Draco sighs and shifts. Shadows dance across the ceiling, and for a moment he's amused by that, but he grows bored with that rather quickly.
He rolls over and beats on his pillow a little bit, blaming it, and not the conversation with his mother earlier, for his inability to sleep.
And then he begins to do the one thing he really doesn't want to do. He thinks.
He thinks of his mother -- so hard, and yet so fragile. Like a diamond that's been cut nearly all the way through. The hardest thing in the world, yet it breaks so easily.
He thinks of the lines around her mouth, and the way the corners twitched when she was trying to get her thoughts together. Her lips, never upturned in a smile -- he's never seen her grin. He's never seen her frown as much as she has lately.
He'd never seen her cry before tonight. Her eyes were always hard, dark. Emotionless.
She was always emotionless.
She had to be, he supposes. He wonders offhandedly if she loves his father. If their marriage was more than simply a joining of two purebloods for pureblooded children.
He's never seen them kiss.
He flips onto his other side and closes his eyes. Wills himself to go to sleep. Wills his thoughts to just stop.
He sees his mother, when he does so, in the back of his mind. She's crying, tears falling freely. She's beautiful when she cries.
His eyes start to sting, and he opens them quickly. Draco Malfoy does not cry.
He wonders if his mother is asleep right now. He doubts it. She doesn't really look like she sleeps much anymore. He briefly ponders going to see her, but he quickly decides that's a bad idea.
He wonders if she hates him.
She at least dislikes him, he knows that much.
Draco usually doesn't care whether or not he's liked. But this is his mother, and no matter how much he tries to ignore it, it does kind of hurt.
Dammit.
His pillow gets another beating, this one more brutal than the last. There are feathers floating in the air before he's done.
He sits in the middle of his bed, his head in his hands, trying his hardest not to think of anything other than his breathing.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Draco Malfoy does not get depressed.
Just breathe.
The next morning, his mother doesn't look at him. This isn't unusual, of course, but it makes him uneasy.
He waits for her to acknowledge his presence for hours.
She never does.
Around noon, she sits on the couch, her feet tucked under her neatly. She's reading a book -- he can't quite tell what it is, but she seems very involved in it.
He coughs, and she doesn't seem to notice. Finally he says, "Mummy?" and she looks up slightly.
She raises and eyebrow. "Hello, Draco." Her voice is rather cold. There's no trace of the emotion she showed the day before, and Draco isn't entirely sure if this is a good thing or not.
He falters for a moment. What should he say? He's not sure. "So how are you?"
"Right tired of pointless questions," she says and her eyes drift back down to her book.
Fuck. This isn't going to work. Draco gives up.
Night falls again, and the manor is completely silent as Draco wanders the halls. The portraits on the walls are sleeping soundly, and he feels like slashing them with something but he refrains from doing so.
He walks past his mother's room. He continues on for a moment, before he realizes that she wasn't asleep. She really, really wasn't asleep.
He stands at her doorway, his breathing as quiet as possible and he watches her. Her fingers tugging at her nipples, her eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing rather heavy.
He can't take his eyes off of her.
One of her hands drifts down her stomach and under the sheet that barely covers her. The other hand continues to pinch and rub her nipples, alternating breasts.
Draco swallows hard as he feels something within him stir. This certainly isn't good, he thinks, as his penis begins to harden.
His mother gasps as her hand seems to speed up, and Draco turns away. He walks away from her room as quickly as he can, and once he gets to his room, he closes the door behind him.
He closes his eyes and wills himself to not be aroused.
It doesn't work so well.
He sees his mother, in his mind, touching herself and he can't shake the picture away. He can't think, or breathe, he just wants and it scares him.
Fuck it.
He undoes his trousers, and wraps his hand around his penis. He gets himself off quickly, leaning against the door, his eyes closed as tight as he can manage, trying not to cry.
Narcissa sighs softly as she comes down from orgasm. She glances at the clock. It's far later than she thought. She's not tired, though. She doesn't sleep anymore. Thank god for the power to cover the bags under her eyes.
She gets up and wraps her robe around her body.
On her way to the kitchen, she passes her son's room. The door is shut. He never shuts his door at night. He's always afraid the monsters that actually do live under his bed will kill him in his sleep.
She pauses for a moment, before calling softly, "Draco, darling?"
There's no answer, so she pushes the door open gently, careful not to make too much sound. She doesn't want to wake him.
She finds him curled up in his bed, a pitifully limp pillow under his head. He's still wearing his clothing.
She walks over to him and brushes a piece of blond hair out of his eyes. He looks nearly angelic when asleep. She kisses him on the forehead and he stirs.
"I'm sorry, Mummy," he mutters in his sleep and Narcissa pulls back. She stares at him for a few moments before continuing on to the kitchen.
Draco approaches the Dark Lord slowly. He's shaking. He thought only his mother had the power to make him shake, but he was mistaken.
"I want in," he says softly.