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Narcissism	By : NihilEtNemo Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Narcissa Views: 15439 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from Harry Potter.

Chapter List
- 1-Narcissism
- 1
TITLE: Narcissism
CHAPTER:
oneshot
AUTHOR: Ankh Ascendant ( setosgirl0 / neferseti0 )
DATE:
12-25-09
FANDOM: Harry Potter
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own
Harry Potter, or make any money from it.
PAIRINGS:
Narcissa/Draco
TYPE: Angst
RATING: hard R/X
WARNINGS:
incest, minor, non-consensual, child abuse
OCs: none
BETA:
none
WORDS: 1857
SUMMARY: A mother's love for herself will hurt
the one she's supposed to hold dear.
NOTES: The “sex”
scene is awkward because I don't even read heterosexual porn, let
alone write it. That being said, I tried my first remotely explicit
'het' with a situation that makes me very uncomfortable (not that I
don't explore it relatively often). There's something wrong with me.
Also a story that goes in a section for which there are 2 other
stories, so no one's going to see it.

* * *

Narcissism

Grey, unpleasant clouds stretched out
over the grey, unpleasant land, all of the colors muted through a
curtain of rain that was turning summer holiday as bleak as any
dreary school day.

Draco reflected absently that the
weather matched his mood. He leaned in the window with his forehead
nearly touching the window, staring through the reflection of his
grey eyes in the glass. Vast gardens stretched out until they were
cut off by the rain and haze, and he could see one of the albino
peacocks picking at the ground under the cover of a flowering bush.
To him, right now, the rain felt like a formidable wall that trapped
him in the mansion, or perhaps a physical manifestation of something
greater.

In the reflection in the window, motion
caught his attention, and his lifted his eyes, past his own
washed-out hair, until they traced the graceful curves of a perfect
feminine body in a form-fitting nightgown that barely touched her
thighs, and left her arms and most of her full breasts uncovered,
skirting the edge of decency. His breath caught in his throat, and
his heart paused in its beat for a long second.

“What's wrong, Draco?”
Light fingers brushed over his cheek, sliding a stray strand of hair
behind his ear; his hand clenched on the window sill to suppress a
shiver. “You look pensive.”

“I'm fine, mother,” he
muttered, only then finding that he could breathe again He pulled his
eyes from her reflection and stared back through his own, willing her
to go find a robe or get dressed before coming back to speak with
him. He couldn't quite bring himself to will her away altogether.

His will would have no effect anyway.
It didn't even cause her to take her hand from his head, let alone
remove herself from the the room. “You're thinking about
something.”

“I'm not,” he argued
quietly, head leaning against the cold window now, and it was true.
It had been true even before she came in here, but it was more so
now. Often, it was hard to think with his mother in the room... She
couldn't possibly not know it.

“Look at me.”

That was a very bad idea, but he didn't
have it in him to resist. He turned, first his head over his
shoulder, trying to keep his eyes steady. They refused to obey his
will, skating up her body then away. How old was she, forty?
Forty-five? He didn't know, but her body was that of a woman twenty
years younger, firm and soft where it was supposed to be, without a
flaw that he had ever seen. There may or may not have been magic
involved in her perfect skin and the way her breasts refused to sag
even without the slightest support from her clothes, but he doubted
anyone cared if her body was spelled or not... If it was, she was
certainly not ashamed of it.

He tried to make himself look at her
face, but she had obviously seen his attention elsewhere; her normal
sour expression was melted into a small but sharp smile, and her blue
eyes watched him with something like laughter. “What's wrong?”
she asked again, her hand sliding as she spoke over his cheek and
down the side of his bare neck, over his shoulder and down his arm,
finally taking his hand at the end of its journey. She held his hand
lightly; her fingers were soft and gentle, curled loosely around his,
warm and familiar. “Let me help.”

He swallowed thickly, helplessly
following the urge of her hand as she turned him around to face her.
Though he would be entering his sixth year after these interminable
holidays, he was not yet as tall as her and he had to direct his eyes
upward a touch to keep them on her face as she shifted half a step
nearer. It was a relief, in a way, that he couldn't look down.

“I'm not bothered ...” Now
that was a lie, but she knew that. He doubted she was going to press
it.

Her long gentle fingers caressed his
hand lightly. “If you say so then,” she said, guiding his
hand between their bodies. The smooth skin of her thighs made him
shiver, and he swallowed thickly again, staring up at her eyes. When
she pressed his hand between her legs, his arm twitched as though he
would pull away... but he didn't. Couldn't.

She was wearing underwear beneath the
indecent gown, something thin and silky that didn't insulate his hand
from the heat of her body. His fingers twitched and moved of their
own accord, lightly drifting his fingertips over the smooth mound.
There was no feel of hair or even stubble beneath the flimsy
material.

She obviously appreciated the touch,
giving a sigh and leaning close. “Do you like my new
nightdress?” she asked, gracing him with that small smile
again.

There was no right way to answer. Only
the answer she wanted, or a lie. “...Yes...” he answered
quietly, and looked away, toward the other end of the room. The truth
brought a hot flush of color to his pale cheeks, and he didn't want
to hear the word come out of his mouth.

“You haven't really looked,”
his mother chastised, and squeezed her legs around his hand. His
fingers twitched, startled, then he pressed his hand against her
firmly, unwillingly bowing his head.

From this angle he could see directly
down the front of the gown, in the space between the swells of her
breasts. The thin material now barely covered the points of her
nipples, and no, she was wearing no form of bra to disguise them. The
gentle slope of her stomach was visible, with the edge of her white
panties peeking over the bottom edge. She always looked so good in
white...

“I like it,” he murmured,
rubbing his fingers over her slowly. His other arm twitched upward,
his fingertips brushing over her hip, then hesitantly settled back at
his side again.

She raised her hand and pulled his head
to her shoulder. Her hair was long, pressed against his forehead, and
smelled of vanilla and a flower he had never identified. It was her
scent, every bit as pale as her hair or clothes, and it suited her as
perfectly. Once that had been the innocent, comforting scent of the
woman who raised him... but he could not remember the last time he
had smelled that smell without his guts twisting like they did now,
shame and desire blocking his throat until he could only take ragged
gasps for air.

She didn't seem to notice; she never
seemed to notice, but he was sure she was smiling still. That smile
made his blood run cold, and there was almost nothing he would not do
for it. Her hand lifted his unresisting free one to her side. He felt
sheer silk slide beneath his hand like water, fitting the curves of
her form, and his breath paused until she guided his palm over the
swell of her breast and urged him to squeeze, guiding him like any
hesitant lover.

“Go on, Draco,” she
murmured toward his ear, then laid a kiss on his cheekbone. “You
know what I like.”

He did.

One or both of his hands would have
pulled away if they could; if he knew how, he would have told her
'no'... but that had never been an option. Instead, he knew what she
liked, and he could not refuse her the attention and pleasure she
wanted from him.

The sweet, deep smell of her perfume,
the pleased way she encouraged him with hands sliding on his arms and
down his back, and the way she let her body touch his... they were
all chains. She did not press into him, did not demand, only
encouraged, and the almost-casual points of contact between them were
like spots of pure magic that seeped and thrummed into him; the
careless way her breast rested against his chest, the brush of her
cheek against his, the occasional shift of one leg almost between
his, all reinforced the bonds. The feelings did not make him hard,
and never had, and never would with his mind drawn simultaneously
toward and away from her as it was... but they tied them together
irrevocably.

While one hand slowly ran over her side
and along the curve of her breast, doing nothing in particular but
touching her, the other slid over her barely clothed crotch, sliding
his middle finger along the slit and pressing through the thin
material. She was getting very wet, and the flimsy underwear did
nothing to insulate himself from that, either. The musk twined itself
through the vanilla-flower smell of her, tainting the once-innocent
scent in his memory further.

She moaned quietly beside his ear,
wordlessly attesting that she still found him 'good with his hands'.
As if that were a compliment he had ever wanted from her. Regardless,
he couldn't refuse it.

In a moment her hand came up and
gripped his shoulder, and she leaned into him, with the muscles of
her thighs fluttering; that brief moment of instability and heavy
breath was all the fanfare of her climax. He slowly pulled his hand
back, wiping the wetness on his pants, and raised his head from her
shoulder.

After a second of resting her cheek
against his, she stepped back with a sigh. His hand fell from her
side back to his, twitched once, then lay still.

“Mother...” The word
trailed off, and he looked at her, struggling. He wanted to ask her
not to do this to him again. He wanted to beg her. He wanted to cry
and let her hold him, like she had when he was small and confused and
hurt...

But as always, he didn't dare. Having
got what she wanted, she might turn away and let him cry alone, or
give him nothing but a shallow caress in passing to soothe him. Worse
yet, she might do as he asked, and never come to him again, and he
would lose her...

He could not lose her, so he let the
sentence trail away into nothingness and watched her helplessly as
she ran her fingers through her hair. He didn't move as she leaned
close and kissed his cheek.

“You're a good boy, Draco,”
she praised, and gave him her thin smile again. Even now the sight of
it made his heart skip over a beat and then fall in his chest, his
insides twisting again.

He could only watch as she walked out
of the room, perfectly composed and without looking back at him.

When he looked toward the window again,
the grey eyes that met him were haunted, the pale face drawn and
pained. Leaning his forehead on the cold glass and letting it steal
the heat of his skin, he wondered if she couldn't see, or if she
didn't care...

~end~
- 1
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Narcissism