Title: Mère D'amour.
Author: BelleCat.
Rating: M
Pairing: Narcissa/Draco
Summary: They will fall and form as one, mother and son, and nothing else in infinity will matter.
Disclaimer: The copyright to the Romeo and Juliet quote goes to William Shakespeare . I also do not own the characters Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, although I wish I did :D
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Narcissa Malfoy loves her son.
There's no question about it.
She just simply loves her son too much.
She remembers reading about how love has no limits and she laughs as they are surely words from mouth of Hufflepuff; for no Gryffindor is meek, or Ravenclaw foolish, and most certainly no Slytherin is compassionate in any way to submit to such nonsense.
Narcissa knows that of course love has limits.
For she is trapped by the limit of love you can feel for one you bore in your womb.
She knows it is wrong.
And she knows she can't help it.
Draco was always the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, from the moment she lay eyes on him. She could not believe that painful nights in sheets with cold, rough, betrothed husband had produced something so extraordinary. Draco was made of stardust and silk and he could have the mountains and the seas if he tried.
However, Draco would not set out far enough to achieve this.
Narcissa had always been selfish.
She did not intend to share her beautiful baby.
Her stunning son.
And she remembers the first time she had touched him.
The cold, indifferent facade had fell after months spent without Draco as he attended his first year of Hogwarts. She had been so eager, rash, Gryffindor - and not thought things through. She had managed to greet him coolly and inform her son that after his long journey home on the train he would need to bathe and that she, his mother, would assist. Once behind the securely locked door, the mask has slipped from clumsy hands to the marble floor and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, reflecting the disgust and treachery of the events that followed.
Narcissa remembers her own pale, long hands clutching at her son's clean, expensive clothes desperately and his little, pointed face twisted in confusion and innocence and ever so angelic. In her memory, Draco's clothes find themselves on the cold floor in a heap of black and white and green and silver and the smooth, ivory skin of mother's hand caresses the young boy in between his legs. The complex, tangible feel of it puzzles the little blond and he can not understand why but he knows he needs more of this touch, and his hips buck and his mother is smiling, smiling -
Narcissa shudders.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden.
But it is not the end.
Somehow, over their following, brief reunions at Christmas or Easter or the long (but still too short), hot stretch of summer Narcissa and Draco progress in the relationship that she has instigated, moulded, with love from the wedding ring she is gift-wrapping to her womb. Their relationship. He grows before her blue, blue eyes that only hold life when the desolate mansion and grounds are filled company other than house elves or white peacocks. She finds herself exploring and he returns her gentle, experimental strokes with his own nervous, stunted and stiff responses that grow more experienced but guilty as age passes. She does not want to know where Draco has acquired such experience, how many other girls he has lain in bed with. Narcissa knows she is the only woman who has truly been with the precious adolescent.
Narcissa remembers this and she strokes the swollen skin of her stomach which holds the sibling Draco is also father to. She thanks Merlin Lucius is still securely shackled up in Azkaban or Draco would surely be dead. However, lying is a trait a Slytherin excels at, and one a Malfoy could easily possess a degree in. Draco most likely would have escaped his father's wrath, but lies could not hide the smooth bump that protrudes from her embroidered clothing and Narcissa nor the child would not have.
The beautiful woman tosses back her mane of long, moonlight hair and waits patiently for her son to arrive.
He has a wife and a young child.
She must share him now.
She hates this.
Yet she knows that when Draco walks in through the door, they will fall and form as one, mother and son, and nothing else in infinity will matter.
For Narcissa Malfoy loves her son.
She always has.
She just simply fell in love along the way.
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