A/N: Co-written with the wonderful Mrs. Milfoy. Many thanks to Insights for all of her help!

If there was one thing in life that Draco Malfoy absolutely abhorred it was social events. Balls, galas, banquets, charity events, weddings, funerals, and any other sort of wizarding gathering that made him stand around in an uncomfortable, frilly suit while being completely bored out of his mind. The only person who ever made the events at least semi-interesting was Blaise who just happened to schedule an Italian holiday the same week as the Ministry's "Post War Something or Another Fundraiser" which Narcissa had ever so gracefully agreed to host at the manor.

"It will help clear our name," she said, looking over her teacup a few weeks ago while Draco inadvertently crushed a crumpet between his fingers.

"Draco, are you evening listening?"

Fuck. "Yes, of course!" he replied to the witch who was currently kissing his arse. He couldn't even remember her name let alone what she was going on about. As soon as he could get this one to leave, another one would somehow manage to corner him and the whole torturous process would start all over again. It didn't matter he still had a faded Dark Mark on his arm. He was a Malfoy and heir to not only the Malfoy fortune but the Black fortune as well, which made him something of a magnet to all the single, gold-digging witches, most of whom looked rather unfortunate.

As of late, Lucius had been dropping hints via owl post from Azkaban that he should get engaged and the hints were becoming less and less subtle. He probably assumed his son was a closet gay who was trying to put off his wedding night as far into the future as possible.

Suddenly, Draco felt himself being pulled onto the dance floor. 'Shit!' he thought as the smug, young witch he had been talking to placed her hand on his shoulder. How had he managed to agree to a dance? Out of habit he took her free hand and placed the other on her waist and began to move as the music began. He recognized the tune. It was his favourite. Not because the music was any good - in fact, it was an absolute crap song - but, because it was short.

He looked over at his mother as he mechanically waltzed around the floor. The song was far longer than he had remembered. Her eyes were completely glazed over as some mindless fuckwit was babbling to her about Merlin knows what. 'Look at her' he thought 'playing the perfect war hero'. He continued to stare at her over his dancing partner's shoulder. The wizard she was listening to wasn't even looking at her face although Draco really couldn't blame him. She was always the definition of a perfect pureblood woman. A tight corset top to her dress pushed her tits up to the top of her diamond necklace had him staring as well. A fleeting thought of ripping the dress off of her passed through his mind.

As the waltz ended he saw his mother leave the ballroom. No sooner had the quartet finished the last note of the song, Draco promptly excused himself and left the ballroom in search of her. He could hear the click of her heels echoing softly up one of the lesser used staircases followed by the gentle swoosh of a curtain.

He hurried down the corridor and up the stairs after her, his shoes slipping a bit on the well-polished marble floors. One flight. Two flights. Where the flying mandrake did she think she was going? Leaving him to play host? He would drag her back to the stupid thing if he had to. After all, it was her fault they were hosting the fucking thing in the first place.

Narcissa wouldn't admit to her son that she abhorred these pretentious gatherings as much as he did. But she did. Hated them with a passion.

Oh, she adored dressing up; buying new frocks and matching shoes, deciding how to wear her hair, accessorising and glamourising. But the events themselves became little more than excuses to do these things. And now with Lucius away, she felt less galvanised to be beautiful. She preferred moping about the manor, reading depressing books and reflecting on her loneliness.

Not that she'd ever really considered Lucius company, per se. But he had been a husband, at least. He'd sometimes told relatively amusing anecdotes, more often than not complemented her rare baking and always bought her ridiculously expensive baubles. And she supposed he'd made a passing fair bed warmer.

Gods, how long had it been since... She shook her head. Best to not dwell on that question. She had enough problems recently with a disturbing self-awareness; she didn't need to add lack of sexual contact to the list. Just the other day, she'd leaned over the sink to find a dropped hairpin and noticed a pair of tiny lines at the corner of each eye. She'd wept for nearly four hours, and when Draco asked what was wrong, she'd broken down even further.

Stupid to be upset. Could be worse. The Parkinson woman looks like a dried shrivel fig. She ducked behind a thick black velvet curtain. The heavy tapestry was a bit of Malfoy secrecy: charmed to allow for spying. So Narcissa could see all the commotion connected with her gathering, without being accosted at every turn by desperate old wizards waiting for her to divorce or become a widow.

And right now, she wanted to spy on her son.

She'd caught sight of him dancing with a few young witches, and a certain conflict had fired in her heart. It was time for this - for him to take an interest. She knew romance had been on hold for her son during his last few years. Jumping at the Dark Lord's every fart had an unfortunate affect on one's libido. (And Lucius could attest to that fact.) So she'd been pleased to see him turning about the floor with Pansy Parkinson and the Greengrass girls. That other girl, the one with the nose and the face - well, Narcissa wasn't exactly sure about her. But it was hardly a mother's place to judge what her son found attractive.

And she was pleased, wasn't she? Surely it was excitement that made her gut clench so; excitement at the prospects of helping him plan a wedding, watching him make a life of his own, knitting baby booties and bouncing a grandchild on her arthritic knee.

Right?

Wasn't it pride that made her notice the way they stared at him? Well, of course they wanted an ounce of the Malfoy/Black fortune. Everyone wanted that. But there was no denying Draco was as lovely to look at as his father had once been; back when Narcissa had been ripe as a summer peach and barely able to keep her hands off of Lucius for one second of the night.

Or day.

Any time, really. She'd always been rather randy... Unfortunately that hadn't changed with age. If anything, it's gotten worse. She scowled at her own luck and scanned the crowd below. No sign of her son's princely visage. She focused on heads, but no white-blonde corn silk caught her eye. She frowned. Perhaps he'd taken some air. Perhaps he was walking at that very moment in her gorgeous moonlit gardens with one of those young witches staring dreamily into his steely silver eyes...

And that was happiness that pricked tears to her eyes, right? Happiness for her son? Happiness that he was discovering young love in all its wonders and horrors? Goddess help the scrawny little bitch if she hurts him. I'll have her eyes for earrings.

It couldn't be resentment, after all; resentment that while her precious son snogged some ungrateful little money-grubber, she would be staring alone at the dusty bed canopy, debating whether or not masturbation was worth the effort. Nor could it be jealousy; jealousy that some willowy, young witch would have her eager fingers in her prince's trousers, while the prince's mother could only reflect on the sickness in her old, queenly heart.

And it was a sickness. An old Black family curse, she supposed - to want one's family so lasciviously. So she and Bella had practiced kissing as girls, and practiced even more as teenagers. So her first proper boy kiss (not to mention her first tripping encounters with the masculine sex organ) had been with handsome cousin Regulus. She didn't fool herself into believing that any of these things were wholesome or right.

And it was even more retrograde to lust after one's own offspring. To imagine the babe you once held to your breast in nursing being held to your breast in passion... Sickening.

She bit her lips and clenched her eyes shut against those thoughts. Let him find a girl and move on and settle down. Get him away from me... Her prayer rose to the goddess, she opened her eyes and surveyed the crowd again, pursing her lips in frustration when there was still no sign of her son.

Dammit, Draco... Where are you? Thoughts of her son's flaxen hair and silver eyes burned at the base of her brain, creating a sudden certain inescapable need. She rubbed shaky hands over her delicate pooch of a belly, curved her fingers just a hint lower. Couldn't hurt... No one can see me... And perhaps he'll come back.

The thought of watching her son dance while she worked herself to orgasm was decadently devious. Decision made, she leaned back against the cool stonewall and hiked a few yards of gauzy black tulle over her thighs. The soft lace that met her fingertips slipped with ease over her hips. She shimmied out of the knickers and kicked them to the side.

A quick glance showed still no Draco, so she abandoned herself to a moment of fantasy, tilted her head to the wall and closed her eyes. Past soft trimmed down she found hot wet pleasure. She bit back a moan and flicked her swollen clit with an impatient wrist. This would need to be quick. Otherwise, guests may become addled. Poor dears...they needed such coddling.

Imagining Draco's diligent mouth, she stroked her swollen folds. She was wet as a mermaid, and wondered if she might not be abandoning knickers all together after this. Her free hand curled around the thick diamond dangling from her neck. Its coolness was a bastion of sense. She hazarded a bleary slit-eyed glimpse at the dance floor. Still no Draco.

A groan of frustration. She shifted her leg, pressed her right heel into the wall for some support. She curled the fingers currently plumbing her tight depths. Just a little further... Her palm rubbed at her clit and she knew she was close. The coil tightened in her tummy, threatened to spring soon. Stickiness pooled against her thighs.

So close...

"What the hell are you doing hidden away back here?"

She hastily removed her hand from her dress, clamped her hands over the cry that lurched embarrassingly from her throat and spun toward the intruder. "Draco!" She hissed loudly. Her hand traveled to her heart. It was beating like a rabbit's. "What are you doing hidden away back here?"

Narcissa smoothed the fabric of her dress, not quite meeting his eyes as she attempted to wipe her sticky fingers discreetly on the fabric. She could see a look of skepticism on his face, looking as if he wanted to ask her something but was hesitant. "I-" she started, breaking the awkward silence between them. "I," she started again, "was just taking a break from the fundraiser. Wanted to just...observe," she finished lamely.

"And what the hell did I just observe," thought Draco, letting the silence come between them again. Even in the dim lighting he could tell she was flushed and nervous. If he hadn't known any better he would have thought she had been getting herself off. The thought made him hard. He couldn't count the times he had gotten off while thinking about her.

He could almost write a book with all the different scenarios had had imagined. All the different positions which he had mentally fucked her. He only knew her to be prim and proper but in his mind she was a complete whore who let him do whatever he pleased to her. In his fantasies he didn't see her as his mum, but as his lover. He was a sick man; he knew that. He had fantasised about her for so long he really didn't care anymore. It's not like she, nor anyone else, would ever know.

"Well you're 'observing' has left me as host to this stupid thing," he finally said, glancing around the room. He spotted something in the corner. Draco took a step closer to the mysterious object, trying to figure out what it was.

"Are those?" Draco started to say. Narcissa's eyes widened as she realised what Draco saw. She quickly grabbed them before he had a chance to figure out what they were. Or so she thought.

Before either one of them could say anything, they heard footsteps echoing out in the hall. "Narcissa?" an obnoxious sounding voice called out.

"Shit! It's Richard. How did he even know I was here?" whispered Narcissa loudly. She stuffed the mysterious object down the top of her dress and walked out into the corridor, leaving Draco alone.

"Richard? That fuckwit who had been chatting her up in the ballroom?" Draco ran his hand through his hair. Of all the people to possibly interrupt them it had to be Richard Woodcock. Bloody gnome bowling sports writer for the Prophet. Didn't he know it was horribly rude to wander around other people's manors?

"More importantly," he thought, "what in the world were my mum's knickers doing lying in the middle of the floor?" Draco could almost feel the candle being lit above his head. It was all too obvious now. He had been right. She had been getting herself off and he had walked in right in the middle of it! "Too bad I couldn't have helped her," he mused. He waited, listened to the muffled conversation taking place a few feet away.

Narcissa barely had time to collect herself before darting out from her hiding place. Sure enough, Richard bloody Woodcock waited at the top of the stairs. "Oh, there you are!" He smiled widely. The tips of his giant ears nearly wiggled.

Narcissa forced a smile. "Yes! Sorry. I stepped away to the...I needed to...get some...I needed the loo!" I sound like I've been imperiused.

"Well, no matter," Richard forgave grandiosely. "I was hoping to collect that final dance before I leave for the evening."

"Dance?" She thought of her son behind the curtain, of her knickers between her breasts and the questions inherent in both of her previous thoughts. She absolutely could not have another dance with Richard Woodcock. "Actually," she hedged. "I'm afraid I'm feeling rather...ill. I believe I shall...return to the loo."

If Richard were half a wizard, he would take a bloody hint and bugger off. It certainly wasn't acceptable to further inquire about the bowel complaints of a lady.

And it seemed that Richard was indeed (at least) half a wizard. He bowed over-deeply. "Dear me. I do hope you recover quickly, Madam. It shall do no good for your guests to miss the bounteous beauty of your presence."

Seriously? But she smiled with grace. "How kind. If you'll excuse me?"

So Richard backed away with murmured apologies and further well-wishes. He even nearly (what a pity) tripped to his death down the steep stairs.

Once he was out of sight, Narcissa released the breath she'd been holding. She fussed at her bottom lip, wondering exactly what she was about to say to her son. Truth was right out of the question. Yes, Draco. Those are my knickers. I shed them hastily when I was thinking about having immoral, incestuous relations with you.

Absolutely out of the question. She touched nervous fingers to her temple. I have to tell him something... Her spider-brain began weaving a sensual silken web of protective deceit when an arm back behind the charmed curtain suddenly pulled her.

She yelped and Draco faced her with determination on his brow. "Mother?"

"What?"

He gestured to her bodice. "Are those your knickers?"

"No?"

"No?"

"No." She swallowed and shook her head.

He sighed, frustrated. "Then who was up here in no knickers, I wonder? Because most of the ladies I've encountered tonight have not left the ground floor of our home."

"Witches can be very sneaky." Narcissa assured.

"Mother." He reached toward her.

She stepped back. "What, son?" When his fingers neared her bodice, she slapped them away. "Stop it. What do you want?"

He backed her against the wall. "Let me see," he said.

"Absolutely not."

But her boy wasn't taking no for an answer. His hands tussled briefly with hers, tried to ignore the swell of her panting chest as he fought for entry beneath her bodice. When he finally succeeded in breaching her defenses, his face was mere inches from hers, and hers was turned away. He saw the bright blush on her cheek, and felt lace beneath his fingertips.

Slowly, almost tortuously, he withdrew the slip of lingerie. She still didn't look at him. "If I reach beneath this dress, Narcissa...will I find your knickers?"

Her head whipped and her eyes blazed at him. The sound of her given name on his lips had been...indescribable. "You wouldn't dare! I'm your mother!"

"I know." He lunged, shocking her into brief paralysis. His right hand held her arms above her head while his left rucked up her skirt with a sound of shuffling tulle.

"Draco!" She couldn't - wouldn't - scream. It would ruin the party! But she spat at him like an angry snake. "Don't do this!" But it was too late. His hand had found the incriminating bare flesh of her hip.

"Bloody hell," he murmured. The hand shifted and his knee slipped between her legs. He boldly stroked the wet cleft at her apex. "You lied to me," he whispered directly against the shell of her ear and bought her stiff arms down. She'd stopped struggling. He pressed her fingers to his lips, kissing and finally licking. "Gods above. Is that what you taste like?"

"Draco!" The exclamation was strangled at best. He smothered further words with his mouth on hers. Pushing and clawing at his shoulders evolved into grasping and clinging to his shoulders. Whimpers of protest became mewls of pleasure and desire.

Narcissa's head swelled and swam. I'm kissing my son. Oh, goddess, I'm kissing my son! And she couldn't seem to stop. Even when his tongue snaked into her mouth with a paradoxical uncertainty that should have clued her in to his own internal conflicts, she found herself thrusting shamelessly against his hardness like a harlot.

And he was actually hard? Her son hard for her? It couldn't be. Surely Draco hadn't inherited those same insidious genes - the Black family curse of lust. Or was it in the Malfoy blood as well? She'd never asked Lucius, but now she thought of it, her husband had always seemed rather over-eager to please his own mother...

Draco's hands curled over her buttocks, squeezing firmly through the layers of sheer material and she broke the kiss. She needed air and to gasp, to gather her wits and his. Oh, but it felt so good to be wanted, to be touched like that. "Draco..." She slurred drunkenly as he bent to nuzzle her cleavage.

"Narcissa."

"We can't..." But her head lolled and her tongue stopped when he nudged a breast from within her bodice, laving and suckling at the hardened nipple. "Oh!" She couldn't hide the evidence of her desire.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, nudging at the other breast.

And how long had it been since she'd heard those words - let alone on a breath of such lust? She buried her fingers in his lengthening silky hair. "You too, love," she whispered, kissing him.

He'd melted her defenses, it seemed. Her ice fort was no more. She was vaguely aware his hands were now fussing at her skirts again, rustling them impatiently up and over her thighs. The chill that hit her fevered skin brought her a momentary sensibility. The bloody guests! What if another Richard Woodcock comes looking? "Draco, don't." She pushed ineffectually at his demanding hands.

"I can't stop," he replied.

"Not here! Not now!" She took his face in a firm hand, made him meet her eyes in the shadow. The glaze of pure desire in them was dizzying. "Stop for now."

"Now?" He seemed drunk, himself; perhaps on the same concoction of want she seemed to have imbibed.

"Yes, now." She gave him a gentle kiss. "We must get back to the party."

He groaned and dropped his head into her shoulder. "No."

"Yes." His petulance momentarily reminded her of his five-year old incarnation. Strange, that... "And I think perhaps we should talk later."

"Talk." He was kissing her neck, sucking on her pulse.

Goosebumps broke over her entire body and she shoved him away gracelessly, knowing if she didn't - she wouldn't. Her hand shot out against his chest, steadying him and restraining him. "We are going to compose ourselves as Malfoy's now. We are going to make nice with our guests and see them out as proper hosts. Then we shall retire to our private chambers and...discuss this situation."

He was breathing deeply, calming. Devouring her with his eyes. Nodding. She could tell he was paying attention.

"Alright?" She asked, touching at her mussed hair.

He swallowed, nodded again.

"Draco. I need you to speak. I need to know your thoughts."

He tilted his chin up and flicked his cuffs. Straightened his suit jacket and his back. Then he leaned into her space yet again, brushed his lips just over her ear til his nose flicked her diamond earring. "I'm going to fuck your brains out tonight."

And the curtain swished and he was gone, leaving Narcissa impossibly aroused and uncomfortably wet. She glanced down at the knickers he'd dropped, considered putting them on. It seemed rather unnecessary, really. So she shrugged, plastered on her prim hostess smile, and stepped through the curtains herself.

Draco turned left as he exited the curtains and walked down the hallway towards the manor's main staircase. He glanced down at the party through the marble archways that lined the corridor. No one seemed to notice they'd gone. Certain he'd be surrounded by his unofficial fan club of single unfortunates, he slowed his pace as he turned another corner.

He considered going back to his chambers and getting himself off. It wouldn't be difficult. No, not after she had nearly driven him to the edge. He would wait and make her feel just how tormented he had been. So close and then she decided the fundraiser was too important. That they needed to 'talk'. Since when did Malfoys talk? Money would have taken care of this. No fundraiser, no talking. Just incestual copulating.

Narcissa watched her son stew quietly for the remainder of the evening. The guests had begun to trickle out around nine, and Draco was happily seeing them to the door. She hadn't requested this - just knew that he was truly enjoying the fact they were leaving.

Every once in a while, he looked up to catch her eye and gave her a bit of a smug grin. And whatever that meant, she wasn't sure she liked the implication.

She rolled her eyes at the scenes he made in bidding his giggling would-be suitors good-night, knowing the overblown knuckle-kissing and flirtatious promises of luncheons were all for her benefit. Well fine...two can play that game. She purred good evening wishes to the Minister of Magic, and gave Richard Woodcock her sultriest demure bow, knowing she treated him to a rare glimpse of her décolletage.

When she caught her sons eye again, his look said: "Well played, mother. Well played."

But then the last guest was gone, the torches along the walkway extinguished, and naught but the two of them in the echoing foyer. She could have heard a pin drop, were it not for the volumes spoken by her son's burning gaze.

"Lovely evening," she sighed.

Draco, however, could give a tinker's damn for the evening. He had a bit of a one-track mind at the moment. "Your chambers or mine, mother?"

She blinked. The nervousness crept back into her chest. "I believe perhaps the drawing room might be more appropriate for conversing, son."

"Right. Conversing." He scowled and gestured grandly for her to precede him down the corridor. "By all means. To the drawing room, then."

She could feel his eyes on her as she led them there, praying to the goddess for strength and resistance...