Author's Notes: Ambiguous ending, possible infidelity. Written for nextgen_drabble on Livejournal with the prompts of "Albus Severus and Scorpius" and "mothers".
He has a poster of her on the wall of his bedroom.
She's been there five years; right between Viktor Krum and Oliver Wood. Over the years he's grown less interested in her stats and more interested in the way her tongue runs over her lips as she looks out on the horizon. And he can't count the hours he's spent watching the slow slide of her broomstick between her thighs as she moves through the air.
He would feel worse for it but, it's hard to think of her as someone's mother. She's nothing like his mum, who is so serious, so formal all the time. No, she's too vivacious and full of life for dull tea parties in the drawing room. She wears her long red hair in a ponytail and favors blue jeans over designer robes. He looks at her now, drinking beer from a bottle and using language that would make a dragon-tamer blush, and he just can't think of her as Mrs. Potter.
She's wearing a mink stole and diamond necklace.
And a shockingly low-cut halter dress. He tries, but his eyes wander every so often to the curve of her breasts, his mouth dry and his hands itching.
With her lacquered red lips and dark hair falling in waves around her face, she looks like a Muggle movie-star. Not someone's mum and certainly not the mum of someone his own age. He watches her mouth close around the cigarette between her fingers and tries to imagine her bustling around the house in a tatty old dressing gown and slippers, trying to tidy up before company. He can't imagine her doing anything so mundane.
And the more time he spends with her, the harder it is to remember she is Mrs. Malfoy.
It's stupid and it's wrong and he doesn't care. By the time his lips are pressed against hers, he's stopped thinking of her as his best mate's mum.