She sat to her vanity, a white satin dressing gown making her a sort of fairy goddess in the starlight. She was applying some tincture or another to her face. Not that she needed it. He watched her for a time before clearing his throat.
"Draco." Softly, she greeted him without turning.
"Mother." He entered her chambers, sat upon the cushion at the foot of her bed. The sound of a jar lid whirring closed was nearly deafening. There had been such silence for so long in the manor. Draco rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the intricately woven rug. Her presence alone was comfort.
"You're troubled," she murmured.
She knew him too well. He nodded. "I'm worried about father."
"I know." Her brush made a silken sound in her long locks. She pulled the mass of curls over one shoulder to tend it. "I am, too."
"What can we do?"
She went still. He glanced up and gasped, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. "Merlin, mum!" She tensed when he knelt beside her, tried to pull away from his hands on her face. "What the fuck..."
"He's not himself," she whispered.
Draco stroked the bruise spreading fast across her right cheek. His nostrils flared when she winced. "It's no excuse." Tears broke free beneath his thumbs. "Oh, mother." She folded like origami - paper thin fragility. But her sobs shook her with warrior strength. He clutched her as if he might break her himself. "We can't live this way. I can't see you hurt."
"Draco," she whimpered.
"Perhaps St. Mungo's -"
"He'll die there!"
"Or we'll die here!" He pushed her back, desperate for her to see the desperate in his eyes. "Please, mum." He put his lips to her forehead. "It's not as if anyone else is going to help us." She sniffed and he kissed her injured cheek, felt the heat in the flesh. "All we have is each other."
Her fingers curled round his upper arms and she nodded, knowing the truth if reluctant to accept it. The motion slid her lips closer to his. He felt her moist breaths puffing against his cheek, smelled the mint of her tooth polish and the warm earthen herb of her salve. Only a fraction of a millimeter...
Her lips were cloud-fleeting. Trembling. He never kissed them before - always it had been her motherly cheek, her formal hand. They weren't like the lips of the girls he'd kissed at school - thin or clumsy, undisciplined over teeth.
His mother's lips were prey. Yielding and plump. Edible. He sucked the bottom one between his own and she suddenly struggled against him, muttering into his mouth. He gave close chase, heard her vanity bench topple over. Unbalanced, he pressed her to the unforgiving furniture. With each quickening breath, her breasts flattened to his chest. Her nipples were hard and peaked, slippery beneath satin and despite herself - despite her struggle - he tasted her tongue. Felt the rough scrape of it aginst his own. he growled and gripped her hips. Suddenly feral. Less son. More -
A thin and reedy wail blasted them apart like a spell. Narcissa scrambled mad across the vanity, skewing pots of powder, tubes of salve. When Draco saw her wand in her hand, he drew his own. "Father."
"Lucius!" Narcissa panted.
Lucius Malfoy cowered to the wall, crumpling like rubbish. He sobbed, pointing to his wife and son. Accusation too much for his damaged mind to manage.
"Lucius." Draco watched his mother calm, watched her attempt reason. "This isn't..." She struggled. "It wasn't..."
Draco felt his lip curl instinctively as Lucius slid down the wall. Such a weak, pathetic excuse for a man. Draco had never seen a person break before. He cocked his head, watched intensely as Lucius Malfoy unraveled. His mother's sobs made a compelling score...
CAW!
"Gah!" Draco jolted awake. His hand shot to his cold, clammy face. CAW! He looked to the window of his room. It was opened, left that way from the night before. The crow was perched there, laughing at him. "Bloody bird," he groused. CAW! He drew his wand and the insolent creature flapped away. "Thought so," Draco muttered.
Then he heard the more pleasant birdsong and the echoes of cicada and bullfrog. His first bayou morning.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He'd never even changed his clothes. Yesterday's sweat and sticky had cooled in the night, creating an almost protective layer of filth on his epidermis. Not to mention his mouth tasted terrible. He smacked his lips as he retrieved clean clothes from the wardrobe.
The corridor outside his room was quiet, but he heard voices downstairs. He recognised his mother's lilting laugh. They must have been at tea.
The door to the lavatory was cracked and he pushed it open. It was larger than he'd expected, obviously renovated multiple times. A clawfoot tub rested oddly in the center of the green tiled floor. Porcelain sink a few feet away, and an old fashioned toilet with a pull chain.
He arranged his toiletries in a mirrored cabinet above the sink and set his clothes on a wooden chest beneath a window. There was no curtain to be seen, and he scowled a little at the thought of that old crow spying on him. But he was gagging for a bath, and couldn't be bothered with the thought of any audience.
His mother was right. The pipes complained painfully when he turned on the taps, but the water heated quickly and he could have positively orgasmed as he sank into it. After a soak, he scrubbed vigorously with the homemade soap and a thick flannel. Mint and shea butter - warmed - lent a now familiar herbal smell to the whole room. He used it on his hair, too, dipping to rinse.
He rushed through brushing his teeth, stomach growling for breakfast, and felt much better by the time he hit the first floor. He followed the laughing voices through the front doors and onto the generous deck. The screen door banged behind him, announcing his arrival.
"Well, good morning!" The drawl was unmistakably Marie's. She was seated with her sister and his mother at a cloth draped table. "Sleep well?"
He nodded, approaching the table sheepishly. "I did." There were empty plates before the ladies. He sat in the chair beside his mother. "I apologize for being late to breakfast."
"Breakfast?" Maite laughed and poked his thigh with bare toes. "We're having brunch, you silly shit."
"Maite!" But Marie was laughing. And so was his mother. Peculiar...
"Are you hungry, darling?" Narcissa asked. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled.
"I am." As if on cue, Aizan leaned from the front door.
"Do bring us another, Ai," Marie called. She held aloft a glass of suspicious red liquid. "For our newest young master. In fact, I think we could all use another round. And maybe some buttered biscuits, too."
Draco peered at his mother's empty glass. Ice bled watery red. A celery stalk snapped between her teeth. "What is that?" He asked. Maite snickered and he glared at her. She snickered harder.
"It's a Bloody Mary." Narcissa answered. "Or...it was a Bloody Mary."
"Ah." He looked dubiously at the emptied glass.
"It's what happens when tomatoes and vodka go to Heaven," Marie supplied.
"And fuck!" Maite added.
"Maite!" But Marie was laughing.
Narcissa hid her grin behind her hand. "It's quite good," she murmured.
"Aizan makes the best bloody Bloody Mary in Louisiana," Maite said.
"And mint julep," Marie added.
"And mint julep," Maite repeated solemnly.
Narcissa hiccoughed.
Draco was staring at his tipsy mother in fascination when the door banged open again. Then, a glass of bright red libation was set before him. There was also a platter of fluffy, puffy rolls. Biscuits? Not like any he'd ever seen.
"Cheers!" Maite and Marie chimed, raising their glasses. Draco and Narcissa joined in the toast, and he took his first sip of spiced southern sin.
"Circe's sweet teats," he hissed as the bite back of his tongue subsided. "That's...just incredible."
"Try not to drink it too quickly," his mother warned. "It's strong."
But 'try not to drink it' simply didn't compute when ice clinked invitingly and cold heat burst across his taste buds. Not to mention hot biscuits and sweet cream butter were weaving a delicious spell of their own. He'd eaten four when Maite teased him again.
"Those must be some damn good biscuits."
"Aizan makes the best biscuits in Louisiana," Marie slurred.
Draco nodded in agreement, swallowing his last bite of fourth biscuit. "It's like..." He reached for words. The Bloody Mary seemed to usher verbiage to the forefront of his mind and clarity clipped the wings of vague. "It's like eating out an angel."
"Draco!" But Narcissa was laughing. And so was Maite. And so was Marie. And beautiful, smiling laughing Aizan appeared, setting another sweating red concoction before him. And the palm fans on the ceiling waved their charmed fronds. And his mother's bare shoulder brushed his own as she reached for a biscuit and the smell of herbs and earth wafted and Draco leaned his head back and closed his eyes and for just that moment at least...
Life was perfect.
America was odd. In Britain, the wizarding world was protected and isolated strictly by the Statute of Secrecy. Draco felt comfortable in his separateness, safe from muggle eyes. But here, while the Statute still forbade serious transgressions of magical upon muggle, it allowed for a wide overlapping of cultures. Muggles seemed to acknowledge magic with a fascination, or to view it as a harmless novelty.
It had become clear to him in recent days that his magical cousins relied on muggles for their very livelihood. It seemed they raised crops. Depending on the season, they were highly successful (magically, of course) in cultivating large crops of strawberries, corn or tomatoes. There was also a rather productive winery - one of a very few in the state - called (unashamedly) Magica.
Draco viewed this odd relationship warily. He blamed his distrust (or dislike, really) of muggles on his pureblood rearing and his father's firmly taught prejudice. So when various muggles came to the plantation house to discuss business with Marie, Draco watched them from around corners or beneath shadowy nooks. He was surprised to see his mother exchange greetings with a few of them.
"They're just like us, I suppose," she told him one afternoon. "In fact, the men are quite...intriguing."
He'd been disturbed by her comment for a variety of reasons. Firstly, it seemed he was losing his mother to this alien muggle/magical melting pot. Secondly, he worried he would never be able to relate to her acceptance, her enculturation. He feared he would make himself a hermit and watch his mother niche into happiness without him. Thirdly, he was reminded how quite young she still was. He saw her grow more and more confident in the southern sun, more independent.
She was no more the wife of Lucius Malfoy - ground to a pale and pretty paste beneath the husband's cold and crazy thumb. Now she was life and color in bright frocks and elaborate head scarves. He'd never seen so much of her skin, so many curves...
And she was noticing men. Muggle men. The thought vexed him. He watched her eyes follow the strapping young worker boys who frequently visited the house. How she licked her lips. The flare of her nostrils. The deep pink that stretched across her chest and cheeks.
Disgusting.
He seethed with jealousy.
He knew what he'd felt that night back home. The night he'd nearly had her. He'd felt surrender in her. And want. Desire. Ache. Need. He'd tasted the delicious possibility of carnality in her spit and felt the rivulets of chill spreading from her melting ice. So close...
And of course, she'd run. Skittish. And ashamed, he imagined. She'd left him to see to his father's installation at St. Mungo's, the closing up of the Manor, the handling of accounts. He'd done it alone beneath the cold stares and wagging tongues of all who abhorred the Malfoy name.
Those months had not been easy. Haunted by the ghost of her lust and the memory of her ultimate rejection.
And now she wouldn't speak of it. He watched her from the front doors. She sat at the deck table with Marie, deep in discussion over a Tarot spread. Her back was to him, and she was as oblivious as ever to his presence. A bead of sweat slipped down her neck, followed the slope of her spine. He imagined chasing it with his tongue.
"Whas got you to scowl like a old owl?"
He turned. In the darkened dog walk stood Aizan, hand on cocked hip, regarding him with a smirk. A genuine smile spread across his face. He couldn't seem to control it around this woman. "I suppose I'm just...brooding."
"Only good for hens and old mens." The Haitian beauty gestured for him to follow her. "Come on here. I'm making up a pitcher of mint julep. Miss Maite is coming home from Nawlins today and I 'spect she'll be wantin' one."
"Yes, ma'am." Draco had discovered the comfort alcohol offered with ease. Bloody Mary's, hurricanes, mint juleps... Tasty and refreshing momentary escapes from memory, trouble, envy and incest. The libations imbued him with patience. And he noted how his mother seemed to enjoy them, as well. He wondered if she found the same values in the potables.
"Seems to me there's about three things in dis world make a young man such as yourself trouble." Aizan spoke as she worked, chipping ice in the porcelain farmhouse sink. "Mamas and daddies and the wrong kind of ladies. So which one is it?"
Draco watched the cook's smooth shoulders flex. He couldn't explain what it was about her that relaxed him so, made it so easy to talk. "I suppose it's all three."
"Oh, hell." Aizan chuckled. "Could be there ain't no help for you, bebe!" But she sobered when she saw his face. Shaking powdered sugar over ice, she asked him softly, "You want to talk? I keep more secrets than God himself."
And suddenly, talking seemed the solution. "I want to talk to my mother," Draco said. "But she avoids me. As if that will make everything that happened just disappear! I know we're magical, but we can't make the past not happen at all. Not even a time turner can do that. I don't know how to make her talk to me."
"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make her drink it." Aizan watched bourbon colour the pitcher as though Midas had touched it. "What happened that she keepin' so shut up in her heart?"
Draco inhaled the sharp scent of fresh chopped sweet mint. He leaned on the kitchen island close to Aizan. He opened up without a thought for decorum. He told her everything with brevity and practicality; how the Malfoys had fared during the war, how they'd fared after, Lucius' deepening insanity, Narcissa's hardening shell, and his own dark desires.
She stirred the pitcher lazily as he talked, never looking away from his eyes. When he spoke of that fateful night at his mother's vanity, Aizan closed her eyes. "Poor bebe," she murmured. "Somethin' in that Malfoy blood..." She sighed and pulled a tray from a cupboard. Set four glasses upon it. "You got bad troubles, young master. Gotta decide what you want 'fore you go trying to make dat horse drink."
"I know what I want." He spoke firmly, assuredly.
"And whas dat?" Aizan balanced the tray laden with pitcher and glasses.
"I want her."
The cook tisked. "Well, then..." She swept from the kitchen. "You best take that horse to the water."
Draco followed her into the dog walk. "What do you mean?" He called.
Aizan turned toward him. In the dimness, he saw the glint of her eyes. "She ain't gonna talk here, bebe. Not where she can hide from you 'mongst all us folk. You best take her off somewhere if you want her to yourself. Besides..." She turned away again, added as an afterthought as she whisked away, "You might want to get her away from here before dem sisters finally get their way with her."
He watched Aizan enter the sunlight of the deck. Heard the screen door bang shut behind her. Added one more disturbance to his growing list of daunts and doubts.
AN: Thanks to all for your kind reviews and support for this piece. I confess I worried it was iffy at first, but my 'most faithful' have come through for me as always. Anyone who's wondering, let's just say the Malfoys herein were enjoying Bloody Mary's created with Zing Zang Bloody Mary Mix. Best damn Bloody Mary's on the planet. Also, I've had a few pm's regarding a recipe for Aizan's bread pudding. So. This is as close to Mulate's as you'll get without going to Mulate's.
Ingredients
• 1 loaf stale French bread
• ¼ can evaporated milk
• 1 pound butter
• 1 ¼ cups sugar
• ¼ pound raisins
• 3 eggs, beaten
• 3 tablespoons vanilla extract
• ¼ cup brown sugar
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Jamaican Rum Sauce
Ingredients
• ¼ stick butter, melted
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 cup flour
• ½ cup Jamaican rum
Directions
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy.
Thanks out to my soul freak for her valuable opinions on this piece, and (always) Wes.