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The light from the hearth glinted gold and orange off the crystal wine glass as Narcissa turned it in her hand. Bringing the vessel to her lips, she drained the last of the liquid within and waved to the house elf to bring a fresh bottle. This was how she spent most evenings of late, immersed in a fruitless routine born of habit and apathy and desperation. The Malfoy estate felt cold and oppressive now no matter how many fires were lit or how many glasses of wine she drank to warm herself. Her entire family was dead, all lost to the Dark Lord's cause, all martyrs of a losing side.
The wizarding world outside the walls of the barren mansion had been quick to rebuild and move on. Most people preferred to pretend that the distasteful little war had never happened, and certainly no one spared a thought for those who had allied themselves with the wrong side. No one save Narcissa.
Her marriage to Lucius had been one of political and blood alliance and had never been based on romantic sentiment. Nonetheless, by happy coincidence the couple had been remarkably well matched, and mutual respect and caring had emerged between them after a fashion. Narcissa had grown accustomed to her husband's powerful and commanding presence, and the Malfoy estate had lost its majesty when it lost its patriarch.
Narcissa had watched her husband, her sister, her relations and allies fall like so many pieces in a poorly-played game of wizard chess. The most painful loss by far, though, was Draco. Her only son. Lucius had often accused Narcissa of coddling Draco and making him weak. Perhaps if she had agreed to send Draco to Durmstrang for his schooling he would still be alive. Or perhaps she had simply not tried hard enough to protect him. Narcissa couldn't decide whether she had held on too tightly, or not tightly enough. The only thing that was acutely clear was that she had failed her son.
The house elf returned with the fresh bottle of wine, and Narcissa poured herself a glass.
Standing on the center of the bridge and leaning out over the river, Ron gazed down at the black surface of the water far below. His fingers twitched as he envisioned himself letting go, falling, plunging into the murky depths. Holding his breath as long as he could, struggling, finally sucking ice-cold liquid into his lungs, freezing, burning, pain, a moment of blinding panic, then… nothing. Pulse racing, Ron drew in a shaky breath and stepped back away from the railing. Not tonight, then. It wouldn't be tonight.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his thick winter robes, he continued on across the bridge. He had no particular destination in mind. Like most nights, he was merely wandering wherever his feet saw fit to carry him. Whatever it was he sought on these solitary journeys, he'd not found it yet.
The good guys had won the war, but as far as Ron was concerned, it was the very model of a Pyrrhic victory. First his parents had died, one right after the other, leaving the family reeling and directionless. Then Percy left them, then George. Prats, the both of them. Fred was still alive, technically, but he was little more than an empty husk without his twin to complete his thoughts. Ron thought he understood how Fred felt; once Hermione had died, he had seen little point in continuing either.
Half the people for whom he had ever cared had selfishly given up, burned out, left him to fend for himself in the midst of a bloody war. Yet Ron had committed the most unforgivable crime of them all. He had lived.
His anger surging, Ron swung his leg hard, kicking a small stone and sending it soaring. He looked up to follow its progress and discovered that he had come to a stop in front of a house. A very large and rather familiar house. The wooden sign proclaiming it to be "Malfoy Manor" was broken, hanging from one corner and swinging erratically in the chill breeze. The gardens were overgrown and the grounds untended as well, but there was light coming from inside the mansion, so it clearly wasn't abandoned.
Having nothing better to do, Ron shrugged to himself and began walking towards the house.
The wine glass was halfway to Narcissa's lips when a shrill sound alerted her to the mansion's perimeter wards having been triggered. So someone uninvited was on the grounds again. Narcissa was less than impressed. It was likely a common vandal, one who felt that the Malfoy name had not yet suffered quite enough disgrace. Whomever it was, they had chosen to disturb Narcissa on a night when she was not in the mood to quietly endure intrusion or insult. Setting her glass down forcefully, she rose and swept from the room.
As she stepped out into the darkened garden, she immediately spotted the silhouette of a tall, slender man. The intruder stood motionless, staring into a marble fountain that had long since dried up and become overgrown with ivy. Something about the slightly slouched posture and fixed gaze suggested that he was not truly seeing what was before him, and this gave Narcissa pause. This was not a standard vandal.
Standard or no, he was disrupting Narcissa's solitude and violating the privacy of her home. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she raised her wand and announced, "You trespass upon my property. I recommend you leave immediately lest you wish to find out what sort of spells the widow of a Death Eater might know."
To Narcissa's surprise, the figure merely mumbled an apology and turned to leave without so much as glancing up at her. He took two steps before light from the house shone off his hair, which Narcissa saw was brilliant red. The lean form and broad shoulders abruptly struck her as familiar in spite of the slouch, and she said, "I know you. You're a Weasley."
Narcissa loathed the Weasley family on principle. They were blood traitors and had openly opposed the Dark Lord during both wars. They were also far too numerous and would continue on while the Blacks and Malfoys dwindled away. For this alone she would never forgive them.
The man had turned to face her now, and Narcissa cast a silent Lumos to get a better look at him. He was so young, only about Draco's age, she realized. Recognition dawning anew, she stated, "You're Ronald. You went to Hogwarts with my son."
"You went to Hogwarts with my son." The words were not a question, and Ron wasn't certain how he should respond. He and Draco had been far from friendly, and Ron had nothing nice to say about the obnoxious little tosser. At last he merely nodded once in acknowledgement.
The woman -- Narcissa, Ron recalled -- regarded him critically for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. "Well come inside, then. It's too cold to carry on a proper conversation in the garden," she stated, then turned on her heel and strode purposefully back into the house. She behaved as though there was no doubt in her mind that Ron would follow her, or perhaps as though she simply didn't care whether he did or not. Her haughty tone and superior manner reminded Ron of Draco, and he honestly couldn't say why he trailed after her.
Moving through the Malfoy mansion after its mistress, Ron couldn't help but gawp incredulously at the ostentatious décor. A single candelabra would have fed his family for an entire week when he was younger, he thought. He quickly pushed distressing memories of his once-happy family aside as he entered a large drawing room where his hostess had led him.
"So, Ronald Weasley," Narcissa began as she turned to face him, a wine glass filled with deep burgundy liquid extended in one hand, "what were you doing in my garden -- such as it is -- this evening?"
Ron automatically took the glass that was offered up to him, his broad fingers brushing over Narcissa's slender ones awkwardly. Narcissa's aristocratic tone seemed to hold curiosity and boredom, impishness and irritation all at once, and this caught Ron off guard far more than the question itself somehow. After a pause, he shrugged and replied, "Just out for a walk."
Picking up a second wine glass, Narcissa strode closer to the fire and waved towards an oversized wingback chair, indicating that Ron should take a seat. As he moved to comply, Ron was overcome by a surreal sense that he had no choice but to do as Narcissa ordered. At the same time, however, it was a strange sort of relief to be told what to do, to simply follow instructions.
In the same indecipherable tone, Narcissa asked, "You went for a walk and found yourself here, at this particular estate, on my private grounds, purely by chance?"
Sitting in the sizeable chair and clutching his wine glass with both hands, Ron felt like a small child being interrogated after having been caught doing something naughty. In an attempt to rid himself of the unsettling notion, he took a swallow of the wine and affected what he hoped was a casual pose. "Pretty much, yeah."
Ron watched as his hostess sauntered over and settled herself on the settee across from him, noticing the way her form-fitting robes hugged the curves of her slim figure and dipped low in the front to reveal the swell of her breasts. "And do you go for these walks often?"
"Sure." The word came out rough. Ron cleared his throat, drank more wine, went on, "I like the peace and quiet and the chance to clear my head." This had become his standard explanation since he discovered that no one especially bothered to question it. Of course it was complete bollocks. Ron hadn't known 'peace' since his loved ones started dying.
Narcissa watched the boy quaff expensive wine as though it were pumpkin juice and resisted the urge to tell him not to slouch. He was unconscionably plebian for a pureblood, and she certainly would not have invited him into her home were it not for his link to Draco. It was a tremendously weak link, to be sure, but even the slightest sense of shared history was welcome.
Sipping from her glass, Narcissa studied her guest a moment more, then said, "You've grown accustomed to hiding your true thoughts and motivations from others, but you're still not especially good at it. I suppose artless Gryffindors must be easily fooled, though, and a lifetime spent among them wouldn't precisely make one an accomplished liar."
The young man looked up at her sharply then, his eyes flashing with something that might have been anger or surprise, and Narcissa felt a small jolt of wicked delight that she had been able to provoke something more than bland indifference from him. The tiny flare quickly died again as Ron shrugged and swallowed the remainder of his wine. Narcissa was momentarily frustrated until Ron's gaze slid down and settled on her chest for a second time.
Far from being offended, Narcissa was strangely pleased by the attention. It was the first time she had felt truly desirable since Lucius had gone to Azkaban and everything had gone to hell in the proverbial hand basket, she realized. Chuckling slightly, she set her glass aside and cocked an eyebrow. "See something that you like, Mr. Weasley?"
Predictably, Ron took on a horror-struck expression and turned a color that clashed terribly with his violent red hair. "What? No! I mean -- my mind was just wandering."
"Your eyes wandered, and your mind followed," Narcissa retorted, one corner of her mouth lifting up into a smirking smile. "It's quite all right. A lady likes to be admired for her various assets."
When Ron's only response was to shift uncomfortably in his seat, Narcissa rose and slowly moved towards him. His eyes followed the sway of her hips as she walked. Reaching him, Narcissa leaned down and captured his chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up to face her. "Tell me I'm beautiful."
"You are," Ron said hoarsely. He swallowed once, licked his dry lips. "You're very beautiful."
Getting the answer that she wanted, Narcissa rewarded the young man with a genuine smile, then learned in close Ron's eyes fluttered shut and his rough lips parted readily for her, a soft sigh escaping between them. Narcissa sensed the life in his breath, tasted the wine on his tongue, felt the heat radiating from his body, and it was intoxicating. Her hands roamed over his torso, desperately seeking the warmth that had eluded her these many months. Unabashedly she slid into the chair, straddling his lap, and pressed against him. Narcissa nearly crowed in triumph as she discovered that the boy was already hard for her.
"N-no, don't… I can't," Ron protested, bringing his arms up to shove at Narcissa's shoulders and push her away from him. "Just… don't."
Anger flared through Narcissa in response. How dare he -- a young man half her age, with no breeding and no prospects -- refuse her?! No, this was insupportable; she would not be denied in such a fashion. Narcissa lifted her arm and swung with all her strength, and the crack of her palm contacting Ron's cheek resounded through the room.
Ron felt the burn across his cheek, felt water well up in his left eye in response, felt his cock throb, felt something stretch taut and snap in his chest. For an instant, he had an inexplicable sense that this woman might be able to give him what he'd been seeking.
Not allowing him time to object further, Narcissa quickly backed off his lap far enough to withdraw her wand from her robes and thrust it at him angrily. Thick ropes shot up beside him and coiled around his wrists, binding his hands tightly to the arms of the chair. Ron tugged hard at the restraints, testing them, but they held his wrists firmly. He knew he should be livid, or perhaps even afraid, but instead he felt a small, dark thrill at the notion that choice had quite literally been taken out of his hands.
"Better," Narcissa purred as she slithered back into his lap and resumed kissing him. Ron tried desperately not to enjoy the treatment, but there was only so much a male of his age and inexperience could be expected to resist. He soon found himself leaning forward, straining against his bonds, seeking more contact against his will. The woman gyrated and ground her hips in his lap, and Ron groaned loudly while cursing himself silently for his pathetic lack of self-control.
Narcissa began undressing Ron slowly, carefully, almost reverently. She peeled the fabric away from his chest and shoulders in the manner of someone attending to something precious. Then, in stark contrast, she sank her nails into his newly exposed flesh and bent to nip brutally at his neck. Ron hissed sharply, and the bites and scratches left red welts in their wake.
It suddenly made an odd sort of sense to Ron that Narcissa should be the one to punish him so. After all, his own mother had been the disciplinary figure in his family. Ron gasped and arched up as Narcissa bit down hard on his shoulder, and he knew he deserved it, just as he deserved every bite of fingernails into his flesh, deserved the way the coarse ropes chaffed is wrists and rubbed them raw.
The boy's kisses were unskilled and wet, but he was warm, pliant and responsive, hard as stone beneath his robes, and, for the moment, he was hers. Once she had peeled back his clothing and exposed him fully, Narcissa stepped away to get a good look at her quarry. He hardly looked anything like Draco at all, she thought, with his mottled skin and flaming red hair. Yet he was of a good height, and his lean form was surprisingly well toned.
Undressing herself slowly, she watched as Ron instinctively pulled against the ropes, attempting to reach out for her. As Narcissa's robes slid to the floor, the young man's blue eyes -- not gray -- were wide and hungry, his long cock red and leaking. Judging from his earnest and eager expression, Narcissa suspected that he had never done this before. That was quite all right. Narcissa was no stranger to issuing commands.
Returning to her position astride Ron's lap, Narcissa stood up on her knees, bringing her round breasts roughly level with Ron's mouth. As she slipped her hand between her own legs, she ordered, "Lick." Dutifully Ron obeyed all of her instructions, and it was scarcely necessary to correct him with a sharp pinch of her nails more than once or twice.
Gasping for breath, wet and ready, Narcissa took Ron's cock in hand and aligned him with her entrance. She felt him twitch in anticipation, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to quell her own rising excitement. She issued one final order: "Do not come," then sank down on Ron's shaft without further preamble.
Initially, Narcissa's command didn't make sense to Ron, but he fully understood it the instant she engulfed him. The sensation was intense, like nothing he ever could have imagined, and it required all of his concentration to prevent himself from firing off prematurely like a tetchy wand. Mastering himself, he had only one brief moment to regret that he had never had the opportunity to do this with Hermione before she died, and then Narcissa was moving.
The woman rocked up and back, up and back, slowly gaining speed. She expressed her approval with a rich moan, and Ron stretched up, pulling against his bonds, and kissed Narcissa roughly, swallowing her lush sounds. A thin sheen of sweat rose on his skin as he pushed his hips up from the surface of the chair as best he could, attempting to meet her halfway. All thoughts of resistance, of regret, of guilt and death and self-hatred and betrayal were forced out of his consciousness. There was only room for this rhythm, motion, burning, right here, right now, oh god, please, please. A low groan started in Ron's throat and built and built until it became a bestial howl of need-anguish-ablution-surrender.
Narcissa sensed the moment that Ron broke. Murmuring a word under her breath, she released his bonds and the ropes fell away. He was hers now, and she knew he wouldn't leave her as everyone else had left her.
The restraints now removed, Ron wrapped his arms around Narcissa and pulled her to him fiercely. The blunt tips of his fingers dug into her flesh as he moved her above him, picking up on her rhythm and setting one of his own. She rode him savagely as he drove into her, filled her, made her feel vital and whole once more. Words like 'husband', 'son', 'blood traitor', 'failure', and 'death' meant less than nothing as her climax washed over her in a wave of shuddering, pulsing, enraptured life.
Ron felt the sting of Narcissa's nails one final time as she convulsed around him, and he knew that it was a wordless permission to come, to let go. He pulled her down onto him once more, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and at last he shouted out his torment and poured out his release.
As Ron's fierce orgasm swelled and subsided, Narcissa held him close, stroking his hair and murmuring nonsensical encouragements in his ear. When it was over she rose carefully, retrieved her wand from where it had fallen during the proceedings, and cast cleaning charms over them both. Chuckling at his dazed expression, she took her young lover's hand and led him into the nearest bedroom so that they might relax more comfortably.
Lying down beside him, Narcissa looked over Ron's prone form and decided that the abundant freckles were almost invisible in the moonlight. Briefly she wondered whether Draco had ever had the opportunity to have sex before he died but did not dwell on the thought for too long. She had failed Draco, but now she had another chance to protect and nurture this new young man who had wandered into her gardens. He would not leave her, she was certain. He was tough, a survivor, and Narcissa had learned much about holding on and keeping valued things close. She would simply not let him go.
Shivering as Narcissa ran her fingers possessively over his chest, Ron found that he was too drained to worry overmuch about the fact that he might have just betrayed Hermione's memory with a woman who was old enough to be his mother. Said woman was a bit like his mother in some ways, strong and authoritative. Yet Ron could open himself to her, and she could understand him without hating him for living. He could quit struggling at last and trust Narcissa to hurt and heal him as she saw fit. She would tell him how to be better, more deserving, and if he was very good, perhaps he could keep her from leaving him behind. Before exhaustion took over and sleep claimed him, Ron's last coherent thought was, A boy needs his mother.