Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6284.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Rose_Weasley
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Rose_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_smutty_claus
  Collections:
      Smutty_Claus_Exchange
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-12-23 Words: 12820
****** Jouissance ******
by afterbaedeker, smutty_claus
Summary
     Draco, in atoning for the sins of his past, has lived a life of duty
     without passion. His life has been a good performance until he meets
     Rose. This is the story of their fatal, erotic obsession.
Notes
     Written by i_octopus (aka afterbaedeker) as part of the 2008 Smutty
     Claus exchange.
To: bewarethesmirk
 
From: Your Secret Santa
 
 
Title: Jouissance
 
Author: i_octopus
 
Pairing(s): Draco/Rose (subsidiary: Draco/Astoria, Rose/Scorpius)
 
Summary: Draco, in atoning for the sins of his past, has lived a life of duty
without passion. His life has been a good performance until he meets Rose. This
is the story of their fatal, erotic obsession.
 
Rating: NC-17
 
Warnings: (alphabetically) abuses of power, angst, character death, cross-
generational relationships, disturbing content, drama, explicit sexual scenes,
guilt, incest (past event), infidelity, lust, obsession, underage participants
(past event, not Draco/Rose)
 
Author's notes: DH-compliant. EWE-skewed. Plot liberally borrowed from
Josephine Hart's "Damage", her first person narrative has been transposed to
third. Italicised text from "Damage". bewarethesmirk requested Draco as insane,
obsessively lusting after Rose with no hint of Draco/Rose as a legitimate,
lovey-dovey pairing. This wish has been granted.
 
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot, which belong
respectively to JK Rowling and Josephine Hart.
 
Archiving: Originally posted here.
 
                                       ~
 
One
Many of us are bound by duty in our lives. It may be the unasked for fidelity
of family, loyalty to a lover or allegiance to a cause. There is something
salvable about a life lived in service of such duties. There is nothing noble
in passionlessly performing one's duty out of an unfelt obligation.
In Draco Malfoy's life he has been bound in many unwanted ways; as a son, as a
subject, as a husband, and as a father. To compensate for his inability to
fully inhabit any of these roles he has become a consummate actor.
Had Draco died at fifty he would have been an economist established within the
Ministry of Magic, celebrated within Departmental circles, though not a
household name. He would have been remembered as a man who helped reestablish
Wizarding Britain as a market leader amongst international economies. He would
have been mourned by his wife, Astoria, and by his children, Scorpius and
Stella.
His funeral would have been a sedate affair, a smattering of colleagues,
perhaps some more successful than he in climbing the Ministry ranks would lend
a sense of occasion to the proceedings. A small obituary in a reputable
newspaper would be his final publication.
It would have been the funeral of an above-average man, more generously endowed
with the world's blessings than most. A man who, at the comparatively early age
of fifty, had ended his journey. A journey which certainly would have led to
some greater honour and achievement, had it continued.
But Draco did not die in his fiftieth year.
And that is the greatest tragedy of Draco's life.
Two
The best of childhoods, like Draco's, are looked back on with fond
remembrances. He was spoiled for love, for attention, for comfort and that was
a disservice he could never forgive his parents for indulging. How unaccustomed
he was for the cruelty of adolescence after his blissful boyhood. Perhaps if he
had endured hardship like the Harry Potters and the Neville Longbottoms of the
world he would have been prepared for the onslaught of school year after school
year. Or perhaps he would have moved mindlessly toward his slaughter all the
same.
Three
At seventeen Draco had survived the Final Battle of Hogwarts. At eighteen he
was cleared of any crimes against the Magical community and enrolled at
Beauxbatons to complete his N.E.W.T level studies.
"Economics?" Lucius Malfoy asked his only son, when at nineteen Draco decided
to apprentice with his Arithmancy professor.
"And Arithmancy," Draco added. "Monsieur Beaupain will mentor me in both
fields."
Lucius pursed his lips in silent appraisal. There was little Lucius could do to
alter Draco's course, but both men pretended that a father's opinion once won
was to be esteemed.
"You'll stay in France?" Narcissa delicately fingered the single strand of
pearls that looped around her neck. Her tone was mildly hopeful, but whether
his mother hoped for his return or his prolonged absence Draco was at a loss to
discern.
"I will."
"You can come home whenever you need," promised Narcissa. "We're only a Portkey
away." Her smile shook upon that uncertain truth.
Neither Lucius nor Narcissa asked Draco why he wanted to apprentice with
Monsieur Beaupain. Perhaps if his parents had questioned him he would have had
to articulate his decision to study, to justify or even understand his
motivations. If he had been thwarted, perhaps he would have been passionate in
his commitment. Perhaps that sort of commitment only comes when the will is
thwarted.
After three years of apprenticing Draco was offered a junior position as a
comparative researcher for the Department of Finance within the French Ministry
of Magic. He bought a petite Parisian apartment. His life took shape.
It was inevitable he would marry. He was a Malfoy and it was his obligation to
ensure the name lived on.
Four
Astoria is beautiful. She reflects, in her own muted way, the beauty Draco
unsuccessfully buries with his blank will. They make a striking couple, all
angles, pale hair and paler skin. They could be siblings, they are so similarly
washed out in their appearance.
Draco was not consumed with a devouring, fearsome love for Astoria, not when
they met and not by the time they parted. When he proposed to her it was not
proprietary or predatory it was simply pragmatic. She reminded him of his
mother and that was as a good a model of a wife as Draco needed. He was
confident in his marriage.
Draco responded to the news of his impending fatherhood by relocating he and
his wife to England. France had been kind to Draco; had provided him his
qualifications and his work experience where he had risen to the rank of
advisor to the Under Secretary of Finance, it was the place of his rebirth, a
small sanctuary from the condemnation of his homeland. But Britain was where he
longed to be when he was happiest, where he belonged now he was to be a father.
The birth of Scorpius heralded an era of met expectations. He was perfect in
every conceivable way a child can be. What surprised Draco was how underwhelmed
he was basking in that perfection. Stella was born five years later. A son and
a daughter - his family was complete.
In his thirties Draco observed with detachment the admiration his small
children sparked in onlookers. Scorpius and Stella were truly beautiful,
radiant in their youthful joy. Still, it amazed Draco that the love they gave
so freely to him would be his succès d'estime.
In his forties, with his children both safely ensconced in Hogwarts, Draco
resumed with rigor his professional ascent. He was praised for his incisive
objectivity in developing economic policy for new Britain. He was considered a
fierce opponent when challenged and a loyal colleague when supported. His
forthright approach to promoting the outcomes of Treasury with an unapologetic
pragmatism for political objectives was well received within the Ministry. He
was both pleased and unsurprised when he was promoted to Deputy Secretary of
Treasury. There were murmurs amongst those that mattered, that should Draco
continue his marvelous performance, he may well be appointed as Treasurer by
the next Minister of Magic.
Five
Scorpius was a young man of incomparable beauty. He had the fairness of
complexion of a Malfoy and the grand features of a Black. There seemed very
little of Astoria in her son. Unlike his wife, Draco was not embarrassed by his
boy's looks perhaps because he had been raised by uncommonly attractive
parents. He was accustomed to beauty and celebrated it in his son.
Stella, too, was beautiful, but if Scorpius's beauty was broadcast with the
vibrancy of a Renaissance oil painting, Stella was an Impressionist water
colour painted with a palette of restrained pastels.
Scorpius, with the advantage of living in an age without war, finished his
schooling with a swag of academic accomplishments. His options were as many and
varied as Draco's had seemed doomed and limited at that age. After a period of
indulgent consideration Scorpius thought he would accept an internship with a
small liberal leaning journal. He flourished as a legal and political
correspondent, his personal style transforming dry events into accessible
stories. By the age of twenty five his ledes were the talk of the Fourth
Estate.
Scorpius' insight was a source of sporadic concern for Draco. He felt his
performance, unnoticed by so many, was only scarcely passable to his son.
Stella was another matter. At twenty his sweet, star-gazing daughter made a
modest living as an astronomer. While Draco felt his son saw through him, his
daughter seemed to see around him, a fuzzy outline like glimpsing the tail of a
falling star and not an accurate representation. Perhaps she saw past him
altogether and who was Draco to argue that that was not the truer sight.
The outlines of Draco's life were clear; a marriage of some twenty seven years
that may have lacked passion but compensated for with constancy, two children
who were successfully forging their young adulthood, a respectable career
spanning more than half his life. Draco Malfoy was a man to be admired, a man
to be envied for he was fifty and fully realised.
Six
"She looks like Lily a little bit," Stella speculated as she looked at the
photo her brother had handed her.
"I suppose." Scorpius disagreed, but then he was in love with Rose Weasley and
not the least bit interested in Lily Potter. "They're cousins."
Tilting her head to the side she continued to gaze thoughtfully at the picture.
"She looks lovely."
"Oh Lala, you think everyone is lovely."
Stella shrugged at the accusation. Scorpius swung an arm around his little
sister, squeezing her shoulder good naturedly.
"Who's lovely?" asked Draco as he entered the kitchen.
"My girlfriend."
Draco arched one blond eyebrow at the news. Stella spotted the quirk of her
father's features first.
"Super-" she began. "-Cilious," chimed in Scorpius. "Supercilious.
Superciliosus. Supercilium," they chorused together before laughing loudly at
their childhood chant.
Draco shook his head. All their lives his children had baffled him. Clearly
today was no exception.
Stella took pity on Draco, handing him the photo of Rose. Draco examined the
photo with cursory interest, pictures of pretty girls held little appeal for
him. There was nothing notable about the photo, it held no secrets of what lay
ahead for Rose, it betrayed nothing of her past. Draco's reaction was similarly
unremarkable. He felt nothing.
Seven
"Rose Weasley, meet Ellis Spears."
"How do you do?"
Draco froze. The introduction taking place behind him reverberated in his
skull. He should turn and face her, introduce himself, play the part of
Scorpius' father. He had forgotten his lines. His head was filled with static.
He stepped away and slowly the noise of the crowded room settled over him.
He swallowed the last mouthful of firewhisky in his tumbler, shutting his eyes
as he composed himself. He would not falter tonight, his budget, handed down by
the Treasurer, had been met with resounding acclaim. He prepared for his
premature departure.
"Mister Malfoy?" She appeared before Draco like a stain of breath upon a
mirror. "Scorpius' dad?" It appealed to Draco that she felt he may recognise
his familial role when he did not respond to his name.
"I'm Rose Weasley. I felt I ought to introduce myself."
She extended one slender, freckled arm, her hand elegantly entreating. Draco
took her hand in his, for all appearances it seemed a picture of formal
reception. Upon closer consideration, their hands remained clasped longer than
necessary, their gazes locking, drifting, returning. Draco, who skimmed across
the surface of other's scrutiny, was drawn to the blue pools of Rose's
observation.
Draco barely remembered the last time he had seen her. What was there to
remember? She had been eleven and eager to board the Hogwarts Express whereas
Scorpius had been sullen, as was his wont.
His mind drifted to that forgettable day. He imagined crossing the platform of
King's Cross Station, weaving his way through the dozens of Weasleys that
littered its length, and seeking her out. He, the very vision of a respectable
Muggle villain in his dark overcoat, with his receding hairline, crouching
before his very own Little Red Riding Hood. Oh, how he could picture her now,
bundled up in a red woolen coat, her tight ginger curls peeking out from
beneath the too large hood. Whispering for her alone to hear: "I'll make you
mine one day." Would she stand rigid with fear at his words? Would she smile
against his cheek with an innocence she had only begun to lose? Maybe she would
whisper back: "No, I'll make you mine." He liked that idea.
"How very strange," she said when Draco emerged uneasily from the unreal
remembrance his mind had plunged his foremost thoughts into.
"I should go."
"You should," she said.
This strange development could not be allowed to continue. Draco took his leave
of Rose specifically and the party generally. The stillness of his murky
subconscious had been disturbed. Drowning felt like the only course available
to Draco, and drown he inevitably would.
Eight
An anonymous looking owl sped through Draco's office, delivering its small
missive without waiting for his reply. With the faintest flicker of interest
Draco unraveled the parchment.

  Scorpius wants me to meet his family. He's arranging dinner on Saturday. I
                           thought you should know.
                                     Rose
Draco stared at the note.
Did she think he needed her warning? There was a certain censure to her words
and the remonstrance rankled.
With a casual Incendio the disagreeable intrusion to his Wednesday went away.
Would that he could as easily burn away the incessant thoughts of her.
Draco fell fitfully asleep Friday evening and awoke spent Saturday morning. He
dragged himself out of his too warm bed and dressed. He decided in a pique of
impetuousness that he would go into the Ministry for the day. His bedroom, his
house, suddenly felt too confined for him.
Astoria stirred at Draco's movements.
"Darling?"
Draco smothered a sigh at having woken his wife.
"I've some matters at the Ministry."
"But it's a Saturday."
"Duty calls--"
"Don't forget we've got dinner with Scorpius and Rose tonight."
"I shan't." As if that was even possible.
He sat in his office for hours staring into nothingness. His temperament had
been disagreeably mercurial for days.
Draco flooed home scant moments before his son's arrival, earning a
disapproving glare from Astoria as he dashed past her and up to his room to
change. When he returned downstairs everyone was assembled in the parlour;
Scorpius and Astoria smiling at some shared banality, Stella and Rose chatting
like old girlfriends. Scorpius spied Draco lingering just outside the room.
Excusing himself from his mother he stole Rose away from Stella, clasping
Rose's hand tight in his to lead her to Draco.
"Dad, this is Rose." His young face was rapturous with new love.
"I know," said Draco.
Scorpius laughed.
"I know you know!" Scorpius rolled his eyes for Rose's benefit, indicating his
father was entirely too obtuse to function at times. "Allow me to introduce you
then. Rose," Scorpius said with faux-formality. "May I present Mr Draco
Malfoy?"
Draco should have interrupted his son, interjecting that he knew Rose from a
Ministry function, not because of some half glanced at photo or half heard
conversation. Yet that expression of the conditional mood went unsaid. Unsaid
by Draco and unsaid by Rose who calmly uttered, "How do you do?"
"Miss Weasley."
"Father," Scorpius began to scold. "Now that you've made the acquaintance of
Miss Rose Weasley, daughter of Ronald and Hermione Weasley, graduate of
Beauxbatons, journalist for the Daily Prophet, my inamorata--" Scorpius paused
to draw a necessary breath. "--it's surely time for tea."
"Indeed it is," Astoria confirmed.
The quick staccato of Astoria's heels as she moved briskly to the dining room
summoned the party to follow her. The five sat down to dinner: a sumptuous
banquet prepared by the Malfoy house elves. Talk flowed smoothly while Draco's
thoughts swirled stormily. Neither he nor Rose mentioned their earlier meeting.
Rose concealed even the faintest acknowledgement that such a meeting had taken
place. Her discretion, at first so soothing in those early minutes, now became
a cause of anguish. What kind of woman is such a consummate actress. How could
she be so good?
Draco watched Rose throughout dinner. He observed how the cobalt blue fabric of
her dress clung to her body, how the neck line scooped to reveal the delicacy
of her clavicle, how the sleeveless design called attention to her pale,
freckled arms - arms that would wear the marks of a lover's too tight grip long
after their making. But Draco saw that there was strength amongst all the
accoutrements of her delicacy.
"We're thinking of going to Paris for the weekend," said Scorpius.
"Who?" asked Draco, whose attention, for some time, had not been focused on the
conversation about him.
"Dad." Stella shook her head. "Rose and Score."
"My mother and brother live there." Draco marvelled at Rose's sleight of
phrase. How easily Astoria and Stella accepted this fact of habitation as an
explanation for their journey. Draco could only smile when Astoria said, "What
a nice idea," to Scorpius, for what was the alternative?
Draco ruminated on the mendacity that seeped into the meal. He was now a liar
to his family. A woman he had known only for days, to whom he had spoken only a
few sentences, watched him betray his wife and his son. And each knew the other
knew. Draco felt it was a bond between them. A concealed truth (a lie).
The small lie, which was the first betrayal, seemed to sink further in the
laughter, the wine, and the night.
Nine
"Scorpius is coming over for dinner again on Saturday."
"Really?" asked Draco.
Dining with Scorpius and Rose became a semi-regular occurrence for Draco and
Astoria. Stella sometimes joined the couples, but her presence was optional.
Proprietary dictated Draco's attendance at these family affairs.
Draco and Astoria shared a morning coffee before going their separate ways for
the day.
Ten
A single Sickle fell from the blank parchment Draco untied from a Ministry owl.
He fingered the coin and it warmed at his touch. Setting it down on his desk he
saw small script appear upon the coin's surface: rose.
Draco now knew in his life there was an end and a beginning. What he could not
tell, was where the beginning would end.
He touched his wand to the Sickle, replacing those four insignificant letters
with four irreversible words: your house. one hour. Rose returned Draco's
instructions with her address and then the coin went cold once more.
Draco Apparated into a small alcove with brick walls lined with ivy and bins
tidily spaced. It could have been any suburban back street on the cusp of
Muggle London.
Rose led Draco up the stairs from the street entrance to her apartment on the
second landing. He stepped into a monochrome photograph of the early twentieth
century where the colour of the outside world faded and all that remained were
the sepia washed walls, carpets, curtains and ceilings.
They made no sound as they moved down the hall. They went to her lounge room
and Rose kneeled before Draco. Arms outstretched, she presented herself as a
sacrifice for his jouissance. He looked down at her, her eyes wide and knowing.
He fisted a handful of her hair, jerking her head to his crotch, holding her
face against the heat of his arousal, her breath bleeding through the linen of
his pants. Draco fell to his knees in a parody of genuflection. His hands
ghosted to the hem of her dress, the snug fabric rolled easily up to her hips
with his guidance. She wore no underwear. He pushed Rose's shoulders to the
floor. He lay down on her. Still her arms remained flung out from her sides,
not touching him, not embracing him. Draco slid one hand between their bodies
and unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his fly and released his cock. Then with one
hand grasping her hair, he entered her.
They lay unmoving, silent but for laboured breaths. He felt the rise of her
breasts press into his chest. She felt the twitch of his cock pulsate within
her cunt. There was silence until finally Draco moved his face across hers, and
kissed her. Their mouths met and Rose released a keening unlike anything Draco
had ever heard before. He was frantic in his need to consume her, to taste
every part of her, to claim her as his. He pushed at the roll of fabric about
her middle and kept pushing until she was free of the garment. He rocked
erratically in and out of her. He tore at his own clothes, discarding his
jacket and shirt. He stood over her like a conquerer and allowed his trousers
to fall to the floor. He peeled his briefs down to his knees. He delivered
himself upon her flesh, their flesh now unencumbered by clothing. Rose wrapped
her ankles about the base of his back, drawing him into her with the firm
pressure of her heels against his spine. Draco gripped at Rose's shoulders as
he reared back causing her head to loll from side to side. His hips jerked and
her head knocked against the carpeted floor. He snaked his hand between the
carpet and her hair to cradle her head.
He kissed her like breathing was a luxury they need never suffer again.
He kissed her until her eyes fluttered shut and her eyelids twitched in sensory
uncertainty.
She clenched his cock within her until she thought her entire body would
deflate from the energy she expended. Her legs slackened their hold upon Draco
who slid his body up and down Rose with long, uneven lurches. He held onto her
face with hands that marked her scalp with small crescent shaped indentations,
as he gushed inelegantly inside her.
They had fucked like wild creatures - there was no pretense of affection, of
anything more sophisticated than primitive desire.
Draco was overwhelmed by emotions that seemed, for the first time, to be
unchecked. These foreign feelings filled him and threatened to drown him in a
flood of pleasure.
They bathed separately. Draco left alone, without speaking. He returned home
and played the part of the exhausted civil servant. Astoria accepted the act.
Eleven
"I think chicken would be nice," said Astoria.
"Pardon?" asked Draco.
"A white breasted meat for Sunday's lunch with Scorpius and Rose."
Draco recovered quickly to respond,"Very nice."
"Chicken it is."
Rose wore white at lunch. Draco admired her audacity at wearing something so
offensively virginal. He wondered if she thought a simple change of costume
would diminish his memories of her as the wanton whore who came to him freely.
Rose sat primly at the table, charming Astoria, beguiling Scorpius and taunting
Draco, all with her simple command of the conversation of the day.
As the house elves cleared away empty plates to prepare for the serving of
digestifs, Draco knocked a goblet of wine which skittered across the
tablecloth. Its contents soaked into the fabric and spilled into the lap of
Rose who was seated opposite the wayward cup. Rose stood as soon as she saw the
object roll toward her but was not quick enough to avoid a stain splashing
across the lap of her dress. It was barely noticeable, a slight discoloration
where the riesling fell. Scorpius flicked his wand with a short, sharp swish
and the blemish disappeared. If only all such imperfections were so easily
corrected.
Twelve
In fifty years Draco had never been as unerringly beset by passion as he was
now, balls deep in the twenty five year old flesh of his son's girlfriend. His
libido had never known such invigoration. He had barely restrained himself from
pinning her to the stairs that led to her apartment to make unnatural shapes
for the most natural of purposes. All semblance of control had quite explicably
deserted Draco once he crossed the threshold into Rose's room. He urged her
against the closing door, pressed her into the cool wood and with two hissed
spells had his cock satisfactorily buried within Rose's readily aroused centre.
Dante foretold how men like Draco, men who failed to deny their baser desires,
would be forever swept around in a whirlwind. Draco welcomed the reward of
eternal maelstrom in exchange for the thought shattering splendour of his cum
anointing Rose.
The Book Rose's maternal grandparents favoured for moral guidance suggested
those impure like Rose walk through flames. Rose accepted the masculine heat of
Draco into her life without fear of retribution. They would endure no
punishment or experience any act more cleansing than their profane union.
With weary limbs they slid to the floor. Rose, limp as a ragdoll, lay against
Draco's chest. His back rested flat and slick against the door, his legs lax
and bracketing Rose's similarly spent limbs. His arms wrapped loosely around
her middle. His head dropped forward, his blond hair, now messy, brushed
against her cheek.
"Rose." Her name was as natural as exhaling to him. "Who are you?"
There was a long silence.
"I am what you desire," she said.
"No. That's not what I meant."
"No? But to you, that's what I am. To others I am something else."
"Others?"
She laughed at him and Draco felt unaccountably naive.
"Scorpius. My mum, my dad, Hugo." A long pause. "My family. It's the same for
everyone. For you as well."
"I suppose. It seems so unsentimental for a..." Draco trailed off.
"A girl?"
"A Weasley."
That earned Draco a swat to his sweaty shoulder but also a smile.
"But Scorpius," persisted Draco, "does he understand?"
"He asked once. I told him to love me as though he knew me. And if he could
not--well then..."
"Who are you?"
"You have to ask?" Rose was genuinely surprised. "If you must know..." she
capitulated to his question. Releasing a sigh she began her story. "My mother
is Hermione Weasley. My father is Ronald Weasley. But then you already know all
about them don't you, having gone through Hogwarts at the same time? My father
has been an Auror since before I was born. My mother was a diplomat. I
travelled a great deal as a child. I went everywhere mum went with my brothers.
We holidayed anywhere and everywhere. I was not upset when my parents
divorced."
"Brothers?"
Rose tensed against Draco's chest, he held her tightly in his arms, an act of
containment or of comfort depending on the recipient's mood.
"I have two brothers. Hugo, who is four years younger than me and lives in
Paris with mum. And Arthur, less than a year older than me, who killed himself
when I was fifteen. No one talks about suicide in the Wizarding world so no one
ever asks why he died. I know why. He suffered from an unrequited love of me. I
tried to soothe him with my body..." She paused, then continued in marcato.
"His pain, my foolishness...our confusion... He killed himself. Understandably.
That is my story simply told. Please do not ask me again. I have told you to
issue a warning. I have been damaged. Damaged people are dangerous. They know
they can survive."
Draco held the girl who seemed an agreeable extension of himself until all he
could hear was the hum of his touch on her body.
"Why did you say 'understandably' Arthur killed himself?"
"Because I understand. I carry that knowledge within me. It is not a treasure
that I jealously guard. Simply a story I did not wish to tell, about a boy you
have never known."
Draco encircled her wrists between the thumb and forefinger of both his hands
in an inadequate approximation of affection.
"You're not the only one with stories that are hard to tell."
"No doubt. There lies the difference then between you and me. I'll never ask
you tell those tales."
"You shan't find anything sinister in Scorpius' past." Draco did not share this
insight to assure Rose.
"You don't count then?" she challenged.
"I'm hardly Scorpius' fault."
"Sins of the father..."
"No."
"Perhaps that's what I love most about Scorpius - he asks no questions of me.
He is content with me. He allows me my secrets."
"You and I are a secret?"
"Of course."
"So by your logic, Scorpius would allow you and I to continue..." Continue
what, Draco did not specify.
"Yes."
"And if he were to stop allowing you your secrets? If he asked about us?"
"That would be a tragedy."
Rose squirmed in Draco's embrace, turning until she faced him. She cupped his
face in her hands and kissed him with the tenderness so often lacking in their
coupling. She crawled on top of him, wriggling until his cock twitched to
attention and then sunk slowly down his length.
Draco was aware Rose would be his downfall, but he was only just beginning to
realise how sweet the descent would be.
Thirteen
Thoughts of Rose, her touch, overwhelmed Draco. Still, he had not foreseen how
reckless he would become to have her or how easily she came to him when
beckoned. Rose strode into his office appearing heedless of the impression she
left in her wake. Draco's secretary of some dozen years, a paragon of
discretion, rearranged his diary when Draco's office door clicked shut behind
his unannounced guest.
Draco, with his robes parted and an enthusiastic redhead bobbing energetically
up and down his cock, had relinquished control of his enjoyment of Rose. Her
mouth upon his flesh was almost too much to bear and yet the thought of its
removal pained him more.
Draco ran his hands through his thinning hair. There were potions to restore
the luster of one's hair to its former magnificence, but he had chosen to
cultivate the appearance of a man not driven by vanity. Fingers locking
together behind his head, Draco looked down his pointed nose at the rhythmic
hollowing of Rose's cheeks.
Draco straddled the edge of pleasure and pain: Rose was the harbinger of both.
She raked her blunt nails across the blank flesh of his thighs, leaving pink
trails behind. The cavern of her mouth incarcerated his cock. He did not
welcome release. He wanted to stay forever on the cusp of completion. Draco
felt deflated by the calmness that flooded him after ejaculation.
Since the age of seventeen Draco had succeeded in enjoying life's pleasures as
little as possible. At fifty Draco was undertaking a private study in the
limits of pleasure, but was yet to discover the painful demarcation of
jouissance.
Fourteen
"I may have to go to Paris on Friday," Draco informed his wife as he disrobed
for bed. Each layer removed revealed the shape of him, the toned, lean planes
of his body, more appealing now than when Astoria first glimpsed them decades
earlier.
"How unexpected. Ministry business?"
"Hmm," affirmed Draco, around a mouth full of toothbrush and paste. He spat and
rinsed his mouth, then swiped a damp washcloth across his face and neck.
"I was planning a surprise get away to Spain this weekend. Perhaps I'll take
Stella."
"That's a good idea," Draco encouraged as he padded back into the bedroom. "The
business on Friday really should be between the foreign ministers, but you know
how the Treasurer is. Put him in a room with a Chancellor and an Eschequier and
suddenly it's 'Where's Malfoy?'."
"Of course darling. Maybe you can meet up with Scorpius when you're there?"
"Still on assignment is he?"
"You know he is darling. Although I suspect he's extended his stay to be with
Rose."
"Oh, is she covering a story in France too?"
"Who knows with that girl? She may just be gallivanting with Scorpius."
"Or visiting her family." Draco reasonably pointed out.
"It's serious between them you know." Astoria sat up primly in bed, pleased to
at last have her husband's attention to discuss what was bothering her.
"If you mean that they're..." Draco gestured vaguely with one hand, "involved."
"Don't be silly. Of course they're involved Draco, they're twenty five and
obviously shagging each other senseless. No. I think it's serious, for Scorpius
anyway. I think he wants to marry her."
"Really?" The thought had never occurred to Draco.
"Yes really." Astoria smiled at her husband, but her eyes betrayed her concern
for their son.
"Do you want me to talk to Scorpius? About marriage..."
"I feel you should talk to Scorpius soon - man to man. Think about what to
say."
"Yes, I will."
The conversation was over.
Fifteen
Paris at dawn was a beauteous sight that inspired recklessness in Draco. He had
desperate hours to spend at his leisure until the final breakfast meeting of
the weekend so he Apparated to a half-remembered Rue from his past.
He fisted the magical coin in his pocket, transferring the message Rue Jacques
Callot, just off Rue de Seine, to his... what was Rose exactly? Words no longer
held meaning for Draco: lover, mistress, whore, temptress, witch, woman. Titles
were nothing more than naming something for the benefit of others. Draco was no
longer driven by the need to supply such answers and he was damned if he could
formulate an answer more adequate than his anyway.
Draco heard the pop of Rose's arrival moments before he saw the flash of her
red hair. She spun around to face the man that lured her from her warm bed to
the cold street as surely as Alohamora opens the simplest of locks. She
sprinted toward him, to his outstretched arms, only to be crudely pushed
against the stone wall that lined the street. Draco silhouetted Rose upon the
wall, covering her body, her mouth, with his. The uneven bricks bit into Rose's
back as Draco ground his hips into his quarry, the loose knit cardigan she had
grabbed from the floor of her room doing little to abate the friction. Draco
captured Rose's arms which had fallen loosely about his neck and raised them
above her head. Rose sucked in a sharp breath when the backs of her hands
grazed across the rough surface of the wall. Rose bucked her denim clad pelvis
against Draco.
"I have to have you," gasped Draco.
"So have me," she whispered.
Draco let go of Rose's hands, dropping them to his trousers. Three succinct
movements and he was easing underneath her scandalously short denim skirt and
into her wet heat. He sucked at the soft underside of her jaw while jerking
erratically inside her. t was over in minutes.
Draco withdrew from her. She pulled her wand from the back pocket of her skirt
and with an arcing swish cleansed them both. Draco tucked his now flaccid cock
into his unstained pants. Rose bent down to her bag, tossed aside in their
tussle, to retrieve a pair of knickers. She wriggled into them and tugged her
skirt down from its indecent arrangement about her hips to the top of her
thighs. She smiled a sudden, girlish smile as she straightened.
Draco watched her with an emotion he could not name. He felt if he stayed a
moment longer he would weep. He could not remember ever crying as an adult.
Rose cupped his cheek in one warm palm, offering whatever Draco wanted to read
into the gesture as the sun shone brighter in the early morning sky.
"I have to go." She had spoken the words Draco should have said.
"To Scorpius?"
"Who else?" she asked.
"Hugo?"
Rose's eyes narrowed at the casual, or perhaps merely careless, insinuation.
"No," she replied crisply, guarded. "He's in Egypt."
"When are you back in England?"
"Scorpius will be back in the next week or two."
"That's not what I asked."
"I'll probably follow Scorpius."
"Probably," repeated Draco, dissatisfied with Rose's answer.
"I really do have to go, mum will have a fit if she checks Gran's clock while
I'm out."
"Scorpius doesn't wonder where you are?"
"He trusts me."
One blond eyebrow twitched at the suggestion.
"As hard as that it is for you to believe, it's the truth."
As quickly as she had answered Draco's call she departed.
His desperation merely fueled after their latest encounter, Draco Apparated
back to his hotel and into the embrace of a scalding hot shower to prepare for
the monotony of a morning without Rose.
Sixteen
Draco imagines the many ways Scorpius fucks Rose. Curiously he makes the
distinction in his mind that she is the subject of the act, not the actor. He
imagines her as passive, when he knows she is anything but.
He imagines the pair in Rose's bed, underneath clean sheets, Scorpius slowly
entering her, Rose receiving him atop her.
Draco rarely manages to make it to her bed to ravage her.
He thinks of Scorpius dragging Rose into the Manor's library for a quick snog.
His enthusiasm, not yet dampened by age, rewarded with the hardening of his
cock. His hands guiding hers over the bulge of his pants, silently suggesting
but never demanding that she relieve the pressure. Draco thinks his son a
cautious lover.
Draco would happily force her to her knees and stuff her mouth with the hard
length of him. In fact, he regularly does.
He pictures the care with which Scorpius seduces Rose: candlelit dinners
thoughtfully prepared followed by gentle love making.
The idea is decidedly unpalatable to Draco who savours the unthinkingness of
his trysts with Rose.
Draco considers his son and Rose with the objectivity of a spectator befitting
Astoria. Draco never entertains the reality that he in fact a rival to his
son's happiness, it not being instinctive to him to see the situation
subjectively.
Seventeen
With an almost delicate ease, Draco left Paris in a triumph of moral
degradation.
He returned to an empty house. Summoning a house elf to prepare him a meal he
retired to his study. Several productive hours passed as he notarised the
pertinent points of the weekend to forward to Cabinet.
His work was disrupted by Astoria's voice through the floo. Her face
materialised in the embers of the low burning fire.
"Have you seen Scorpius and Rose?"
"No."
A partial truth Draco told his unsuspecting wife, for he had not seen Scorpius.
The new and strange shape Draco was assuming was hardening each day. The facile
liar, the violent lover, the betrayer, would allow no return journey. His path
was clear. He knew he was on a headlong rush to destruction.
Astoria's sigh crackled through the logs that connected England to Spain.
"I'll speak to Scorpius when he's back home."
"If it's not too late."
Chastised, Draco watched Astoria abruptly disconnect the fire call, clearly
unhappy with him.
Eighteen
"Dad?" Scorpius' voice echoed through his father's study.
Draco put down his morning paper and moved to kneel before the fireplace,
bemused that his son was fire calling him so early in the morning.
"Oh good, you're there. Do you mind if I come through?"
"No, not at all." Draco straightened and took a step back to allow Scorpius to
end the fire call and floo through.
"What brings you home?"
"I needed to speak to you. Face to face."
"I see," said Draco.
"It couldn't wait," continued Scorpius, urgency lacing his voice.
"Then by all means, speak." His hand gravitating to his wand, currently
sheathed inside his robes.
In a giddy rush Scorpius said, "I've been offered Deputy Political Editor of
the paper!"
Draco's eyes widened at the announcement, his heart stilling in relief at the
news. His mind quickly caught up with the situation and he offered his
congratulations as he hugged his son.
"That's extraordinary Scorpius. Twenty-five and you've rocketed up the ranks.
I'm proud of you." Despite Draco's loathsome sexual indiscretions he sincerely
wished his son well in his professional endeavours.
"Thanks dad," beamed Scorpius. "A celebration is in order. No excuses - the
whole family has to come to El Cruz to indulge my promotion with the utmost
excess!"
Draco laughed. "Of course."
"Then it's decided. I'll see you on Saturday." Scorpius pinched some floo
powder from his father's mantle and stepped into the flames and out of sight
once more.
Draco needed to recover. Not only from the sudden shock of talking to Scorpius,
but from the conversation itself, which had disturbed him. Draco was not the
only person who was changing. Scorpius the man was emerging more strongly.
Nineteen
They were an impressive-looking group as they entered the restaurant.
Three generations of Malfoys had gathered together for a rare semi-public
outing in Scorpius's honour. El Cruz was an exclusive wizarding restaurant that
was secluded from the general malaise of the wizarding milieu.
Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, Astoria and Stella were escorted though El Cruz to a
private room, partitioned from the main restaurant by glamour that recreated
the view outside of the Mediterranean Sea. Scorpius and Rose welcomed them to
their table, to their celebration.
A uniform sea of platinum crowned heads was broken by Rose's ginger tresses.
She sat at the round table like a ruby set in a princely diadem, as obvious as
an intentionally placed jewel.
Rose observed the Malfoys with a keenness befitting a journalist. It gave Rose
unparalleled pleasure to observe carefully and to write truthfully.
Observation, Scorpius often told her, was Rose's great strength, not only as a
writer but as a woman. On this particular balmy Spanish evening, Rose observed
the tug of the tide that was history swelling in the distance. Soon the
Malfoy's carefully cultivated narrative would change as surely as the sea. Of
that, Rose had no doubt.
Twenty
Apparating home after their enjoyable but exhausting evening at El Cruz,
Astoria and Draco readied themselves for bed.
As Astoria spelled her face clean and applied her night potions she spoke to
her husband about the problem that was Rose.
"We should try and find out more about her. Have you spoken to Scorpius yet?
I've tried. It's quite difficult. He says he knows all he needs to know."
"Perhaps he does."
"He thinks he does. That's hardly the same thing."
"Yes, dear."
"Don't 'yes dear' me Draco! What do you think?"
"I think," said Draco, walking to wife who sat on the side of their bed and
placing his hands on her shoulder. "That you want the best for our son."
"As do you."
"Yes, but Scorpius needs to make up his own mind. I'll talk to him."
"Thank you."
And so they lay in bed. A man whose eyes could deceive a wife of nearly thirty
years, and a wife who after nearly thirty years could be so deceived. Their
practiced movements were as pleasant as an old remembered song of long ago. But
even as Draco surrendered to those final shudders that are all and nothing, it
was, he knew, a final defeat for Astoria in a battle she did not know she
waged. And it was a triumph for Rose, who had not even fought.
Twenty_One
"Mr Malfoy, your son is here to see you," Draco's secretary announced over
their inter-office sound system.
Draco stared blankly at the apparatus that heralded his son's unexpected
arrival with inanimate indifference.
"Dad!"
"Scorpius," he rejoined stiffly. His thoughts flooded with the nightmare of
Scorpius knowing he was involved with Rose. Had Scorpius the slightest
inclination to perform Legilimency on his father a kaleidoscope of betrayals
would be his for the viewing.
Scorpius took his father's outstretched hand in his and affectionately clapped
his free hand upon Draco's back.
"Do you mind if I take a seat?"
"No. Not at all, please." Draco gestured to the two seats in front of the
fireplace.
"Don't worry," assured Scorpius, mistaking his father's curious hesitancy for
busyness. "I shan't be long. I wanted to ask you about my trust." Scorpius
coloured slightly at the mention of the money his parents and grandparents had
set aside for him.
"It's invested in several accounts," Draco answered while his mind churned with
curiosity. "Did you want to oversee the management of the funds?"
"No, no. Nothing like that. I was rather hoping you could let me know when I
can access the trust."
"I'm afraid the conditions of your trust are rather rigid in their arcane
provisions. Your trust matures when you do."
"So, when I'm a certain age..."
"No, maturity isn't a numerical achievement. It's more than that. You'll have
your trust made available to you when you marry..."
Scorpius nodded, and Draco was unsure if he imagined it or not, but he seemed
almost buoyant at the news.
"Thanks dad, that's all I needed to know. I'll let you get back to ruling the
Wizarding world."
Scorpius' voice continued, but Draco was unable to absorb his words. Stunned by
admiration and jealously, he realised that his son, cloaked in his own reality
of beauty and intelligence, had become at last and most dangerously his rival.
Twenty_Two
"I must know that you will be in my life forever. I must know that," beseeched
Draco.
"Why?"
"There can be no 'after Rose' in my life."
"What a curious thought," mused Rose.
"Tell me," demanded Draco.
"There is only now. There is only me."
"When you marry? When you have his children?"
"Scorpius hasn't asked..."
"He will."
"Perhaps I want to marry Scorpius. A life lived with Scorpius would be normal."
She spoke the word 'normal' as though it were a benediction.
"What about me?" The question lurched forth from Draco.
"Marry you? Scorpius would never, ever forgive you. He would be lost to you
forever. Stella would be dreadfully harmed. I would be at the centre of a
terrible scandal. And you, you would be destroyed. And for what? So that we
could have a domestic life together. It would be a nonsense. We were not made
for that. No we were made for what we have. The constant satisfaction of our
need for each other."
He loathed the sight of her pitying eyes. Eyes that Oedipus would prick out
with a fated pin if the opportunity arose.
He turned her away from him and then violently pulled her hips snug against
his, his hands digging into her hipbones. He rocked forward, guiding her torso
toward her thighs. He nudged her feet further apart, her stance widening until
her hands sought purchase on the floor to steady herself. She was bent in half,
her body manipulated by Draco for his pleasure. He spread the cheeks of her
arse with his thumbs. Her calves protested at the strain of holding the pose
while Draco rubbed his cock along the crack of her bum. He wanted to tear her
in half and laugh as she cried. He wanted to be the only man who made her come.
He wanted everything she was and to claim it as his own. He spat in his hand
and fisted his cock with his sticky palm, saliva mingled with semen at the tip
of cock as pre-ejaculate beaded at his head.
With more care than Rose expected, Draco positioned himself at her puckered
anus, pulled her cheeks further apart and pushed inside her arse, inch by
barely lubricated inch.
Tales of ecstasy are endless tales of failure. For always comes separation. And
the journey towards the essential, fleeting unity begins again.
Twenty_Three
It is late at night when Draco receives Rose's gift. His secretary finished for
the day hours earlier. His staff have retired for the day, leaving their
infatiguable boss to continue on in the corridors of Wizarding Westminster
alone.
Her owl - it has no markings, but he knows it is hers - delivers to him a
scroll wrapped around a small vial. Placing the vial on his desk for later
consideration, he reads her note.

                                       D
 You need this explanation more than he does. He accepts, without, of course,
  knowing why, that a part of me remains forever closed to him. He can handle
disappearances, separations, and silences in a way that you can't. You know him
                   so little. Believe me, he is remarkable.
     You both could understand my little story. Only you need to hear it.
                                     Rose
Draco unwarded the lowermost drawer under his desk to remove a small silver
Pensieve. He poured Rose's duplicate memories into the object, pausing,
momentarily, to acknowledge the tendrils of awe he felt. It was with reserved
respect and no small amount of wonderment that he leaned his head over his desk
and into the swirling pool of the Pensieve.
*
Draco fell into a beachside scene. He recognised Hermione immediately, her
bushy brown hair unmistakable despite the years that had passed since Draco had
last seen her. She sat cross-legged on a green gingham beach towel, a ginger
headed infant suckling at her breast. She smiled out at the sea where two small
children splashed in the surf. Draco spotted Rose the enthusiastic five year
old doing cartwheels in the sand. Her corkscrew curls had turned a deep scarlet
from the water and remained plastered to her head as she planted one hand and
then the other beneath her. Arthur clapped his hands when Rose managed to
execute two cartwheels in a row. Draco was surprised by Arthur's appearance for
he had thought the boy would be another redheaded Weasley, a miniature
incarnation of his father. Arthur's hair was nearly black when wet, his
eyelashes did not share the red tint of his siblings and he sported a golden
tan unlike Rose whose pale skin already bloomed with freckles. Arthur had,
however, inherited his father's pale blue eyes. Eyes that remained wide open as
he proceeded to show his little sister his expertise in the field of
handstands.
*
The sunshine faded to night as the scene swirled anew.
Draco stood in a child's room. Walls were painted in a pastel pinstripe, hand
drawn dragons danced upon the ceiling, breathing fire and snorting smoke.
Starlight streamed through the bedroom window, illuminating the sleeping figure
of Arthur.
Draco turned to the opening door as Rose, no older than six, crept into
Arthur's room and crawled into his bed. Arthur stirred when his sister's cold
feet brushed against his.
"Rosie?"
"Mummy's not in her bed."
"Do you want to check the clock?" he asked Rose sleepily.
Rose turned wide brown eyes to her brother and nodded.
Draco followed the pair out into the hallway and into the family kitchen.
Adorning one wall was a clock that he vaguely remembered someone from his
Hogwarts days mentioning. In the centre of the clock was a traditional
timepiece which showed that it was two in the morning. Radiating out from that
were five hands labelled Daddy, Mummy, Arthur, Rose, Hugo.
Arthur studied the clock thoughtfully. Draco wondered suddenly whether he had
ever caused Scorpius and Stella to worry like these children. He hoped not.
The spokes that indicated Arthur, Rose and Hugo were all in the southern
portion of the clock indicating they were 'home'. Arthur and Rose's spokes were
coloured chartreuse because they were awake, while Hugo's spoke remained
midnight blue which meant he was asleep.
"Can you read what the clock says?" asked Arthur.
"Work," Rose answered correctly.
"Mummy must have had to leave in a hurry. But look at the colour," instructed
Arthur. "Mummy is yellow, which means she's happy." Arthur smiled at his little
sister.
"Daddy isn't yellow."
Draco joined the children in looking at the orange marker.
"No," agreed Arthur. "But he's not red, that's not so bad."
"Back to bed?"
Rose took Arthur's small hand in her even smaller hand and was led back to his
room. They snuggled against each, and Draco understood that Arthur and Rose
were everything to each other.
*
The scene dissolved and reformed to show Arthur and Rose flying with a group of
about ten children over plains of red dirt. They tossed a battered old Quaffle
high into the air, laughter filling the air as they jostled against each to be
the first to fly to the Quaffle and catch it. A boy of eleven, brawnier and
older than Arthur, sped toward the ball, the tail of his broom clipping the
handle of Rose's broom, causing her to spin and lose her focus on staying in
the air.
She fell through the clear blue sky, her face contorted in a terrifying mixture
of surprise and fear.
Arthur shot through the air, intently single minded on catching his sister
before she crashed to the ground. He collected her in a jarring swoop, her
breath catching in relief at being in Arthur's grasp and in pain as her left
arm was wrenched from its socket. Arthur plummeted the last dozen yards to the
ground with little control, being unused to commanding a broom with more than
his body weight. Arthur's knees bore the brunt of the unsteady landing,
skidding across the ground and shredding his jeans. He rolled instinctively
onto his back so Rose was cushioned by his body as they came to an unsettling
stop.
Arthur hugged his sister to his chest, the pair sobbing uncontrollably as
adrenalin began to fade and pain started to make itself known.
It was a spectacular act of unthinking bravery that amazed Draco.
Considerably less amazing was the delayed reaction of the adults entrusted with
supervising the children, who rushed into the scene, rather too late in Draco's
opinion.
*
Wide open spaces transformed into a young girl's bedroom, walls papered with a
pale paisley motif. Under crisp white sheets the tops of two heads were
visible.
Draco stood over the children, not seeing their faces but hearing one of them
shush the other.
Muffled voices were audible through the closed door.
"They're both too old for this," a man's voice said.
"Ron you're being ridiculous. I think it's sweet."
"Sweet?" Ron's voice with tinged with something desperately like hysteria.
"Yes," Hermione hissed back. "I would've given anything for a brother or sister
to snuggle with when I was their age. Leave. Them. Alone."
Draco could only imagine the scathing look Hermione was directing toward her
husband.
"I suppose he'll grow out of it at Hogwarts," Ron harrumphed.
Draco turned back to the children half-hiding under the covers of Rose's bed
when he heard them whispering.
"Will you still want to share my bed after you've gone to Hogwarts?" Rose asked
plaintively.
"Always," he promised.
*
Draco sucked in an unnecessary breath when his non-corporeal self entered the
Great Hall of Hogwarts. Rose, in all her magnificence, caught his eye
immediately. She wore an ice blue dress that flowed over her emerging woman's
figure. Her ringlets were pinned in careful disarray and threaded with a wreath
of baby's breath, forming a floral crown in her hair. She was dancing with
Arthur, his eyes sparkling with the wonderment Draco felt.
Rose stepped a beat too soon as they turned about the dance floor. Arthur
steadied her against his body, one hand lingering at the small of her back,
before returning to the rhythm of the dance. Draco was fascinated to watch the
teasing touches Rose bestowed upon her brother, the daring quirk of Arthur's
mouth and eyebrows silently encouraging her.
They stepped outside the Hall mid-song, making their way beyond the lights of
the Yule Ball, past the rows of rosebushes, stopping before the darkened
thicket of trees that led toward the lower grounds. Draco's eyes widened as he
saw the siblings kiss. Rose ran her fingers through Arthur's dark auburn hair,
while he in turn cupped her face in his hands. They kissed with open mouths and
tangling tongues. Rose trailed one hand down the front of Arthur's robes and
burrowed expertly beneath the outer layer and the trousers obscured from view
to claim Arthur's cock. Arthur held onto his little sister's hips, guiding the
gyrations that accompanied the tugging of her hand. Arthur broke away from
Rose's lips, gasping with satisfaction as he came in his pants.
Rose withdrew her hand and brought it to her mouth, licking away the salty,
sticky semen. Arthur stole a quick kiss, tasting himself on her lips.
They broke apart when they heard the crunch of gravel underfoot. Arthur quickly
spelled his pants and Rose's hands clean. Neville Longbottom was ambling past
the rosebushes, flicking his wand left and right to illuminate his path.
"Back you go you two, don't make me take points," said Neville for the
countless time that evening.
"We just needed some air, Professor," apologised Arthur.
"Oh! Rosie, Art. I thought you were..."
"Rosebush bandits?" Rose helpfully suggested.
Draco laughed at how flustered Neville became at the impropriety of the
suggestion, he was his grandmother's boy after all.
"Ah, yes, well, my mistake," Neville rambled. Recovering, the Herbology teacher
said, "It's been far too long since I saw your parents. How are they? Well?"
"They're both quite well, sir," answered Arthur.
"Mum's in Morocco this month. Dad won't say where he is officially but everyone
knows he's in Mexico for the Wizarding World Cup," added Rose.
"And you, how are you?" Neville asked Arthur.
"Relieved to be finished with my O.W.L's sir."
"Of course. Well, in other unofficial news," Neville tapped the side of his
nose as he spoke, "you can be assured an Outstanding for Herbology. Hardly
surprising as you're the finest student in my Fifth Year class. I do hope you
continue with my class for your N.E.W.T levels."
"Thank you, sir."
Neville began to usher the teenagers back to the Great Hall. Chatting as they
went about Rose's prospects at being made a prefect the following year and what
subjects she might choose for her O.W.L's.
*
The darkness of night brightened to the mandarin soaked morning light of dawn.
Draco was once more in Rose's bedroom, which had remained mostly unchanged
since the earlier childhood scene he watched.
Rose and Arthur lay entwined together in her bed, peacefully asleep. Rose
reminded Draco inexplicably of a Celtic Goddess, her long red hair cascading
down her back, in the arms of her doomed mortal lover. The bed sheets were
bunched about their waists, affording Draco a view of the siblings flawless
flesh obscured only by the top of Arthur's pyjama pants and the watermelon
coloured silk of Rose's shift.
Draco was caught by surprise when the door to the room opened and Ron blundered
into the scene. Draco watched with muted horror as Ron wrenched his son from
Rose's bed, roughly pulling him to his feet.
"Enough," spat Ron. "Enough."
Wordlessly Ron summoned Arthur's wand and thrust it into his hand.
"I want your word this ends now," demanded Ron.
"That what ends now?"
"Dad!" Rose knelt on the bed, scared by the fury she saw contorting her
father's face.
"Get your wand Rose." Rose looked bemused, but did as she was told.
Ron gripped Arthur's hands in his, each man's blue eyes - their only common
trait - glittered with anger.
"Touch your wand to our joined hands," Ron instructed Rose.
"Dad?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
Rose's hand trembled as she pressed her wand tip to her father's meaty hand.
Draco's jaw dropped as Ron spoke with righteous agitation and thin tongues of
brilliant red flames shot from Rose's wand to wind around the joined hands of
Arthur and Ron. Rose cried, unable to end the Vow her father was subjecting her
brother to. When Ron finished swearing the Unbreakable Vow Rose fell back on
her haunches on the bed.
"You should have just killed me. We both know how this is going to end." Arthur
looked defiantly into his father's eyes.
Draco agreed.
*
Draco could not tell how much time had passed. Hours? Days? Weeks? Rose's room
was immune to chronicling the passage of time.
Arthur and Rose lay naked on their backs, hands clasped, staring at the
ceiling. Draco moved closer to Rose, ridiculously relieved when he saw the rise
and fall of her chest with her shaky breaths. Her breasts bore trails of salt,
possibly sweat, probably tears. He wanted to cup her breasts in his palm and
smear the moisture over her pebbled nipples. He was drawn to the soft planes of
her stomach, and down lower to the ginger covered mound, not yet trimmed in the
sophisticated style she wore it now. Semen streaked the inside of her thighs
and stained the sheets beneath. Searching her face Draco knew what had
happened.
*
Draco exited the Pensieve, his clammy hands gripping the rim of the bowl, his
head bowed with dizziness as he struggled to comprehend all that Rose had shown
him.
Draco understood that Arthur had loved Rose more than life itself. That was his
destruction. It would be the shared fate of Draco and a boy he never knew.
He had delved beneath the surface of Rose's life, had visited her past, and for
all the obvious and undeniable differences between their stories, felt as
though he was reliving his own memories.
Twenty_Four
It had been madness to agree with his parents and children that a weekend at
the Manor was in order. His mother's birthday celebrations warranted, however,
a particular familiar obligation.
At three in the morning, Draco woke up in his childhood bed, uncomfortably
aroused. He got gingerly out of bed and made his way to the lavatory on the
second floor landing. He rested his forehead against the cool, mute mirror, his
hands wrapping around the porcelain basin and not his aching genitals.
Pushing back Draco glimpsed Rose's reflection between the wall and the ajar
door, her pale face and bright eyes caught in the silver glass. Facing her he
summoned her into the room with the barest arch of his eyebrow.
Rose eyed the flannelette pyjama bottoms that did little to disguise his
erection. She entered the room and sunk to her knees on the tiled floor to
bring her mouth to the swollen flesh Draco was unable to take in his hand. He
was tired and sore, his gratification was quick and unreciprocated.
Rose used the hem of Draco's singlet to swipe across her mouth. She rose to her
feet and with her hands on his shoulders she leaned into him to whisper against
his ear, "Scorpius asked me to marry him today."
The prominent pulse of Draco's neck throbbed with the news. "Congratulations,"
he offered stiffly.
"It changes nothing."
Rose may have believed her words but nothing was more untrue. It changed
everything.
"He'll announce the engagement tomorrow. It's his birthday present to
Narcissa..."
"An expensive brooch wouldn't suffice?"
"I'll make it up to you."
"I look forward to it."
"Oh, you will," promised Rose. "You, me, a little flat in London for the
exclusive pleasure of our fucking. That will be our life."
Perhaps that would be enough for Draco. After all, Draco had lived a life that
had never been real to him. He could surely continue to give his performance,
now that at last he had a real life. The one one Rose had given him.
Twenty_Five
"You're giving this up?" asked Draco, spinning slowly around Rose's living
room, arms outstretched.
"It's only a house. Not even that, just a flat really."
"Ah, but what you'll have with Scorpius will be a," he paused deliberately,
drawing out the final stinging word of his sentence, "home."
Rose shook her head. Draco's jealousy that she and Scorpius had bought a house
together was undisguised. She crossed the room until she was less than an arm's
breadth from Draco.
"I'm letting these walls go. The floor and the ceiling too. You?" She cocked
her head to the side, appraising him with mock-seriousness. "You I'll keep
around a while yet."
Draco had no rejoinder. He was torn between solace at his continued place with
Rose and agony at the prospect of being cast aside as easily as her apartment.
It was so like Rose to create duelling emotions in Draco, he was constantly on
the edge of worship and derision when it came to her.
As Draco left, she said:
"I have a gift for you." Rose handed Draco a small box. "I keep my promises.
Remember that. Forget the rest." She closed Draco's hand around it. "I planned
this, a little time ago." She opened the door, and Draco slipped out.
Draco Apparated to Regent's Park, materialising beneath one of the willow trees
by the pond in Queen Mary's Gardens. He leaned against the trunk of the tree,
retrieving the small box he had shrunk to fit in the inner pocket of his
jacket. Wordlessly he charmed the box to its original size. Draco trembled with
anticipation as he opened the locked treasure.
Inside were two ordinary house keys and a Muggle business card with bland type,
stating only:

                                    Flat C
                              15 Welbeck Way, WI
Draco proficiently cast a semi-complicated orienteering charm, quickly
ascertaining that Welbeck Way was a brisk fifteen minute walk from his current
location. He cut through the park, past tourists stalled over maps and locals
moving with purpose with phones pressed against their ears. Hands jammed in his
pockets, Draco crossed Marylebone Road which bustled with traffic. He moved
swiftly against the maddening stream of cars until he veered right into
Devonshire Place where the flow eased considerably. With little conscious
effort, merely guided by his hidden wand, Draco continued onto Wimpole Street
and was almost surprised when the street sign for Welbeck Way appeared before
him.
Fifteen was a tall, white stoned building. He slipped one of the keys, now warm
from being grasped in his hot hand, into the front door. Muggle builders dotted
the foyer as he entered, each undertaking various renovations tasks.
"You right, mate?" asked one of the labourers, his overalls flecked with beige
paint.
"I'm looking for Flat C," Draco answered genially.
"Third floor." The man pointed toward the staircase which was clear of the
scaffolding that decorated every other available surface.
Draco nodded his thanks and made his way to the stairs that would lead him to
his new life with Rose.
"Oi Gary," called the painter suspended between the first and second floors.
"Ain't that Ginger's flat?"
"Is the Pope German?"
"Fucked if I know." Assorted workers laughed at the exchange.
"Mister!" The painter, undeterred, yelled out to Draco. "Is that your missus'
place?"
"Something like that," Draco replied, not slowing in his steady ascent from the
second to the third and final flight of stairs.
"I bet she's something," someone hollered front the ground floor. Draco smiled
to himself as he reached Flat C and eased the key into the lock.
As he shut the door to his and Rose's place he heard someone ask, "How do you
have something like a missus?"
On the table was a note. 'This room will contain nothing but us. A world within
a world. I shall visit it to know your wishes. For in this world I have
created, you rule and I am your slave. I will wait at the times you designate.
Being obedient, I will always be there.'
Draco picked up the diary that had been placed on the bed.
Folded on the page was a long green silk ribbon, and underneath was written,
'And he came into his kingdom.' Draco flicked the empty pages forward and found
an entry ten days ahead which said 'Rose waits, twelve till two.'
Draco cursorily inspected the flat. It was small and modern. Sparse in its
decorating and obvious in its purpose.
Draco bound up the diary with the green ribbon and placed a note under the
ribbon which read, 'Open on the twentieth, between twelve and two.'
*
When Draco returned on the twentieth he was greeted by the very agreeable sight
of Rose, real and magnificent, on the floor; the diary was on her stomach.
Draco smiled as he undid the ribbon.
He read the lascivious instructions with interest. He spelled his clothes off,
not wanting to waste any of the precious one hundred and twenty minutes they
had allotted this tryst, on the trifling matter of undressing.
He cupped her breasts, pushing them together until they were a single
plaything. Draco straddled the willing witch beneath him, edging his hips to
rise of her breasts and eased his cock between her the manipulated flesh of her
bust. It was a curiously soft sensation as he rubbed against the slick skin of
her chest and bouncy softness of her breasts. He shifted his hands so his
fingertips could feel the head of his cock as it peeked out from the valley of
Rose's ample bosom. His touch triggered his release, streams of ejaculate
spitting over Rose's neck and chin to dribble over her breasts and his spent
cock. He felt cleansed by her besmirched body.
When it was time to go Rose wrote in the diary. Draco saw the time - four to
six - and that the date was the day before her wedding. She took a new ribbon -
blue- and wound it round and round the diary. Stroking Draco's face she said,
"Everything. Always. Remember."
Twenty_Six
Draco spied Rose putting her wedding dress in the closet when he arrived at
their fuckflat.
"That is for tomorrow," she smiled. "This afternoon, and this evening are for
you."
As her dress fell from her, Draco knew her tribute in the way the dark silken
cord passed between her legs, and the way in which its undulating colour wove
itself her breasts.
Draco lifted her easily in his arms and placed her, almost tenderly, on the
bed. Draco pushed inside her without preamble, each moving in an instinctive
rhythm they had created together. Rose's head fell back, her mouth ajar with
pleasure, her panting filled the room. Draco lowered his mouth to hers, kissing
her madly as his hips pistoned relentlessly against her pelvis. Draco tore his
mouth from Rose, desperate for air. He flicked his damp hair from his eyes with
a swish of his head.
As the door gave way to him, for a second Draco was the only one who saw
Scorpius.
Draco stilled at the sight, his mind numb. Rose continued to writhe against
Draco whose traitorous body reacted predictably to her touch. Draco's eyes, so
fixed on his poor son, rolled back in ecstasy as he climaxed.
Draco withdrew from Rose, her whimper at the loss of his contact was unheard by
him. He advanced on Scorpius who backed slowly out of the room.
There was confusion as Rose twisted herself on the bed, seeing for the first
time her beautiful, betrayed fiancee and her naked lover together.
"Scorpius," breathed Draco, his arm held out entreating.
"No," Scorpius gasped. The word strangled from him in his dazed discovery.
Scorpius continued to back away from his father, stunned by the betrayal, only
to fall silently over the banisters to his death on the marble floor below.
Draco barrelled, naked, down the flights of stairs until he reached Scorpius'
lifeless body. He cradled his son to his chest. He had caused this and the
knowledge tore Draco's existence asunder.
Rose descended the stairs minutes later, she was dressed and composed as she
told Draco, "It's over. It's all over."
Over the course of the afternoon the same labourers that had joked with Draco
weeks earlier gathered around the spectacle that was his life and his son's
death. One of them took pity on him and covered his nude body with a painter's
smock.
Muggle police and Aurors arrived to take the statement of Draco and assorted
witnesses.
One young Auror unhelpfully informed Draco that had the fall been from a
greater height perhaps Draco could have cast a life saving cushioning charm.
*
Draco Apparated to his home, to his wife, bile rising within him in
anticipation of her reaction upon seeing him. He entered the kitchen they had
shared a lifetime, but not a life, together with callow caution.
Astoria swung round to Draco. The shock of her face brought vomit to his mouth.
Draco grabbed a towel; Astoria handed him a glass of water.
Touching her face she said, "I did it to stop the pain, with this." She held up
a small blood-spattered white towel with a knot in it. Her face was streaked
with blood.
"The pain was devouring me. This helped."
She picked up the towel and lashed herself. A spurt of blood dropped into the
glass on the table.
She stood mutinously in front of Draco and said, "What a pity that we ever
met."
"Stella?" It was the only sensible rebuttal Draco could offer.
"You and Rose suit each other well. You cause agony in others' lives."
Draco bit his tongue to stop from saying that was not fair. He had no right to
fairness anymore.
Twenty_Seven
Draco's resignation was met with polite murmurs from decent men trying to do
the right thing by the Ministry. His resignation took immediate effect and he
hoped that his retirement from public office would afford his family privacy to
mourn.
The details of Scorpius's death were largely suppressed. The press were
informed that Scorpius Malfoy died in a tragic accident and that some of the
events surrounding this tragedy were sadly controversial. Draco personally
issued a statement that asked for privacy for his wife and for himself for them
to mourn the terrible loss of their son, and for Stella, who lost her most
beloved brother.
Astoria and Draco agreed to separate and never see each other again.
Astoria's final words to Draco were laced with loathing and sadness: "Goodbye.
I don't mean this to sound cruel, but what a pity you didn't die, in some
accident or something, last year."
"My tragedy is that I don't agree. Goodbye, Astoria."
Twenty_Eight
Given the labyrinthine nature of his downfall it was surprisingly
straightforward for Draco to withdraw from the world.
He hid himself from the world at large, his own self-imposed exile, with a
disgruntled house elf his only companion.
Draco established a consoling routine of exercise, sleep and limited
cogitation. Occasionally he hears from Stella: she worries that he will one day
withdraw so much from the world at large that his absence will be unfelt. He
hopes she is right.
Once Draco lay Rose's picture on the ground. That large, motionless image of
Rose before everything had gone wrong, or at least, before the world at large
was aware of how very wrong things were, gazing unblinking back at Draco as he
undressed. He covered her two dimensions with his tainted flesh, rubbing
himself against the grainy canvas until creamy rivers of his ejaculate
patterned her portrait.
Draco remembers what he saw of Rose and Arthur's final coupling - semen and
tears and death.
Twenty_Nine
Draco Apparated to Africa at Stella's insistence. It is only out of duty to his
daughter he reluctantly agreed to upset his ascetic lifestyle.
Waiting for her, he sips a small glass of mint tea. The aromatic steam tickles
his nose.
A flash of red hair catches his eye. Draco's back straightens, his jaw clenches
at the thought of her. He has not seen Rose since the day Scorpius died. He
stands suddenly and all but sprints to where he sees the red haired woman, she
is almost out of sight when he gains ground.
She turns and faces Draco looking as dreadful and as magnificent as she did at
each of their fated encounters. A strawberry haired toddler clings to the hem
of her summer dress. Rose scoops her son up easily and Draco, breathlessly,
stared at the child so characteristically Malfoy in appearance in all but hair
colour.
Draco fell to his knees at the sight, unwilling to demand more from this
glimpse into Rose's life without him then he had already stolen.
When Stella found her father, he was more broken than she could ever remember
him being.
*
Back at his prison of choice, Draco sits on a stool before one large photograph
that covers an entire wall. He bites into a crisp apple as he stares at the
unmoving image before him. It is a photograph of Scorpius, Rose and himself
outside Scorpius' childhood home. Stella had taken the picture at the very
first meal Rose had been to. They looked so happy, so unaware of what fate lay
ahead of them. They were all so beautiful, so filled with the promise of
pleasure in all that life offered.
For those of you who doubt it-- this is a love story.
It is over.
Others may be luckier.
Draco wishes them well.
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